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John was only three pages into his novel when Sherlock yelped and leapt onto the couch beside him.
“Can I help you?” John asked, looking over the pages at Sherlock who was standing on the sofa, barefoot and still in his pajamas despite it being two in the afternoon.
Sherlock just looked at his phone and growled. “Can’t be right,” he said. “I was careful.”
John groaned. “What did you do?”
“Nothing of import,” Sherlock said, waving a hand at John though he was still glaring at his phone. “Back to your book. The nanny is the murderer.”
John slammed the book shut, adding it to the list of twenty-six novels Sherlock had ruined for him in the year since he’d moved into Baker Street. “Nothing of import?” he questioned, crossing his arms in front of his chest and staring up at Sherlock. “Then why are you standing on the couch and snarling at your phone like it’s insulted you?”
“Might want to pick your feet up off the floor, John. More comfortable that way.”
“What the hell did you do?” John groaned, pulling his feet up anyway.
“It seems I may have accidentally created a new chemical that corrodes flesh on contact.”
“And then threw it on our floor.”
“I didn’t know it was corrosive,” Sherlock said, looking down at him with a scowl.
“And wait a minute, why were you putting things—no, never mind.” John groaned, dropping his head into his hand. All he’d wanted was a quiet afternoon. A nice cuppa, a decent book, and a few hours peace. Because that would happen. Ha. “Oh, sit down,” he said, reaching out and yanking at Sherlock’s blue dressing gown. The detective gave a small “harrumph” but complied, dropping onto the sofa neatly, legs tucked up cross-legged beneath him. He began tapping away on his phone.
“So how long are we stranded on our sofa?”
“Still working that out,” Sherlock replied, fingers never ceasing their frantic dance.
“And we’re meant to play ‘the floor is lava’ until then?”
“The floor is what?”
“Lava, it’s—no, forget it.” John sighed loudly but Sherlock didn’t seem to get the cue. Shaking his head at himself, John leaned back onto the arm of the sofa. Might as well get comfortable if they were stuck. The nearest chair was just out of his reach and he couldn’t jump all the way to the door. Jesus, a year ago he would have lost his mind with rage had something like this happened. Now he was almost surprised they’d made it this long. Though why Sherlock had been sweeping potentially dangerous chemicals across their rug he didn’t know.
Sherlock continued to tap at his phone and John vaguely wondered if the furniture and floor would meet the fate it seemed their feet had just been saved from. He was definitely not paying for any replacements. He’d let Mycroft deal with that one as, were it left up to Sherlock, there wouldn’t be any furniture at all. Except maybe the couch, he did like his sulking couch.
John looked around. His book had been ruined, his tea was now cold, and there was nothing within reach to entertain himself. He looked longingly at the remote, situated on the arm of his chair fifteen feet away. Fuck.
“All right,” he said, turning to Sherlock. “Give it here.”
“What?”
“Your phone.”
Sherlock looked up at him, his face utterly blank.
John held out his hand.
“No.”
“You’ve ruined my book and there’s nothing within reach. There’s obviously no way to clean it or you would have called someone by now, and if we’re stuck on this sofa for who knows how long we’re going to talk,” John said.
“Talk?” Sherlock asked slowly, as if the word was foreign to his tongue.
“Yes, speak, chat, like normal people.”
“But we’re not normal people,” Sherlock said, still holding onto his phone.
“We’re stranded on a sofa because you spread corrosive chemicals across our floor, I’d say the ‘normal’ ship has sailed. Still.” He held out his hand even further. Sherlock looked at the hand stretched toward him warily, then looked up at John. His blue eyes narrowed and he stared for a moment but gently set the phone in John’s hand, eyes never leaving John’s face.
“Thank you.” John set the phone on the table, readjusting his position on the couch so he was more comfortably facing Sherlock. He wasn’t exactly sure what he meant for them to talk about, but, patient as he was, he wasn’t about to sit there in silence other than the clicking of Sherlock’s phone. So he might as well entertain himself.
