Chapter Text
He didn’t know who had told his friends back home about the rumors. Must have been Bill, really, but the entire thing was just shit anyways. ‘Three-continents-Watson’ they called him and all right, yes, there had been that nurse in Afghanistan. And yes, fine, he’d had a bit of a reputation back home. And there had been that trip to America, when he was a good bit younger—
It still wasn’t on, though. Here he was, trying to relax for a night at the local pub…and his own mates were treating him like some sort of pimp.
Well, it was mostly Greg, but neither Molly nor Mike had protested all too much so far.
“Sarah,” Greg said with relish. “She’s been eyeing you all evening. Chat her up then, show us those skills we keep hearing about.”
“He won’t do it,” Molly said. She nervously pushed her drink aside. “It’s silly, why chat someone up if you don’t mean anything by it?
“Course he will,” Greg said. “It’s only a bit of fun. Just seeing if that thing about all the girls loving a soldier, is true.” He winked at John. “Is it Johnny?”
“I don’t think that’s the quote,” John muttered. His good-nature had survived for the first bout of teasing, but after it had continued for the better part of an hour… He tilted the rest of his pint into his mouth and looked morosely at the now-empty glass. He missed his rough cot and the excitement and—
God, look at him. Home for two weeks and he was already pining for war, of all the damned things. There was something wrong with him, for sure.
“Aw, leave him alone,” Mike Stamford said. “You got nothing better to do, Greg?” John smiled at him gratefully.
“Hey now,” Greg said, holding up his hands. “I don’t mean anything by it, you know that. I just hear you’re quite—good—at what you do. Thought I might pick up some pointers, see if it’s all just talk—“
“He IS,” Molly said. They all turned to stare at her and she blushed, a dull, mottled red spreading across her fair skin. “I mean—not that I know—Oh, I didn’t mean—I just bet you are, is all,” she said. “And if you want to talk to Sarah, you—you go right ahead, just don’t let this one—“ she paused to glare at Greg. “Don’t let him—“
“It’s all right Molly,” John said. Her effusiveness was as suffocating as it was heart-warming—Christ, there he went again. Why couldn’t he just enjoy this? Enjoy having all his friends about him, for once, enjoy his leave—
“She’s not interested anyways,” a voice said behind him. Deep, raspy even. John tilted his head up to see a tall brunette in an absurdly tight t-shirt staring icily down at him.
“Hello, soldier,” he said slowly, as if savoring the taste of the words on his tongue. “Was it Afghanistan or Iraq?”
“How’d you..?” John gaped blankly up at the stranger. He whirled on Greg. “Did you tell him?”
“Nah,” Greg said. He tilted his glass at the boy, who was still just standing there, how awkward could he be—
“That’s Sherlock, he’s really good at that sort of thing. Knowing, I mean,” Molly piped up. ‘Sherlock’—of all the poncy names, really— pivoted like he was mired in taffy, his gaze drifting to her, and the blush that had barely faded from her cheeks rose up again almost immediately.
“I mean—“ she started. “He just knows—“
“It was the tan, of course,” Sherlock said. He dropped his gaze pointedly to John’s wrist. “You can see by his bearing he’s in the military. Tanned hands, but his uniform covers the wrist, so where in the military does one get such a tan these days?” He nodded at John. “Afghanistan… or Iraq?”
“Fucking brilliant!” John said. He turned back to his table. “Did you all see that?”
“All the bloody time, mate,” Greg said. “Meet Sherlock Holmes, boy genius.“ He looked at Sherlock and smiled. “Never seen him speechless before, so there’s a new one.”
Sure enough, Sherlock looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I—- did you mean that?” he asked John.
It occurred to John that genius or not, Sherlock was far younger than he’d initially assumed. His aloofness, and height and those awful clothes—torn jeans, worn old tee, had made John think… But now he looked a bit softer, shy, awkward, almost, and John noticed that his clothes hung off of him like they didn’t quite fit.
“Yeah,” he said, smiling gently. “Yeah, of course I did. It was amazing.” Sherlock locked eyes with him and John saw that he was blushing, just faintly, and it was, quite frankly, one of the most endearing things John had ever seen.
