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The night after their first time, John can hardly believe that it happened. He spends the entire night after Sherlock has already fallen asleep staring up at the ceiling with a smile on his face as he traces patterns into Sherlock's skin.
If it weren't for the angel faced detective sleeping on his chest, he wouldn't believe it even happened. It was so sudden, right after a particularly exciting case where they had returned to the flat, still high on adrenaline, and for no particular reason, other than that he really wanted to, John pulled the taller man down to his height and had kissed him with all of the fire that had been built up after all of the years they had known one another. And when he pulled away, he and Sherlock had stared at each other for a moment before bursting into a fit of giggles, and only taking the time to run up the seventeen steps of 221B before they were pushing each other back into Sherlock's room and collapsing backwards onto the sheets, and whispering I love you into each other's skin. It had been so silly, as they were both laughing and smiling too much for either of them to take it seriously, but it was still so perfect.
A perfect moment that John never thought he would get.
So, he had savored it, and when Sherlock had sleepily buried his head in John's chest, John hadn't hesitated in wrapping his arms around him, and pressing gentle kisses to his face every now and again, just to hear the sleepy giggle that always followed. It was his new favorite sound.
But, three and a half hours later, just as the sun is beginning to rise and turn the room into a collage of pink and orange, John finds himself still awake, and staring at the ceiling, his mind turning over the events of the previous hours, and by seven, he decides it's time to get up.
Slowly pulling himself out of Sherlock's arms, he gets out of bed and pulls his jeans back on, not bothering with a shirt. He looks over at Sherlock's sleeping form, and smiles to himself, not understanding how someone so gorgeous could look even more beautiful while they sleep. The thought makes him laugh, and he gently brushes his fingers over his cheek before turning to leave.
"John?" Sherlock's voice croaks from behind him.
John Watson turns, and smiles down at the sleepy detective. "Hey, I didn't mean to wake you, go back to sleep."
Sherlock blinks against the dim light, and lays his head back against the pillow with a grunt. He raises his arm, like he's reaching for John, or waving him back over. "Come back to bed, you were warm." He grumbles.
The doctor chuckles to himself, but heeds the request, and makes his way back to the large bed. Sherlock almost immediately wraps his arms around his chest when he covers himself with the sheets again, which makes his chest feel warm as he continues to trace patterns on his arm.
"How did you sleep?" Sherlock asks him.
"Just fine." John replies brightly.
Sherlock tenses, then pulls away, and looks up at him with questioning eyes. "You're lying. You didn't sleep at all." He deduces, his glossy baritone voice becoming strained, like it always does when he figures out something he doesn't like.
John winces internally, but tries not to show it. "Couldn't."
"Why not?"
"Just couldn't."
The detective narrows his eyes, like he's concentrating really hard on deducing every detail just from John's face, then pushes himself up on his elbows, and suddenly looks anxious. "Talk to me. What is it?"
John sighs. "It's nothing, Sherlock. Please, just let it go." He answers, sounding a bit more desperate than he wants to sound.
Sherlock continues to stare at him with anxious, wild eyes. Then, as he appears to take in John's words, he suddenly looks like he had just been slapped. "Did I do something wrong?" He asks, his voice quiet and unsure.
"No! No, you didn't do anything-"
"You're having second thoughts then, you regret this?"
"No! God, no, Sherlock. Not in the slightest!"
"Then what is it, John? Because this isn't how I pictured our first morning as a couple."
"A couple?" John repeats, sounding winded.
Sherlock's expression changes from frustration to hurt to anger in less than a second. "What? Is that not what we are now? A couple? Or are you afraid to admit that? Because you're 'not gay'? Is that it? Because that-"
John reaches up and claps a hand over the detective's mouth to silence him. "Sherlock, hush. It's not like that at all."
From the other side of John's hand, Sherlock mumbles something unintelligible, then pushes the hand away. "Then what is it, John? I'm losing my mind over here, so just please, tell me. Is it me?"
John sighs. "No, no, it's not you. It's all me, Sherlock."
"Explain."
The doctor looks over at him, and takes in his hurt, anxious expression, which cuts deep in his chest. He never wanted Sherlock to second guess himself. "You're right." He says carefully. "I'm not gay, but I am bi. I've been with men and women all throughout my life, and I've never had any qualms about it."
Sherlock looks confused. "I deduced that early on, yet you never dated a man all throughout our friendship, and it was evident even when me first met that you hadn't in a while. Why did you stop dating men?"
"Fuck, I don't know." John grumbles as he scrubs a hand over his face. "I don't know, I guess I'm having a bit of a hard time with it. Coming out now."
"Why?"
John hesitates as he ponders the question. He knows why, he's thought about it almost every day since he decided to stop dating men, but putting it into words for someone else, especially someone like Sherlock, who was happily gay and neither in nor out of the closet and content with that... that was hard. He's never told anyone this before.
He takes a deep breath and bits at his lip while he comes up with something to say. "Being bi is a lot different than being gay. That sort of thing is okay when you're younger. You're allowed to play the field and do what you want, but it suddenly becomes weird when you're past thirty. You're expected to be over that sort of thing and settle down with a nice person, and have children, because everyone believes you're straight, you're just having fun. Everyone starts to look at you weird if you're still... Experimenting, as they say, when you're my age. That's why I was always so adamant about knocking down these rumors about us."
"Why, because people can't their stupid opinions to themselves?" Sherlock demands, almost angrily.