Sherlock waited, picking at his pajama bottoms with a bored expression on his face.
“So,” John said, pulling his knees up to his chest and watching Sherlock’s lithe fingers play with the cotton, “why were you mixing corrosive chemicals in the flat?”
“I told you,” Sherlock said petulantly, “I didn’t know it was corrosive.”
“How did you not know?”
“I was working on a new equation and didn’t calculate for all the variables,” he said. His voice had dropped to a mutter and he didn’t meet John’s eye. Ashamed. Sherlock Holmes was ashamed that he’d gotten something wrong. True, most people accidentally used salt instead of sugar or forgot about a gluten allergy, but the fact that Sherlock was embarrassed and upset about this was, frankly, quite human. John almost pitied him. He glanced around the room, his eyes alighting on the bathroom door yards away emphasized the almost.
“So I can blame you if we die here?”
“We’re not going to die,” Sherlock said, looking up and shaking his head. The dark curls bounced a bit. Even John could admit that Sarah’s description of Sherlock’s hair as ‘glorious’ had a grain of truth to it.
“Yes, Mycroft will just call the RAF, have us airlifted out.”
“Not sure Mrs. Hudson will appreciate that. Though the roof could use some updates.”
John chuckled at that, earning a small smile from Sherlock. “Will that stuff leak through the floorboards?” The house was old and John didn’t like the thought of some strange acid dripping through the ceiling of Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen.
“No, the rug should hold most of it.”
“All right,” John said. “So couldn’t we just call someone, have them lay down a plank or something until we can clean it up?”
“Someone has my phone,” Sherlock sneered.
“I’m not giving it back unless you know who we can call.”
“As the chemical is undocumented it’s highly doubtful that anyone, other than myself, would have the slightest clues as to how to deal with it.”
“Then how do you propose we deal with it?” John asked, biting back another sigh. He deserved a medal, he really did.
“We wait until it evaporates.”
“And the plank idea?”
Sherlock was silent.
“Oh my God, we’re not staying here because you’re embarrassed.”
The detective sniffed and looked away.
“That’s it, I’m calling Lestrade,” John said, reaching for the phone. Sherlock sent him a sharp look, but he carried on anyway. He got Greg’s voicemail and hung up. The inspector was most likely at a crime scene and could be away for hours.
“Obviously busy,” Sherlock said, pretending to be interested in his fingernails.
"Well who else am I to call? Mycroft?”
“No!” Sherlock quickly pulled his features back to composure but not before John had caught the look on his face at the thought of Mycroft having to rescue them. “No, it’s fine. Shouldn’t be too long before it’s safe again.”
John watched him but Sherlock looked away again. He knew he should just call 999 and hope there was something they could do, but it wasn’t a technical emergency and, while he had Sherlock here, separated from his phone and laptop, he might as well take advantage. Besides, he could phone Lestrade again in a few minutes. Maybe he’d have a free minute then. “Okay,” he said slowly. He put the phone down and crossed his arms over his chest, wondering just what exactly he wanted to talk about. Sherlock started the conversation for him.
“What does one normally do in this situation?” the detective asked, wrapping his robe more tightly around him and pretending not to be interested.
“One is not normally in this situation,” John replied, trying to balance his annoyance and the growing amusement at seeing Sherlock so obviously out of his comfort zone.
Sherlock fell silent again, pouting his lips and making a face John knew to mean ‘I am interested but do not wish you to know it.’ He sighed. Might as well play along.
“Well,” John said, biting, “if you were a woman…”
Sherlock looked up at him, face blank. Of course John would actually have to spell it out.
“We’d be snogging. Or...”
“Just like that?” Sherlock asked, voice bored though his eyes had lit up. Was this really what he’d wanted to know? He had, after all, started the conversation.
“We’re presuming this isn’t the first date.”
“But how would you convince her?” His interest was far more genuine than John had been expecting.
Convince her? Was Sherlock so ignorant he thought snogging was something people had to be coerced into? Of course he did, he was Sherlock. “One would hope there was a mutual attraction.”