“John Watson,” he said, holding out a hand. “Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, stationed in Afghanistan.” Sherlock took it.
“John,” he said, inclining his head ever so slightly.
“Take a seat,” Mike interrupted. He gestured at the place between him and John.
“I was just leaving,” Sherlock said, instantly dropping John’s hand. Molly’s face fell, a little, and John was seized suddenly by the urge to make this queer creature stay—for her sake, of course, anyone could see she’d taken a fancy to him—
“No, come on, it’s barely 9 pm and you’ve got to be on holiday,” John said. “You’re what—still in secondary? Just graduated?”
“Third year university, thank you,” Sherlock said, his lips pursuing.
“Sorry, you just look about 16—“ John was, he registered dimly, perhaps a bit more pissed than he’d thought. And Sherlock was looking positively thunderous—bit not good there.
“Um, I’ll buy you a drink,” he offered. Behind him, he heard Greg snort.
“I can buy my own drink,” Sherlock said. He looked positively affronted, now.
“—and then you can join us. Brilliant.” John beamed at him and Sherlock gazed back at him, clearly bemused.
“I was—that is to say—-“
“Going to buy a drink?” John suggested. “Oh come on then, it’ll only be a bit. And they all know you, but I’ve hardly gotten to talk to you, so that’s not fair, is it? You’re something, you know?”
Sherlock hesitated. “I’ll—perhaps I shall. Let me just—“ He gestured towards a dark-haired girl texting busily in the corner. Flashy little thing, John thought. Wearing some red scrap of cloth—-
Sherlock headed towards her and John turned back to the table…. Only to find all three of his friends grinning at him in a highly suspicious sort of way.
“What?” he demanded, reaching for the remainder of Mike’s ale.
“Guess he does have some talent,” Greg said, nudging Molly. “I feel bad for doubting you there, Johnny.”
“I don’t know what you’re on about ,” John said.
“I’ve never seen Sherlock like that,” Molly said. “I just… he’s so shy, you know?”
“Shy?” Greg snorted. “Foppish sort of git, if you ask me. Thinks he’s too good for the likes of us, that’s all it is. His brother was in my year and they’re exactly the same—“
“He’s not,” John said. Three pairs of eyes were on him again and he realized his mistake. “I meant—from all I’ve seen of him—-“
“I think that was your mistake, Greg,” Mike said, in that infuriatingly placid way he had. “You picked the wrong team.” He stole his glass back from John and winked.
“Oh, no you don’t think Sherlock…?” Molly said. “He’s—-“
“Well, god knows what Sherlock Holmes is,” Greg said. “Hell, he’s probably attracted to his lab specimens more than anything actually breathing. But John. I think Mike’s got you there.”
“No—what?” John said. “No, I’m not gay, you all are mad—“
“Sherlock,” Greg said, slamming his pint on the table. “That’s the deal.”
“What deal?” John demanded. “We never made a deal, Greg, you can’t just—“
“Well, we’re making one now,” Greg said. “I’m wagering… that you can’t take Sherlock Holmes back home with you tonight.”
“GREG,” Molly said. “You can’t just—“
“Fine, fine—I’m wagering you can’t—Just kiss him then, for all I care. But it’ll have to be public.”
“Now hang on, just a minute,” John said. “I’m not—I’m not gay, is what—“
“Shouldn’t matter,” Greg said. “This is about your skills, Johnny. Can you or can’t you?”
“Of course I can, that doesn’t mean I should—-“
“I’ll buy you a pint,” Greg offered. “No, hang on…” He drew out his wallet and counted out a few notes. “15 quid,” he said triumphantly. “There.”
Mike nudged John. “Careful boys, he’s coming back,” he said in an undertone.
“I’m not—-“
“John, come on,” Greg coaxed. “Can’t be that hard for you, can it? And just a bit of fun, anyone can see you’re bored—“
“Oh—fine.” It was probably the drink talking, but John didn’t care. Greg was surprisingly perceptive, sometimes, and yes, he was bored. Utterly—bored.
“Dammit. Fine, I’ll do it, Greg, just don’t you—-“
“What’s he done now?” Sherlock asked. He slid into the seat next to John and peered coolly at Greg. “You’ve made John uncomfortable. Why?”
