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The first time Sherlock Holmes kissed John Watson neither of them had realized what had just occurred. Their case was a particularly challenging one, and they had been stuck in a rut for days. Dead-ends followed dead-ends, but Sherlock was not the kind to give up once something got difficult, so John had the choice to find his own place for a week or help his best friend figure out just how a spotless crime scene resulted in a double murder.
Day two was underway with no sleep. Admittedly, the last bout of sleep lasted maybe two hours if they added up both of their dormant states for the past five days. Sherlock had essentially worked himself to the bone, and John had been notably irritable for the past few hours as they pored over books and files and everything known to man that may have any sort of relevance to the case.
They were past the point of drunken exhaustion. They had reached the exhaustion where illness has set in, as if they went to bed at midnight aiming for a full eight hours of sleep and being ripped out by an errant fire alarm at four in the morning.
At this time, John made a breakthrough, and Sherlock stared at him as if he had made the sun rise all by himself.
"Say that again." Sherlock's voice was low and groggy. His bright eyes had lost a bit of their luster; even he wasn't immune to lack of sleep. John's mouth was agape, either from his muscles refusing to tighten to their original position, or the slow realization that he had just helped make major headway and that wrapping up the case was just a matter of figuring out the details. John repeated himself.
Sherlock gripped the sides of his chair and got up. The change in elevation threw him off balance for a moment and he reached out to the table for support, but cast papers everywhere. John didn't look at them as they littered the floor, only at the man who stood before him, a look of pure adoration on the curly-haired man's face.
"How did we miss that? Brilliant! I thought you had given up." Sheer adoration tinted Sherlock's cheeks to an unnatural red for the normal pallor of his skin. Then, his large hands bracketed John's face and he briefly leaned forward, crushing their lips together in a chaste and passionate kiss. John's breath hitched and he stood, taking Sherlock aback and they fell apart from one another. John's eyes were heavily lidded and he staggered backward. He blinked once, and he could feel his eyes rolling to the back of his head. His stomach churned and the smell of Sherlock was everywhere. This was too much to handle. The edge of the couch broke urged his knees to buckle and he collapsed onto the couch, falling asleep before his head hit the cushion.
~~~~~~~~~~
The second time Sherlock kissed John, he thought he would never get to touch his best friend in the land of the living again. They had gotten him. John was his weakness and he had known it for the longest time, but couldn't address it and never would because stubbornness was not something that Sherlock Holmes got over very quickly.
He had found him, though, in an abandoned tube station, the iridescent light making his skin that sickening green color. There was too much blood, and not enough of it was in John. His mouth was dripping, his nose was running, and his face was littered with cuts and bruises that would take weeks to heal. The way he sat stated that his ribs had taken a beating. Everything had taken a beating, and it was all Sherlock's fault. He had sent John away just to investigate a little thing, only a few blocks away, and suddenly the most reliable text-answerer wasn't answering anything.
The only thing that resembled the old John was his eyes. They looked at Sherlock with hope and a sort of pleading that made Sherlock want to turn away and never face that look again. John was asking him to end it. It was the easier option, because looking at the aftermath of what they had done to him, it would be easier to end it than salvage the wreckage.
Unfortunately, there was only one option. John was alive, albeit barely, and because he was alive, he was beautiful. So with only a few seconds' hesitation and his name on his breath, Sherlock rushed forward, and untied the blood-soaked bonds that kept his dying friend on the sorry excuse for a chair. It creaked as the weight came off of it, and then John was in Sherlock's arms completely. Sherlock's hands stroked John's hair, and the horrid sobs and groans of pain echoed around the tunnel. There was more work to do. Sherlock would have to catch them eventually and make them suffer, and if at all possible, suffer more than John did.
John was mumbling something that Sherlock couldn't make out, but he shh'ed him, stroking the back of his neck and pressing soft kisses to his scalp. There was blood on the uninjured man's face now, but he didn't mind. Blood meant life, and he was going to have John cling to that as soon as possible. He worked his way down, kissing the forehead, each eyelid, and finally settling on his lips. He didn't remain long. They were badly cut and the saliva wouldn't be an aid to the situation.
There was sounds echoing through the chamber now, and Sherlock recognized them as Scotland Yard, but John tensed in his arms.
"Please, Sherlock," John sputtered, spitting a tooth onto the ground. Sherlock laced their fingers together and held tightly. His hands were broken...everything was broken, but touch had more healing than hurting power at this point, but the help came. John leaned into his best friend, and that was all Sherlock needed as the paramedics came and took John away.