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Maybe it was a foolish investment.
Everyone had told him, time and time again, that Sherlock Holmes wasn't a man capable of feelings. He was barely capable of emotions... save perhaps severe boredom, temperamental fits of anger, and enthusiastic exclamations when he managed to deduct and solve even the hardest of cases.
"There are lives at stake, Sherlock! Actual human lives. Just so I know, do you care about that at all?" John asked in angry disbelief.
Sherlock looked up toward his flatmate; meeting his disgusted gaze with his own cold stare. "Will caring about them help save them?"
"Nope." The other admitted reluctantly, shaking his head.
The consulting detective tilted his chin ever so slightly, "Then I'll continue not to make that mistake."
"You find that easy do you?" John questioned.
"Yes. Very." Came the immediate reply. The two stared at one another silently for a few, tense seconds. "...Is that news to you?"
John clenched his jaw. "No. No."
Sherlock quirked a brow; it was subtle, but a facial tick he'd taken to whenever he observed something about John Watson. "I've disappointed you."
"That's a good— good deduction. Yeah." John laughed bitterly, his frustration with Sherlock still clearly etched in his eyes.
Sherlock turned back to his phone, "Don't make people into heroes John. Heroes don't exist and if they did I wouldn't be one of them." He snapped dully.
John winced as he recalled the hurtful exchange. Granted, Sherlock had been under a great deal of pressure. They both had been. And of course, as Moriarty's 'Great Game' continued, Doctor Watson found himself observing yet another conflicting message regarding the emotional state (or lack-thereof) of the great Sherlock Holmes...
"...If you don't stop prying I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you." Moriarty hissed in a dark, bitter tone. John had been shocked at the time to hear a human being with such venom in their voice. But then again, he wasn't sure whether one could call a criminal such as Moriarty: human.
Sherlock kept the gun readily aimed at his nemesis. "I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."
It was a simple, honest answer; one John was expecting to hear.
"...But we both know that's not quite true." Moriarty's smooth, lilted voice mused.
It caught John's attention. He did his best not to react, but couldn't help looking up at Sherlock. The bright, sea-foam green eyes of his flatmate briefly flickered down – before returning to challenge Moriarty's all-knowing smirk.
He had sounded so sure. He sounded as if he knew Sherlock better than John. And while it was childish, the very thought irritated him. He was Sherlock's flatmate, his partner, his confidant, even his friend. From what everyone had told him, the eccentric crime-solver rarely, if ever, let anyone into his miniscule circle of trust. John had been the exception.
As a result, John Watson had deducted his concern for sociopath.
He liked him. A lot.
He liked him enough to tolerate his whims, his moods, endure his endless sarcasm and criticism, and even risk his life for him. Yes, he'd even broken off a few dates with Sarah in favour of the consulting detective. She seemed to regard him as a lost cause now... John always figured she knew long before he did about his unhealthy attachment to Sherlock Holmes.
And what did he have to show for it?
"What on earth are you wasting your time lamenting over now?"
That cool, arrogant, familiar tone broke John away from his inner thoughts.
"Nothing." He answered, shifting in his recliner as he refocused his attention on the telly.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his blackberry screen as he typed away, looking up god-knows-what. "You've been doing that an awful lot lately." He mused. "There are only a few possible explanations. One, you're depressed – Two, you're upset – Three, you're sexually frustrated – or Four... all of the above."
"Brilliant." John sighed, growing more weary of these constant deductions. "How wonderful it must be to be able to reduce someone's entire complexity into a few words. You're depressed. You're upset. You're sexually frustrated." He listed back.
The dark-haired detective perked up a bit with a frown. "Sarcasm." He snarled.
"Yes. Good. Spot on." John answered with a grunt as he stood up from the chair and headed into the kitchen. "You know, I would love to do something else today besides sitting inside, listening to you strip me apart with no real care... or accuracy." He muttered the last part under his breath.
Sherlock certainly heard it. He shoved his phone into his coat pocket, and sat up to follow John's movements with his eyes. He was actually intrigued with this new 'vibe' his flatmate was exuding. There was something off about John. And Sherlock was always interested in the changes of John's habits and moods.
