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It’s been a long week at Bart’s for Sherlock, three cases this week. Two of which actually were mildly intriguing, which was quite an accomplishment for the usual clientele that strolled into the flat. Nevertheless, Sherlock had spent all morning at Bart’s. John hadn’t slept well lately due to the workload on top of the persistent nightmares and Sherlock had insisted he take the day off since it was just minor lab work. Molly comes in the lab to deliver some paperwork, seeing Sherlock in the same position he was in five hours ago, she insists that he go home and let her finish up in the lab tonight.
“Really, Sherlock, I’ve got it. Go on.”
The little black buggy shows up in front of Speedy’s Sandwich Bar and Cafe, and the tall, collected man stretches out of the cab. Sherlock opens the door to 221B Baker Street and slowly trudges up the stairs, loosening his scarf from his neck. At the top of the stairs, he pushes the door open and looks around the flat for John. John’s chair sits vacant by the fireplace, the flat smells of tea brewed a couple hours ago. John is sprawled out on the couch, positioned almost as if he had just intended on laying down for a minute, finally sleeping.
Sherlock takes an extra second to look at John and quietly makes his way to his own chair. He pulls his scarf off his thin neck and tosses it to the floor. He sits down, hops up on his feet in the chair, then pulls his hands together and up to his chin. Staring vacantly into the kitchen, quietly looking through the beakers and vials on the dining table, he hears John quietly sigh on the couch.
Shifting his eyes over to the doctor, he looks him up and down, his eyes resting on his face. John’s eyelids are moving slightly. John was in a deep dream.
Sherlock can’t help but stare in fondness. They’ve worked on countless cases together, and yet the first will always stand out to him. The connection that filled the flat instantly when John came to 221B Baker Street was incredible. Sherlock can’t help but think of the dinner at Northumberland Street and the little conversation that had racked his brain, even then. Sherlock was brilliant at reading people, that much was obvious, but there was something about John that just enlightened him. Sometimes, when John wasn’t quite looking, he would gaze at that lined face and memorize it. On a couple of occasions, he was almost spotted. Some of the best feelings Sherlock has ever had however, come from when he spots John doing the same to him. Sherlock isn’t quite used to feeling any sort of caring emotion towards another person, it still comes as strange to him. On several occasions he has tried to sort out the meaning of these feelings, all to end in frustration. Looking over at John sleeping though, there’s no doubt, even to Sherlock, that something special connects them.
Hearing John breath again, Sherlock stands and quietly walks over to the couch. He crouches down near John’s face in between the couch and the coffee table and studies his puppy-dog-like features. A slight smile creeps out from John’s lips. Sherlock’s chest warms up as he sees that John finally is having a decent rest, apparently accompanied by a good dream as well. Sherlock can’t hold back a tiny smile; he’s not used to this feeling.
Sherlock finds himself leaning slightly closer to his resting colleague. Blinking his bright blue eyes several times, he purses his lips. Quickly scanning John’s hair, John’s forehead, John’s cheek, John’s nose, John’s eyes, John’s chin, John’s cheek, John’s lips. John’s lips. John's lips. His eyes are stuck on John’s lips.
“No, this is ridiculous.” Sherlock quietly shakes his head and stands deftly. His face pulls up into a grimace as he looks around the room. The fireplace, all the books that John likes to pull off the shelf and read at night in his chair. John’s chair.
Softening, he glances back down at John.
John.
Sherlock drags his hand, frustrated, across his eyes and down his face and lets out a sigh as both of his hands meet, covering his mouth and nose. His eyes dart to the ceiling and his jaw clenches.
His hands slide from his face. He quietly falls back down in place next to John, between the couch and the coffee table. He pulls his hands together with crossed fingers in front of his lips as his eyes meet with John’s lips again.
He puts one hand on the arm rest past John’s head. One hand goes to the back of the couch. He pulls himself closer to John and closes his eyes.
His lips meet John’s ever so lightly.
John’s eyes open.
“What the bloody Hell is going on, Sherlock?” John bolts upright as Sherlock backs away from his face, returning once more to the foot of the couch.
“John.”
“I can’t - even - Sherlock, what is - I am NOT GAY.” He slightly raises his voice. John’s eyes are wide in shock and what seems to be a hint of anger and frustration. Frustration at something.
“John.”
“Sherlock, what - what would give you the idea…”
“John.” Each time the detective quietly uttered the doctor’s name, it was firm yet gentle and it brought down John’s temper. Sherlock didn’t break eye contact with John.
“Sherlock, I’m - I’m sorry - I’m not g - I - what - “ His inflection of his words went from angry to defeated to defensive and then back to defeat. John was losing his ability to make complete sentences as he started to realize what woke him up. His eyes were flickering, unable to concentrate on anything in particular. He licked his lips several times.
“John.”
“Yes?” John calms himself as he sighs heavily bringing his eyes to Sherlock’s. His jaw clenches twice. He closes his eyes tightly, scrunching his whole face, and then opens them back to look into the piercing bright eyes that he’s looked into countless times.
Sherlock, still on his toes on the floor, puts his hand on John’s knee (partly for balance), still keeping eye contact. John’s eyes flicker to Sherlock’s hand and back to the stunning eyes.
There is a long pause. 221B Baker Street is silent and tense.
Sherlock, in a singular slight and sudden movement, inches closer to John’s face, and pauses again. He slowly stretches upwards and stops eye level to the doctor. John blinks slowly, as does Sherlock.
“John.” His name could have been mistaken for a breath it was so faint. With that word, he makes a final movement towards the doctor, eyes almost shut. John looks at Sherlock’s sharp cheek bone, his slender, firm hand in his peripheral. Sherlock hovers his lips, slightly open, around John’s. The touch is so incredibly slight, it could have been mistaken for heavy air. John’s lip quivers open the slightest amount and Sherlock pushes him to the back of the couch with his lips. Sherlock slides his hand to John’s face and draws it down his cheek.
The kiss is long and still.
Finally, Sherlock pulls away slightly and John’s eyes open. They’re wide, in a state of shock but there is no anger.
“Sherlock.”
A slight smile flashes on Sherlock’s face as he stares into John’s eyes.
After a couple of seconds, John’s eyes soften and Sherlock takes this as an invitation to gently push John back down to the couch. He leans over the side of the couch, inches from John’s face and kisses him again, hard.
Sherlock slowly moves himself on top of Watson, met by the doctor’s arms wrapping around his shoulders. Still locked in a kiss, John pulls his overcoat off his shoulders. Sherlock takes the rest of the coat off and tosses it to the floor, returning his hand to John’s face. All of the tense desires of the two flatmates were released in this moment. Sherlock, pulling away in a deep breath, leans up on his arm and looks John in the eyes, almost out of breath.
“John.”
“Yes.”
Sherlock opens his mouth as if to say something but is interrupted by John sitting up underneath him. Even sitting down John is substantially shorter than the towering detective. Yet, with impressive force, John places a hand on his chest and pushes him onto his back on the other end of the couch, at the same time, crawling on top of his torso.
"What were you dreaming of before I woke you?"
John looks into the detective's eyes with a pause. His face pulls into a smirk before their lips meet again. Sherlock’s hands slide up the doctor’s broad back and up to his neck, pulling him closer, tighter.