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“You’re so short, Watson,” is how it starts.
They’re drinking at the Volunteer. They’re both fairly tipsy. John had been laughing over something or other, leaning into Sherlock’s side, a glass in his hand.
“I’m not! ” John snorts. “I’m perfectly average heighted.”
“You’re like, three feet tall,” says Sherlock. They’ve both got a bit of a slur in their voice.
“Maybe you’re just a giant,” John sniffs.
“I am respectably six foot one, and you manage to be short in a way that is offensive.”
John’s indginated. “Come here- I’ll show you!” he says, pulling Sherlock off his barstool and up next to him.
He probably means to press their backs against each other, but they’re both so wobbly that John opts to just press himself against Sherlock, using him to try and stay upright.
“See! That’s like- That’s barely even half a foot of difference!”
If Sherlock were any more sober or any less close to John, he might’ve replied, “really? Half a foot?” with a quirk in his brow and a deadpan tone.
Sherlock is, however, neither of those things, so unfortunately all he can focus on is how close John is to him, all of a sudden, and how he smells so good, like honey and syrup and mud and grass and faintly of blood from the afternoon, and faintly of alcohol from the glass he set down at the bar (and the two or three glasses before that).
He can see the top of John’s head from this angle and he wants to bury his face in that dirty blonde hair. Maybe if he catches a glimpse of his facial hair he’ll wonder what it would feel like on his lips. Oh. Well. Guess that’s what we’re thinking now. Wonderful.
John would probably be a wonderful kisser. He’s certainly had his fair share of experience, or so Sherlock has heard. Not that Sherlock isn’t experienced himself- he had Victor in college. And admittedly no one after that, but he had Victor in college!
He’s fighting to keep focus and it is a losing battle. He is losing hard. The last time someone lost this hard was when John still went by FireLard.
He’s snapped back to reality when he realizes that John is looking up at him, waiting for an answer. An answer to what? Er… What were they talking about last?
Right. John is short. Quick, Sherlock, think of a clever quip!
“All I can see from up here is your hair,” he says, heart racing.
Mission accomplished. John is yelling at him, all in jest of course, and Sherlock gets to stay here until John moves.
Feels like heaven, if heaven were real.
They’re out walking Archie, when John stops paying attention and the stupid dog bolts off.
“Archie!” John yells. “Get back here!”
Sherlock snorts as John chases after Archie, the dog chasing… an insect? Sherlock can’t tell from here, although he’d love to know.
That doesn’t last long, though, as Archie jumps onto a couple.
They seem to be teenagers. One is much taller than the other, with short, blonde hair. They’re wearing a graphic T-Shirt- it looks to be the logo of a bookstore- with a tote bag around their arm. They have lots of jewelry on their hands- rings, bracelets.
The shorter one has long black hair pulled back into a bun and bangs dyed light purple. They also have a graphic tee on, but it’s covered by a brown blazer. They also have rings, and long, colorful earrings. They’re both wearing glasses, walking arm in arm.
The shorter one crouches down to pet Archie, which is when John shows up to apologize profusely. Sherlock steps closer, and he catches their conversation.
“Christ, I’m so sorry,” John says.
“No, no, it’s alright! I love dogs!” says the short one.
“Do you want me to take a picture, Vani?” says the taller one.
“Oh, that’d be lovely- if you don’t mind?”
“Not at all,” John huffs, relieved.
The taller one reaches into their tote bag, revealing-
Ah. That’s nice.
“Are you two listeners?” John asks.
The short one- Vani- cocks their head.
“Sorry?” they ask.
“To- Sherlock & Co., I mean,” he clarifies.
“Oh, yeah, I- hold on, ” they say, eyes lighting up, “are you-?”
“Yeah!” John smiles!
“That’s- that’s insane,” the taller one says. “Um-“
The two teens seem to have a conversation with their eyes, then, ending with Vani asking “Would you terribly mind if we took a photo?” and John saying “Not at all! Sherls, come here.”
Sherlock steps forward obediently and takes the tall one’s phone, snapping a couple pictures of the three of them and handing it back.