Not that he'd ever admit it. Sherlock liked to assume he'd figured out John Watson to a tee... so when the good doctor behaved a bit oddly, he was always interested in getting to the bottom of it, and adding any found conclusion to his mind's catalogue of 'John'.
"There haven't been any cases, and I get that you're frustrated and BORED." John continued, rinsing out his tea cup. "So let's go do something. When was the last time you did anything recreational?"
Sherlock rested his elbows on his knees, and tapped his fingers curiously against his lips in thought. "1983."
"...What?" John poked his head back into the living room.
The genius sighed, and flopped back onto the couch, lazily skewing his limbs over it. "1983. You asked when was the last time I did anything recreational."
John stared at him.
"...You were seven?" He huffed; dumbfounded expression wiped across his face.
Sherlock grinned slyly, "Ah, very good John. At least the capability of solving simple math equations in your head wasn't damaged while you were playing soldier. Yes. Seven."
"Right." He mumbled, heading toward his bedroom. "I'm off to the bookshop for a bit. If you want to stay here like the consulting-hermit you're turning into, just do us a favour and refrain from setting anything important on fire."
The dark-haired male smirked, "It was once, John, and I never make the same error twice."
"It was my BIRTH certificate, Sherlock." John shouted from his room.
Sherlock's smile only broadened. "Dull. A piece of paper, nothing more. So long as I know you exist, you have nothing to worry about."
"Ah, of course. Why would I want to exist for anyone else but Sherlock Holmes." His companion jested as he arrived back with his coat.
The genius stood up from the couch with his usual, dramatic flourish. "Precisely."
"...Coming then?" John asked as he shrugged on his coat.
Sherlock shouted from his own room, "Of course! You can't go to a bookshop without me. Who else will stop you from making mediocre purchases that consists of survival guides, human anatomy or the solar system?..." He ranted with playful disdain etched in his voice.
John could only smile.
"Well done." John sighed irritably; the first to storm out of the bookshop they were 'no longer welcome in'.
Sherlock released a long, loud annoyed sigh as he followed behind. "I didn't do anything but ASSIST the literary world by removing some troublesome, irrelevant dribble."
"Sherlock, you're destroying people's work!" He argued. "You're tampering with both classical and modern literature under the guise of improving it! You can't just rip out the pages you don't like – or don't think matter! It's YOUR opinion, not the world's."
The taller of the two glared, flailing his hand dismissively as he spoke, "Yes, we both know that if the WORLD shared my intellect and opinion, it would be better off." He growled.
"Drop it. Let's... just drop it." John soothed, trying his best to subdue his own growing frustration. "Hungry?"
Sherlock muttered something beneath his breath, "Back to the flat then."
"Eh? Why don't we just eat out. We're already here, and since we were... prematurely banned from the bookshop... I think we should spend a little more time out." He offered with a subtle shrug.
His flatmate shifted his sea-foam colored eyes over to his companion curiously. "What is this sudden desire to keep me out of the flat? What is so special about today that you don't want to return?"
John turned his own eyes up to meet Sherlock, and again, he shook his head and gave an awkward shrug. "No, nothing. Nothing, I just don't want to spend day-in, day-out waiting for the next case in captivity." He muttered.
"Mmm." Sherlock hummed, but his face seemed to scream 'disbelief' but he seemed willing to drop the question for now. "You're paying." He finished, as he led them in the direction of Angelo's.
Apparently, John would have no say in the matter of which restaurant they would now be eating at.
Dinner didn't improve John's mood. The whole day hadn't really gone as planned, and now, the ex-army doctor was more discouraged than ever.
Sherlock had rattled on about some text from Mycroft, after which, the two debated whether or not Sherlock actually cared for his brother. Which, in Sherlock's opinion, was impossible... even after John created a scenario in which Mycroft was hypothetically 'kidnapped and murdered'. The genius shrugged the whole thing off with his usual calm facade and a witty comeback.
Then, following a well-timed text from Lestrade, Sherlock had taken off to get back to the flat, shouting at that John shouldn't wait up.