“Never you mind,” John said quickly. “Here, about that drink—“
“I’m fine,” Sherlock said. “Really.”
“May I kiss you, then?” John said. Better get this over with quick, the inevitable rejection ought to make Greg calm down a bit and—
Sherlock bit his bottom lip. “Are you making fun of me?” he said. He rose from his chair. “I should have known—“
“I’m not!” John said. “It’s just—I’d like to. Kiss you.” It was true, he realized. Sherlock was… good-looking, really, in his anemic sort of way. And his lips were remarkably plush in his narrow face and—
Sherlock glanced about the table, his eyes narrowed. “I see,” he said. He crossed his arms across his chest. “Fine then,” he spat. “Go on. Kiss the freak, let’s play this game.”
“Oh, no, Sherlock—don’t be like that,” Molly started. She glared at Greg. “It wasn’t meant—“
“It was you,” Sherlock said, his strange eyes alighting accusingly on Greg. “Some sort of game then, definitely. And you picked the most absurd person you could, just so John—“
“It’s not a game—Sherlock.” John grabbed his arm and turned him so that they were looking each other in the eyes. “I would—would you?”
“Fine,” Sherlock bit off. John raised an eyebrow in surprise and Sherlock snorted. “Yes, I rather thought you wouldn’t—“
“Fine,” John interrupted.
“I—.“ Sherlock looked strangely vulnerable for a second. “You don’t—“
“I said it’s fine.” John leaned in and Sherlock pulled away a bit.
“I should warn you,” he began. “I’ve never really—“
“Shush,” John said. His eyes fell to Sherlock’s lips and he ran a tongue over his own. “It’s all fine. Do you—“
“Yes,” Sherlock said. He sat back down and nearly fell forwards, mashing their lips together.
It was awkward in the worst possible way—and then, John ran a hand up his neck, tilted his head slowly to the side so that their lips slotted into place. Sherlock made a small mew of astonishment, his mouth falling open, and John slipped his tongue into the inviting space. His hand traced Sherlock’s pale neck, the jut of his cheek, before finally sliding to the back of his head and curling into his long, curly hair, pretty as any girl’s.
Sherlock’s hands slid up his chest and locked around his neck, his breathe hot and wet, his kisses clumsy, and John found himself gripping the boy tightly by the waist and drawing him closer, so that their legs tangled under the table…
He was dimly aware that someone was coughing behind him.
“Easy there boys,” Greg said. John broke away and Sherlock chased his lips for a second, eyes still closed. They flickered slowly open, the translucent blue dazed.
“Well, then—“ He tried to draw away and John tightened his grip, before looking about the table. Molly’s mouth was wide open and Greg looked a bit uncomfortable. Mike was… grinning smugly to himself, for god only knew what reason.
“Sorry,” John said. “Got carried away, there…”
“You owe him whatever he won,” Sherlock said, apparently fully recovered. He looked at Greg. “Obviously you, no one else would have instigated it. And it must have been a wager, judging by the suddenness of the question—a dare, perhaps, but John would have likely needed more incentive than that—so a wager, then.”
Greg held up his hands. “I’m not denying that,” he said. He pulled out his wallet. “15, then, and 5 more for the speed at which you accomplished it, John, I’m impressed.“
Sherlock’s eyes darkened and he stood to leave again.
“Keep it,” John interrupted. He glanced back at Sherlock.
“Are you—free then? We can… go back to my flat. Watch a—movie—It’s still early-“
“You don’t have to keep up the pretense John, really,” Sherlock said. “I hope you enjoy your drinks,” he added. “And your winnings. I wouldn’t mean to impose any—“
“I meant it,” John said. “I don’t want the money. Come to my place.” He grabbed Sherlock’s wrist. “Please?” he managed.
“I—“
“Come on,” John said. “I’d like to— I’ll make it up to you. That was a shit thing to do…“
“Yes,” Sherlock said, after a moment. “It was.”
He wrenched his hand free and turned and John blew out a deep breath, watching the tall, raggedy figure leave.
