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For the record, if anyone still cared at this point, it wasn’t as if John and Sherlock went about their business wearing ridiculously lovestruck, soppy expressions on their faces.
There were certain Yarders (read: nosey sodding gits - John; people apparently capable of observational skills - Sherlock) who would tell them that “soppy expressions” were not necessary. Nearly everyone in London mistook Sherlock and John for a couple even when they were still firmly, as Tess from Forensics had called it, “swimming up and down the River Denial.”
“Well,John did the swimming,” as Lestrade had later pointed out. “What with the whole ‘I’m not gay’ thing he had going on. You ever hear Sherlock deny anything?”
And it was true. Sherlock Holmes had a knack for calling a person out on the least little mistake. Posh bastard could practically hear it when somebody slipped a punctuation mark where they shouldn’t and never hesitated to point that out. But correct people about the state of his relationship with his flatmate? Hell, no - he’d calmly watch John splutter and get all flustered about it but he himself wouldn’t say a blessed word.
Considering that neither John nor Sherlock were teenage girls conducting a desperate and tragic love affair with sparkling vampires, they thought they were rather circumspect in the way they went about things. Except that they were still bloody obvious to anyone with a working set of eyes and ears. The signs of affection weren’t quite the usual for most people but it was very much the norm for the two of them.
“You need to eat,” John had announced one day while Sherlock was pacing around their latest crime scene in ominous silence, obviously still mulling over the data he’d just gathered.
“Can’t,” Sherlock had bit out and the fact that he’d even answered John was telling in itself. “You know how eating interrupts my mental processes -“
“It does not- in fact, it ought to help you and I’m a doctor, remember? You haven’t eaten anything since lunch yesterday.” John dug into his pocket and produced a ridiculously shiny red apple.
Sherlock stared at the offered fruit and raised a brow. “Really, John?”
John’s eyes twinkled. “Go on, Snowlock. If it’s poisoned, I got you covered.”
“And here I thought it was the Prince who took care of such things not the - “
“If that sentence ends with dwarf, the consequences will be dire, I promise you.”
“Hobbit,” Sherlock finished smoothly. “I meant hobbit. I suppose our Duckling will get her kissing story after all.”
And then they both laughed and Lestrade, not for the nth time, silently thanked both of them for helping him win the pool of When Are These Tossers Finally Going to Admit They’re Arse Over Teakettle For Each Other and Get On With It, Putting Us Out of Our Misery?
Also, it was rather obvious now how Sherlock, always rail thin, began to gain a considerable amount of healthy weight since his association with John.
There are numerous CCTV recordings of John and Sherlock walking together that have been seen by Mycroft Holmes. If one watches carefully, one will see John often reach out to brush his hand against Sherlock’s and how Sherlock will carefully twine his long fingers over John’s.
Sometimes, John will lean over and brush a quick kiss against Sherlock’s shoulder, winning him one of Sherlock’s faint, brief smiles.
It was Anthea who uncovered the first recording of them kissing in public. It was apparent that it had come on the heels of Sherlock finally having the good sense to confess his feelings for his flatmate. It had started off as sweet and tender and Sherlock had begun to draw away. John, however, had no intention of letting their kiss end just yet and had promptly threaded his hands in Sherlock’s curls and pulled him back for yet another kiss. Said kiss very quickly turned incendiary and drew cheers and whistles from the entire neighborhood on Baker Street.
On that day, Anthea had chosen the name Ishtar. It was, she felt, both a remarkable coincidence and quite terrifyingly appropriate.
She also earned a bonus from her boss as Mycroft had been quite sure that John would have been willing to move further displays of affection into the safe confines of 221B Baker Street.
Greg Lestrade knows that John Watson is a hell of a marksman and has long harbored some suspicions about who really shot the serial killer cabbie Jeff Hope. It had been John who’d killed the so-called killer Hound - granted the damn thing wasn’t the monster they’d been seeing - but it would have still been a bad deal if they’d gotten mauled by that vicious animal. And while Sherlock has certainly surprised them all with his ability to hold his own in a scrap, Lestrade has always felt that he could sleep better at nights knowing that John had Sherlock’s back and vice versa.
But sometimes, Lestrade knew that things could go pear-shaped very, very quickly and the case that involved the three Garridebs had been no exception. The man who had posed as “John Garrideb” had gotten lucky, at least from his point of view at first, and his wild, desperate shots had caused John nearly to bleed out before the ambulance arrived.
John had gone into cardiac arrest twice - once in the emergency room and the next on the operating table - and Lestrade fervently hoped he’d never see that particular look on Sherlock’s face again when he’d been given the news.
“He’s still alive, Sherlock,” Lestrade told him, bracing him with a hand around his arm when it was obvious Sherlock’s legs were about to give out from under him. He guided the other man to a chair, sat him down and they waited together.
“For where thou art, there is the world itself, And where thou art not, desolation,” Sherlock had murmured, eyes gray and too-bright, focused on the doors that led to the operating theatre, separating him from John.
It sounded like a prayer.
Lestrade will never forget the endless, boundless relief when they were told that John was out of danger and was stable enough that Sherlock could go and see him. He remembers Sherlock walking slowly to John’s bedside, eyes fixed on the other man’s sleeping face. Lestrade had been the one to get Sherlock to sit down and only left when Sherlock gently, tenderly lifted John’s hand to his lips and pressed fervent kisses to each fingertip.
Mycroft had been the one to thank Lestrade for staying with Sherlock that entire time.
John is rather free with terms of endearment and playful, affectionate nicknames. While he tries to be careful with this in public, sometimes he will slip with a quiet “love,” which never fails to make Sherlock’s lips quirk with the faintest of smiles. Sometimes he throws out a “darling” or “sweetheart” when he means to tease. “Snowlock” is a nickname that only he and Sherlock apparently know the meaning of and any questions are met with stares of practiced innocence. And of course, only John and Sherlock can make the phrase “you’re a fucking idiot” sound like an invitation to the bedroom.
Sherlock claims to use no terms of endearment. Sometimes, one might think this is true from the way he often says John’s simple, ordinary, common name, turning it into an endearment all on its own or saying it with the fervency reserved for a prayer. And yet, he has often been heard to say “my dear John,” “my love,” and “my heart.”
When pressed about it, Sherlock will simply say that these are not terms of endearment - they are statements of fact.
***
I’m not afraid of the past no more
I’m not afraid and I’m bad for good
I used to dance to the devil’s beat
If I could bust into hell, I would
I’m not afraid to shed all my skin
I’m not afraid of the faults you see
I’m tearing down these walls right now
They’re comin’ down ‘cause I believe…
Your love is blind, blind as a bat
The way that you’re leading me home like that
Your love is blind, blind as a bat…