So, he finished his own meal, and was getting ready to settle the bill when Angelo offered him a complimentary piece of cake to take home for dessert. John couldn't do much but accept, and (as he meandered home) think about how fitting the dessert was for this particular day.
"Oh! You're back." The pleasant voice of Ms. Hudson pulled John from his thoughts as he arrived in front of 221b Baker Street. "I heard Sherlock bounce up the stairs on his mobile. He took off again just a few minutes ago." She recalled, setting the weekly trash out onto the curb.
John nodded, "He'd gotten a message from Lestrade. Sherlock left out a lot of the details."
"Oh, same old Sherlock." She sighed fondly. An idea seemed to strike her then, and she perked up, "That reminds me! Come in, dear... I have something for you!" Ms. Hudson smiled, tugging John through the door and toward the steps. "Now you wait right here."
He watched her trot off into her own flat, presumably to retrieve something meant for him (though he hadn't the foggiest idea as to what). When she returned, he saw a light blue envelope in her hand.
"Happy birthday." She beamed, handing it to him.
John took it slowly; a gradual smile falling on his lips; one of the only ones he'd shown all day. "U-Uh... thank you. Thank you Ms. Hudson, that's very kind. But, how did you know it was my birthday?"
"From your rental application." She explained brightly. "I make sure to note the birthday's of my tenants. I find it makes the place more homey. Can't hurt." She shrugged. "Besides, I know Sherlock isn't one to think about this sort of thing."
John found the statement a bit curious... while true. He wasn't surprised Sherlock didn't remember it was his birthday. Was he a bit miffed? Well, yes. After all, that lunatic had just recently burned his birth certificate. One would think Sherlock would have noticed the date on it.
"Well, thank you, Ms. Hudson. It's my first card this year." He smiled. Leaning over, he gave her a sweet, appreciative peck on the cheek.
She cooed, "You're such a good young man, John. I'm so glad you're taking care of our Sherlock. I was getting worried that he wouldn't find anyone. You know how it is. Still, I wish you both the best!"
"I... wait, w-what's that supposed to mean?" The doctor asked, tilting his head – partly in confusion, partly in embarrassment.
But being the elusive, semi-loopy woman she was, Ms. Hudson just smiled. "You have a good night, dear." And with that, she disappeared back through the door of her own flat.
John stood by the stairs for a few moments, before reluctantly dragging himself up the two flights to his own flat. It would be a lie to say that he hadn't hoped Sherlock would realize it was his birthday. It was a big part of the reason he wanted to spend the day out.
'Maybe it's partly my fault.' John wondered as he set the piece of take-away cake down on the coffee table. Maybe he should have just TOLD Sherlock that it was his birthday, and he wanted to go out. Friends did that, right? 'But then again, Sherlock constantly reminds the world that he has no friends'... His mind debated.
"Right. That's enough of that." He scolded himself aloud, as he went to fix himself a cup of tea.
He wasn't going to spend the rest of the night dissecting his relationship with Sherlock Holmes. He had pros and cons on both sides of the camp; from Sherlock's constant belittlement, to his gestures of concern reaching back to the time John's own life was threatened in The Great Game. John had hoped they had been making progress...
Once his tea was ready, the doctor sat down in his favourite chair, and began to eat his slice of birthday cake from Angelo's alone.
It was nearly midnight by the time Sherlock returned. The case (or lack thereof) hadn't been anything to write home about. Some inconclusive evidence on an old case. It hadn't taken long for Sherlock to fix the idiotic mistakes made by the CSI crew, but he'd ended up spending some time in the lab, then the morgue at St. Bart's. It was always soothing to him; whipping dead bodies with a riding crop did wonders for stress.
Slipping back into the flat, Sherlock found it dark and quiet, just as he expected. Turning on a lamp, he tossed his coat onto the couch and headed into the kitchen to see if John had left him any tea. But as he was passing by their over-cluttered kitchen table, he noticed something askew. Another person would have easily missed it, but as disorganized as the table looked – Sherlock was aware of every item on it, and it's specific placement.
