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Sherlock stands by the windows, shoulders set in a hard line, his hands jittery at his sides. John watches from the threshold between kitchen and sitting room. He stares, more like.
John swallows against the sandpaper in his throat; his heart is beating at the speed of hummingbird’s wings, probably faster. “Yeah, I-” He started this, after all. He’s the reason that Sherlock is standing stock still (save for those traitorous digits) and waiting. John blows a short little breath out through his nose, his fingers curling and uncurling, fists and then not against the pockets of his jeans. “I have something to say.”
Sherlock swallows, audibly. That much, John is sure, is obvious. That he has something to say. And it’s so telling, so momentous, that Sherlock does not call him out for being so obvious, but instead just says, “Oh?”
“Hmm,” John hums and gives a long, low nod, his chin nearly touching his sternum as he takes a step into the sitting room, thinks better of it and then steps back. “Yeah.”
Sherlock blinks.
John blinks, swallows.
Sherlock sniffs in, the quick sound almost thunderous in the silence of the room. “Well?”
“Hm?” John says, his chin tipping up at Sherlock’s question.
There’s a brief little burst of sound as Sherlock clears his throat, primly. “Out with it?”
“Right, yeah, well… the thing is…” John’s left hand clenches and then he’s reaching up, scratching distractedly at the back of his neck. “Fuck it.” A huge gust of breath comes rushing out of his lungs as he steels himself, checks his resolve, and then, “I’m… I’m gone on you.”
Sherlock blinks again, a distinct, deep canyon appearing between his eyes as he processes what John has said. A moment passes, and then a full minute ticks by and Sherlock’s expression does not change.
John feels nervous sweat begin to bead at his hairline; he thinks briefly about how ridiculous it is that he could be in an active war zone and remain calm, cool and collected, but here and now, telling his best friend that he’s, well, rather quite in love with him actually, he can’t keep it together.
John narrows his eyes, waits and waits for Sherlock to reanimate. Another sixty seconds creeps by; perhaps he hadn’t heard John.
“Sherlock?”
Sherlock blinks for what may very well be the thousandth time since John had broached the subject of speaking with him. “Mmm? Yes?”
“Did you hear what I said?”
“I-” Sherlock begins, stops, presses his lips together as the furrow between his brows grows impossibly deeper. “Meaning what?”
Now John is confused, his right eyebrow sliding upward. “What, meaning what?”
“Gone on me.” And Sherlock Holmes uses air-quotes. John has never seen anything so distinctly ridiculous as Sherlock Holmes using air-quotes. He’s seen it once, didn’t think he’d ever see it again, but he’s seeing it now. John thinks briefly that perhaps they’ve crossed into a parallel dimension.
He’s nervous and a touch dizzy and he swears that his mouth has never been this dry in his entire life. But, as he allows himself to recede into his thoughts for a moment, he bucks himself up. He’s John Watson, dammit. He’s dealt with death on three continents, made it through medical training, lived through the Thatcher years for Christ’s sake, this should be nothing.
But, as it turns out, it’s actually everything. So John tries at a swallow, gets some of his salivary glands working again, straightens his spine and forges onward. “Gone on you, I am gone on you.”
“Yes.” Sherlock says quickly, a little snap of his lips. “But what does that mean?”
John rolls his eyes, huffs a little laugh, a manic grin that immediately disappears. “I, I… have feelings for you. Feelings that- just, just feelings, okay?”
“Feelings…” It’s like Sherlock is testing the word on his tongue.
“Christ,” John says, smears a slightly-damp palm over his face and walks all the way across the room to stand directly before Sherlock. “Feelings, Sherlock. You know…”
It becomes immediately apparent that though Sherlock may have an inkling, may have a hint of a clue, he’s certainly not getting it. For someone who has to read between the lines in order to make his living, for someone who lives on inferences and hints, the meaning behind John’s words is very obviously passing him by.
Damn it all, John didn’t think that he would need to be this plain. When he’d thought about it–and he has thought about it, with stark clarity and foggy imaginings–it had gone much, much smoother than this. How could it not, John had figured. Sherlock is his best friend, he’s 99.9% certain that this was all fated from the beginning, and so John had figured that this would be the easy part. But far be it for Sherlock Holmes to make anything easy.
Okay, John concedes, the falling in love bit had been easy, but...