“Dammit,” he muttered. “And here—“
“I’m sorry,” Greg said. He sounded truly contrite. “I shouldn’t have made it quite so obvious, but I thought—
“It was just awful of you. I’m ashamed of you,” Molly said. “Both of you,” she added, turning indignantly to John. “He doesn’t deserve—“
“Follow him,” Mike interrupted.
“No.” John slumped back in his seat. “I fucked that one up properly, I did.”
“Go on,” Greg said. “I’ll make it 25,” he added, his eyes gleaming. Molly turned around and slapped his shoulder.
“No, you won’t,” she said.
Greg eyed her uneasily. “No,” he agreed. “I won’t.”
John made a decision and stood. “You know what? I’ll be—well. I’ll see you all around, all right?”
“That’s the spirit,” Mike said and John left before he started to question just why Mike Stamford was so damned enthusiastic about the whole thing.
—-
Sherlock, to John’s intense relief, was still outside. A cigarette dangled from his right hand as he leaned casually against the building. No coat and God, it was frigid out here, what was the boy thinking—-
“You don’t have to apologize,” he said, before John could speak. “It’s quite—I’m used to it, really. I know better than to let myself be toyed with.”
“So why did you?” John asked.
“Why did I what?” Sherlock took a last drag before dropping his cigarette to the ground and stamping on it.
“Why did you kiss me? If you knew—“
Sherlock shrugged. “Experiment,” he said. Unconvincingly, John thought, or maybe that was just him being hopeful.
“Ah.” John raised a hand to his hair and ran his fingers through it. “So that girl,” he said.
Oof. Well done, Watson, he silently congratulated himself. That wasn’t a bit obvious. No, not at all…
“What girl?” Sherlock asked.
Screw it. Already stuck my tongue in his mouth, flirting technique can go to hell at this point…
“The one you were—the one in that red dress,” John said. “She…You dating?”
“Irene?” Sherlock looked scandalized. “Hardly. Boys are not…Not her area. And girls aren’t mine, for that matter.”
“So, no girlfriend then?” John blundered on. “Or… boyfriend, for that matter?
“No,” Sherlock admitted and John felt something warm curl up under his heart.
“Good,” he said. “That’s good then.”
Sherlock turned to glare at him. “Why precisely does it matter to you?”
“It doesn’t,” John protested. “Look, I’m just making conversation—“
Sherlock pulled a small blue pack out of his pocket. “Did you take the money?” he asked, drawing a cigarette neatly out with his teeth.
“No,” John said. “It didn’t—It didn’t feel right. I didn’t want to—I liked kissing you. Really.”
Christ, someone needed to shut up him up, this was rapidly approaching pathetic.
“Pity,” Sherlock said. He fumbled in his pocket, finally drawing out a lighter. “We could have split it.”
John stared at him for a second, before turning his head up to the musty sky and grinning. “Sorry,” he said.
“Idiot.” Sherlock said. He rubbed his hands across his bare arms.
“No coat?” John said.
“Don’t need it,” Sherlock said. “It’s—“
“Awfully cold out here,” John said. “And my flat—It’s warm—“
“You’re not very good at this, are you?” Sherlock said. He lit his cigarette and blew a disapproving puff in John’s direction. “You don’t know when to give up, John Watson.”
John shrugged. “I’ve heard that one before.” He hesitated and drew off his worn peacoat.
“Here,” he said. “Use mine.”
“No, I’m fine—“
“I’ll just be getting home,” John said, pushing it into Sherlock’s hands. “Take it, all right?”
Sherlock nearly dropped the bundle. “You can’t just—how am I to get this back to you?” he demanded, as John turned away. “JOHN, your coat—“
“Keep it,” John called over his shoulder.
“I can’t just—“
John turned and walked backwards, his hands in his jean pockets. “You can.”
“No, I cannot, you’re being—-“
“I’ll be here tomorrow,” John said. “If you happen to be here too…” He shrugged and raised his hand in a mock salute. “Next time, Sherlock.”
Sherlock didn’t say anything. But as John watched, he unfurled the bundle and draped it about his thin shoulders.
John turned about and began the trek home, grinning slightly to himself.
It was cold, all right.
Freezing.
Worth it, really.