And there was a new item; one that certainly wasn't his.
It was an envelop, laying atop a plastic bag and empty container from Angelo's. One quick look at the container told Sherlock everything he needed to know: Dessert, piece of chocolate layer cake with a rich cream-cheese frosting and a few raspberries, by the small traces remaining inside. The card, on the other hand, was far more curious.
Picking it up, Sherlock ran his long finger across it, and examined the envelope. Not a cheap card, but moderately priced. It was open already, but only for about three hours. Flipping open the broken seal, Sherlock reached in and retrieved the card. It was a rather generic Birthday card; the message inside was friendly, with a touch of poetic fondness – the kind of card a mother would undoubtedly pick for a son she wasn't terribly close to.
His eyes immediately fell to the addressed name at the top of the card:
John.
Sherlock furrowed his brow.
'It was John's birthday? Impossible.'
Slight panic gripped him, followed by a splash of guilt – before finally – anger. Why didn't he tell him? Slamming the envelope down on the counter again, Sherlock tore back though the apartment in his usual quick, fluid manner, and barged into John's bedroom without knocking.
The army doctor was laying on his side, asleep.
Without breaking stride, Sherlock collapsed on the bed, directly trapping John between his arms and legs.
"S-Sherlock!" John awoke with a start, and winced at the added weight of his flatmate. "What the hell are you doing? ...Forget which room was yours?" He asked with a hint of weary annoyance. "I'll give you a hint: It's the one that's a cluttered mess." He groaned.
Sherlock squeezed his long arms around John. "Why didn't you tell me it was your birthday?" He asked calmly, but with an edge of urgency in his tone.
John paused.
"I just... -it wasn't important." He muttered, relaxing his tensed muscles after realizing Sherlock wasn't about to get off.
"It IS important." Sherlock snapped uncomfortably. "I've looked up 'friendship' on the internet, John, and friends are supposed to tell each other these things."
John sighed, "Well, friends normally read the date on a friend's birth certificate... before BURNING it."
"Oh... right." Sherlock quietly agreed; his eyes shifting in thought as a semi-guilty expression crossed his features. Perhaps burning John's birth certificate had been a mistake.
'Irrelevant.' The detective reassured himself. 'He belongs to me anyhow.'
Having some comfort in the fact that Sherlock seemed bothered by the slip-up, John decided to make it easy on him. After all, his mind was full of useful data and information; John knew it wasn't a big deal his birthday didn't make the cut. "It really is ok, Sherlock."
"It's not ok, John." Sherlock snarled, turning John onto his back to face him as he loomed over the doctor. "I detest the fact that Ms. Hudson gave you a card, and I didn't. I have nothing. Gifts and well-wishes are traditionally bestowed upon the birthday boy or girl." He furrowed his brow and closed his eyes a bit while he continued to mutter.
John could tell Sherlock was rapidly ciphering through his brain in the hopes of coming up with an impromptu gift before the evening was over.
"Sherlock." John began gently,
"Shush." The chocolate-haired detective ordered. "It's eleven fourty-five, so I have fifteen minutes to come up with a suitable gift that will convey my f-"
He stopped mid-sentence, as he so often did when he was struck with an epiphany.
Slowly, Sherlock opened his eyes and looked down at John.
"I've decided." He stated calmly; his bright colored eyes focused, but gentle; a look John had rarely seen on Sherlock's face. "But you're not to laugh."
John frowned, "What? ...Why would I-"
"Promise." Sherlock interrupted.
"Alright. Alright." John reassured him awkwardly, shifting a bit beneath the detective's long body. "I promise." He repeated, clearing his throat.
Sherlock paused again as his eyes drifted over John's face, searching for any trace of a lie. When he was satisfied, he took a slow, deep breath. "I have never been kissed." He began. "So... I'm giving you the honour."
John blinked.
"...Seriously?" He grinned.