"Not even that, really, just..." John's voice trails off, and he sighs. "I'm old, Sherlock. That's the truth of it. I'm old, and getting older every day, and it's getting harder and harder to explain that I can, in fact, and do love more than just women, but no one believes that. Sometimes... Sometimes staying in the closet is easier when you're old like me." He pauses, and gazes back over at his partner, who has gone silent. He knows he looks tired, he can feel it. "Would you want someone like that?"
"Yes." The detective replies without even thinking.
"Sherlock." John groans and reaches up to cover his eyes.
Sherlock quickly grabs his arm. "I'm serious, John." He retorts, ignoring the weak glare that the doctor shoots his way. "Besides, I'm thirty eight, you're forty two, we're not very far apart."
"I'm still older."
"Oh, what does it matter if you're older? What does it matter if you're old?"
"Well, it doesn't matter to you, you're still pretty." John scoffs.
A silence falls over them as they both take in what John's just said, and then, they look at each other, and they both burst into a fit of giggles. Sherlock drops his head onto John's chest while John tries control his laughter, just like they had done in Buckingham Palace, or at their first crime scene.
Sherlock looks up, his face bright red from the giggling, and bites his lip. "So I'm pretty, huh?" He repeats.
"Sorry." John gasps out. "I didn't mean to say that out loud."
"Well, I'm flattered, if you're curious. I've never been called pretty before."
"Shhhhh..." John covers his mouth again. "Delete it."
Sherlock shakes his head with a sound of protest, and John drops his hand. "I'm never letting you live that comment down, John Watson."
The doctor only shakes his head, then presses a kiss to Sherlock's arm. "What am I to do with you?"
Sherlock smiles, then bites at his lip, and his face falls into a soft look of sympathy, and his hand reaches up to brush at John's cheek. "Seriously, though, you don't actually think I care that you're older than me, do you?" He asks carefully.
"Sometimes." John admits. "I meant what I said about you being pretty, no matter how much you tease me for it, you're gorgeous. You have been since we met, with your ridiculous cheekbones, and arse that I always had to resist the urge to grab," That comment makes Sherlock turn pink, and John decides it's the cutest thing he's ever seen. "I don't know, you've always been gorgeous. Breathtaking even. You always were, and you still are now. Why would someone like you want an old, scarred up soldier like me? It just doesn't make sense. Now, women like Sarah and Jeanette, that makes sense, they're looking for people like me, not that they couldn't do much better, but you, you could have anyone you wanted. Why me?"
"Because you're the only person who's taken the time to take care of me. You were the first person who ever made me question the sociopath label, and that's saying something." He replies, the 'isn't it obvious' look threatening to come out. "John, after knowing me for less than twenty-four hours, you killed the man who threatened my life, saving me, and you never thought twice about it. I fell in love with that when I didn't even think I was capable of love, and that, to me, is amazing, and it was all you." He paused, and ran his fingers over the slight muscle that still clung to his torso, and John shudders at the touch. Sherlock smiles, as he had forgotten that John's ticklish. "Besides, I don't know what you're talking about, you look pretty damn good for forty two. Most men in their forties don't have this." He says again, running his fingers down the muscles on John's torso.
John laughs and catches his hand. "Ex-soldiers do."
"I like it. I'm skin and bones, at least you still have a six pack."
He rolls his eyes. "Why do you make this so easy? Why is everything so easy with you?"
"What? Being naked?"
"No, you git. Well. Yes, maybe that too."
Sherlock looks pleased with himself.
"I was more referring to the fact that you make it so easy to forget that I'm forty two and still closeted."
"There's nothing wrong with that, as long as you still want me." Sherlock states proudly before pushing himself up and planting a kiss on John's lips. "Answer me this; do you love me?"
John looks almost offended. "Of course I do." He replies immediately.
"And I love you too. And I don't plan on loving anyone else. So, if it's alright with you, I'd like to stay with you forever."
The doctor smiles at the thought. "Forever sounds perfect."
Sherlock's own smile lightens the entire room. "Well, there you have it. You're a bisexual ex-army doctor who's in love with a gay consulting detective and now you're stuck with me. People are going to talk, they always will, they'll invalidate you, but just know that they're all idiots anyway and their opinions don't matter."
A laugh breaks from John's throat, and he leans up to kiss Sherlock again, fully, lovingly, and with as much passion as he can manage, and when Sherlock kisses him back, it's unlike any kiss he has ever shared with any man or woman in his entire life, and it's the only kiss he'll accept now. This beautiful, gorgeous man is the only one who could ever make him feel good with his sexuality, which is more he can say about anyone else, and this is the only thing he could ever want. He loves Sherlock Holmes with all of his heart, and he could never, ever love anyone else.
And that's more than alright with him.
Sherlock's stomach growls, breaking the moment, and they pull away from each other. John looks up at him then nods his head toward the door. "Come on, pretty boy. Time for breakfast."
The detective giggles as they climb out of bed. "Is that my name now? Pretty boy?"
"Abso-fucking-lutely. Put it on the website, it's official."
"Just like us? Right?"
His words make John freeze in his tracks, and he looks back to see Sherlock watching him with a shy, nervous smile, and it almost breaks John's heart in two. He quickly leans down and pulls him in for a kiss, letting his fingers curl around the back of his neck, and when he lets go, he presses his forehead against Sherlock's and kisses the tip of his nose. "Yes. Just like us. Fuck the closet."
That earns a smile from Sherlock, and before John can react, his boyfriend (the word still sends a spark through his body) pulls him back down onto the bed, kicking sheets around, and making it known that he's not planning on letting John go.
It's mid-day before they rose again, and that was perfectly okay with John.