John’s tongue passes over his bottom lip as they stare at one another a moment longer. And when he speaks, it’s with a sudden, intense clarity that takes him a bit by surprise. “I want to kiss you, to be with you, touch you, hold you, have you.” John pauses because he’s not sure about the next bit, but thinks “to hell with it” and dives right on back in. “To fuck you. I want you, and it took me, you know, quite a bit to get here and it would be wonderful if you’d snap out of whatever catatonia you’ve found yourself in to, you know…” John’s gaze flits a few places before it settles back on Sherlock’s face. “Respond.”
Sherlock presses his lips together and nods quickly before his face smooths out. “I.”
John’s eyes widen in anticipation but when Sherlock remains mute a few moments more, John presses. “You?”
“Yes,” Sherlock says, nods again and then sucks in a tiny, fast breath. John remains silent, though he does roll his eyes. John waits and waits, and just when he’s about to call it quits, take a seat on the sofa and switch on the telly while Sherlock finishes processing things, Sherlock speaks.
“John.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m going to-” Sherlock’s eyes, which are very bright and very wide, flicker down to glance at John’s mouth and John catches it, his stomach flipping instantly. That glance only means one thing; John had made that particular little flit with his eyes, seen that particular flit of the eyes too many times not to know.
“Okay.”
Sherlock’s eyes widen even further at John’s immediately recognition and he nods his head, still staring at John’s mouth. “I’m going to kiss you.”
“Mmm, yeah figured that, what with you staring at my mouth.”
“Is that?” he begins and then stops, shakes his head briefly. “I’m going to…”
“Alright.”
Sherlock’s mouth is set in a very definite, very proper line. He presses them together hard and then says, “Are you alright with me-”
John can’t deal with this, with the anticipation, with the hive of bees that it threatening to rip free from his belly. He can’t stand this waiting to be kissed by the one person he is desperate to be kissed by. “Yep.” It comes out all breathy, strangled.
“Alright,” Sherlock agrees.
“Good.”
“Very good,” Sherlock agrees.
“Sherlock?”
His eyes flit down to John’s mouth and then pull back up to meet his eyes. “Uh, yes?”
“With the kissing? Want to… get on with it?”
“Oh. Yes, I…”
Something in him unhinges, breaks free, loosens and flares. John doesn’t bother waiting, can’t, it seems. He wraps a warm palm around the curve of Sherlock’s neck and brings their mouths together.
Their teeth clack, that’s the first thing that John registers. He thinks about how imperfect the moment is–not at all like he’d imagined–and then decides that he can’t be bothered to harp on what’s not right with the kiss. What he focuses on is the texture of Sherlock’s lips, the warmth of him, the slight puff of breath expelled from Sherlock’s nose that warms John’s upper lip.
There’s a brief moment where neither of them move, and then John feels Sherlock’s hand tentatively resting on his hip, his other hand coming up to gently cup John’s face.
And John can’t help it.
He smiles.
And Sherlock smiles against him.
They laugh against one another’s mouths, little hiccoughs of giggles that loosen their lips. In an instant they are kissing, really kissing. Wet, and deep, and messy, gripping one another tightly and stumbling a bit this way and that.
“This is,” John manages as Sherlock breaks the kiss to angle his head to the left. There’s another few minutes of nothing but the quiet little wet sounds of them kissing before John can finish his sentence. “Ludicrous,” he eventually manages, as he drags his mouth to Sherlock’s neck.
Sherlock gasps and clutches at John’s shoulders, then drags his face back up to claim another kiss. “Yes, it is,” Sherlock says against his mouth. “Mmmmand wonderful.”
“That too,” John says into Sherlock, placing both of his palms against Sherlock’s cheeks and holding him.
They kiss and kiss and kiss. Their noses bump and their fingers tangle in hair and clothing and by the time they’ve run out of breath, they’re both pink and jittery and grinning. They part, John pressing his forehead to Sherlock’s briefly before taking a step back and assessing the situation.
“So,” he tries.
“So,” Sherlock returns.
“How are we feeling about… the feelings?” He frowns at himself and his ridiculous choice of words.
“Hmmm,” Sherlock considers, touches his lips.
John shrugs, “Should we… talk about it?”
“Hmmm,” Sherlock hums again. “That bit, you were saying. About the feelings. The, the uh, the touching and the having and the holding and the… what was it?”
John presses his lips into a firm line because his face is trying desperately to break into a fantastic grin. It takes him a moment to get it under control. “Uhm, are you referring to the er, fucking?”
Sherlock’s head dips and his eyes shadow darker and the corner of his mouth quirks up, devious. “Yes. That.”
“Oh, well, I suppose the talking can be moved to the backburner if you want to-”
“I do want to. Let’s,” Sherlock is walking towards him and then past him, snagging his forearm along the way and tugging him along towards the bedroom, “do that.”