"Don't. Laugh." He snarled defensively. "First kisses are very important to people; I've done enough research on the subject. Never has the idea of swapping bodily fluids in sexual activity, or saliva through means of a kiss with another human being, appealed to me." Sherlock explained. His eyes once more trailed over John's face. "But... I find myself at a loss with you, John Watson. I selfishly want to give you the best gift I can offer, so that no other can top it. I am giving you what I've never given anyone. A piece of me." He paused. "Gifts... REAL gifts... are supposed to have meaning, depth; for both the giver and the receiver. So..."
John couldn't help but stare up at Sherlock in complete and utter disbelief. "Right..." He muttered quietly in awe. "That's very, um... sweet."
"...What?" Sherlock quirked a brow.
His flatmate nodded, "It's sweet. That's probably, the... the sweetest gift anyone's ever given me." He agreed, giving Sherlock a small, supportive smile.
For a few minutes, the two just stared at one another.
"Close your eyes."
John chuckled, "Oh, come off it..."
"CLOSE your eyes." He repeated in exasperation. "This is MY first kiss, so we are going to do this by MY terms."
John sniffed, and closed his eyes as he made himself more comfortable on the bed beneath Sherlock. "Right, of course. How foolish. This is about your first kiss... not my birthday."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Sarcasm."
"Yes. Good. Spot on." John smiled, parroting their earlier tiff while still keeping his eyes closed.
Once the room was filled only with the gentle sound of breathing, Sherlock gradually lowered his mouth down to hover over John's. "Don't move." He instructed.
John took another deep breath; he could have sworn Sherlock's voice had almost taken on a 'huskier' tone. Not that he was complaining. Anyone else might feel a bit anxious, given their position... but John felt relitively calm. This was the first time Sherlock had ever straddled him, or pinned him to the bed - and yet, it felt natural. 'Like Sherlock was-' ... John's thoughts were interrupted when he felt Sherlock's warm lips brushing tentatively against his own. Knowing his flatmate, John figured he was attempting to determine the proper course of action. Sherlock would file and dissect the feeling of John's lips, the temperature of his breath, his increased heartbeat... everything.
Slowly, he felt Sherlock's lips working at his own, delivering a peck here and there; some lingering, some brief. As he pushed a bit harder, he parted John's lips so that he could comfortably switch from giving attention to his top and bottom lip respectively. Finally, even Sherlock seemed to become impatient. Pressing himself even closer to John, Sherlock shot his tongue in and out of his flatmates mouth with fluid precision, undoubtedly noting the taste and texture.
In fact, John felt so swept away by the intensity of the kiss that he had a hard time believing it was Sherlock's first.
When they finally parted, their breathing had increased to panting. Sherlock didn't make an immediate move to get off (like John expected he would, once they were done), and instead, stared down at his flatmate with a curious, but sedated, look on his face.
"That was, um..." The detective mumbled.
John couldn't help but smile; it was rare to see Sherlock at a loss for words. "Nice?"
"Yes." He quickly agreed. "Quite nice. Very. It went well, I think." Sherlock rambled. "Sorry about the tongue." He apologized. "Research dictated that a kiss can be made more pleasurable by adding in certain elements; the movement of the tongue, the position of one's hands," Leaning down, he gently bit John's plump lower lip between his teeth. "Biting the lip." He emphasized.
His companion shifted beneath him with a slight groan. Both were increasingly becoming more and more aware that their bodies were still pressed intimately together.
"You're hard." Sherlock stated.
John gave a small, breathy laugh. "I'm not the only one."
"I... Oh, yes. I see." Sherlock mused, quirking his head to the side as he noticed his own erection. "Does kissing someone often lead to a swell of arousal in one's cock?"
The army doctor sighed, "I think it depends very much on the person." He answered honestly.
Another pause.
"I want to kiss again." Sherlock said formally. "You've taken my first kiss. You might as well take the rest of them."
John looked completely bewildered. "Take the rest of them? Sherlock, I don't th-"
His protest was muffled as Sherlock slammed his mouth back onto John's – kissing him with a new, awoken hunger that the consulting detective had never experienced. John instinctively wrapped his arms around Sherlock's thin waist, while the taller grasped either side of John's head with his hands; keeping him in place while he passionately devoured his lips...