The two are thanking them both profusely, and John smiles at them kindly. Sherlock just stares at John.
He’s so… amazing, really.
The two walk away, cheeks pink and eyes alight, and Archie’s leash is back in John’s hands.
“You know, you’re almost as tall as that blonde one,” Sherlock says, to throw himself off the train of thought he knows he’s about to go on.
“You are incorrigible, did you know that?” John sighs, and then they’re both giggling, shoving each other down the sidewalk.
Sherlock is groggy, and he wants nothing more than to cuddle someone, specifically Someone, and fall back asleep.
But it cannot always be night, and at some point, he has to start the day, so he begrudgingly rolls out of bed, pads to the bathroom, swirls some mouthwash in his mouth, spits it out, and trudges into the kitchen.
“Morning, Sherls,” John chirps from the stove, a kettle whistling on top of it. “Tea?”
“Please,” he mutters. And in his sleepy state, he’s not really paying attention, so before he can stop himself, he’s in the kitchen, arms wrapped around John’s waist, and face buried in his soft, blonde hair.
“Er. Sherls?” John says, more like asks, but he doesn’t follow it with anything, so Sherlock doesn’t really care.
It feels so nice, to have John in his arms.
He’s a solid weight, grounding him to the floor. Waking him up? Definitely not. But he doesn’t much mind anyway.
More of that John Smell envelops him and it feels like a warm hug. He smiles, slow and soft.
He hears John inhale as if to say something, but then he doesn’t. Sherlock must know what he wants to say.
“What is it, Watson?” he asks, muffled by John’s hair.
“Is this… are you making fun of me?” John asks.
Sherlock’s heart does a funny twist in his chest.
“Why?” Sherlock asks, and then, “Would I be, I mean.”
“You’ve been calling me short all week, genius,” John mutters.
“No no no,” Sherlock says. “You just feel nice, and you’re the perfect height to sleep on.”
“So you are making fun of me,”
“No I’m not!”
“Hm.”
Somehow, Sherlock doesn’t think John believes him.
Hm, indeed.
“Would you stop calling me short in public, Sherlock?” John grumbles as the two of them walk into 221B.
“But you are! That’s not a bad thing,” Sherlock says, rolling his eyes.
“Maybe to you!”
“Nothing’s wrong with being short, John. You have plenty of other qualities!”
“You are so bloody annoying, you know that? Absolutely insufferable.”
“Fine, if you’re such a big, manly man then, come and show me.”
Right. Sherlock officially has no fucking idea what the hell he’s doing.
“Fine!” John says, taking a step forward, trying to get in his face.
Sherlock takes a step back.
John takes another step forward.
Sherlock takes another step back.
John steps forward.
Sherlock steps back.
John steps forward.
Sherlock-
Hits the wall.
“Nowhere to go now, hm?” John smirks at him.
Sherlock feels like his body is on fire. His knees are- buckling. John is in his face, so close, gloating about something or other, Sherlock is pressed against the wall, it would be so easy to-
Before he knows what he’s doing, Sherlock presses his lips to John’s.
His voice cuts off. There is no movement. Sherlock has fucked up.
Sherlock pulls away, a thousand apologies ready to fall off his lips, but John is-
Chasing his face. Chasing his lips.
But Sherlock is straight against the wall, and John cannot reach him.
So he raises himself onto his toes, and pulls Sherlock into a kiss, a proper kiss, where their lips are moving, and John is a bloody good kisser, memorizing his lips in an instant and making them both so comfortable.
His beard and mustache are a strange sensation against his face, but not in a bad way. It’s very nice.
John is.
Kissing him.
And then he isn’t, pulling away, and his lips are a bit swollen and red, and Sherlock’s chest is racing.
“S-Sorry,” John stammers.
“What for? That was brilliant, well done,” Sherlock says.
“It was that good?” John grins, and Sherlock swats his arm.
“Well, you had to go on your tiptoes, so you must’ve really wanted it,” he huffs.
“If this was to prove I’m short, I swear to god, Sherlock-“
They both collapse into giggles.
John is, in retrospect, the perfect height for kissing. Sherlock is so grateful that he knows this.
So fucking grateful.