“Oh,” Sherlock said, tilting his head slightly, most likely making room in his head for the new information. John tried to keep from laughing as he imagined Sherlock cleaning out a new drawer for the information in his mind palace. “And then?”
“What do you mean ‘then’?”
“Then, based on an understood basis of mutual attraction, how would one proceed with the snogging?”
John laughed. Just hearing Sherlock use the word ‘snogging’ made him wish his phone wasn’t in his room. He really could have used that last question as a ringtone. God, Lestrade would love it.
Sherlock gave him a pointed look, huffing a bit before looking away in his typically dramatic fashion. John sighed. He should be proud, really, that Sherlock was taking such an interest in human interaction.
“Why so curious?” he asked. It wasn’t like Sherlock to be so curious about something that, in his mind, was a waste of time.
Sherlock shrugged but didn’t look at him, staring across toward the kitchen. “You’re the one who wanted to talk.”
“All right, fine,” John said, running a hand over his face as he contemplated just how to walk his sociopathic, asexual flatmate through the art of seduction.
Sherlock perked up a bit at that, turning so that he was facing John. He kept the eagerness from his face, but John could tell he was interested. Maybe the detective had a case on. It wasn’t uncommon for him to ‘forget’ to mention them all to John until he was down some back alley at night getting shot at.
“Well,” he paused. How was he supposed to start? It was a natural thing, not one that he actively planned out. “I guess…you…”
“Thank God you never became a teacher,” Sherlock commented after enough silence had passed.
“Hey now, do you want an answer or not?” John said, wondering why it felt like his brain had turned to mush. Was it really so difficult to explain such a simple thing?
“Do you have one?” Sherlock asked, clearly doubtful. His lip was curled in disdain and John could almost see the glint in his eye.
“Oy, I’ve got the upper hand in experience on this one, you have to give me that.”
“And what marvelous use you’re putting it to.”
Now he was doing it on purpose. He did that sometimes, set John off, started a row just so he could have an excuse to huff around the flat and not speak to John. But he wasn’t getting away with it this time. They weren’t going to sit on the couch in huffy silence until the bloody chemicals had evaporated from their rug. “Demonstrations are a much easier explanation,” John found himself saying.
They both froze. Sherlock with one brow cocked in surprise and John with his heart hammering in his chest, mind desperately trying to backtrack.
“I mean, generally that’s what…in med school…”
“You had snogging demonstrations in med school?” Sherlock asked, collecting himself.
“No, I just mean…” John sighed again. “Forget it.” He dropped his head into his hands, hiding behind his knees in the hopes that Sherlock couldn’t see his mortification.
“John—“
“No.”
There was silence for a few moments. What the hell was wrong with him? He should have known to just leave it. To sit there in silence and let Sherlock play with his phone because talking…well talking wasn’t working out so well.
Sherlock cleared his throat. John didn’t move.
“Demonstrations can be quite instructive,” Sherlock said.
John lifted his face, expecting the detective to be sneering at him, laughing at him, something. Instead he met the blue eyes briefly before they darted away, flitting about the couch and wall.
“I…” John stopped, repositioning himself on the sofa and pretending that his jeans were just as comfortable as before. He cleared his throat. “Really?”
“Yes.”
Sherlock wouldn’t look at John so John looked at Sherlock. His hair was a mess and his t-shirt rumpled. He’d clearly been in his pajamas for a while and he’d pulled the blue dressing gown tighter around him as he no doubt felt John’s stare. The blue matched his eyes, John noticed. And so did the grey t-shirt. It was odd, how the colors shifted and changed depending on his mood or what he wore. John had never seen eyes like that before.
“What?” Sherlock asked. Well, almost snarled really.
“Nothing, I just…I never noticed you had green in your eyes before.”
“Does that matter?” Sherlock asked, finally looking at him. His expression was guarded, back to the feigned disinterest and above-it-all attitude.
“It might,” John said. Really, as though his eyes weren’t enough, John was now noticing just how pale his skin really was. He could see the faint line of blue veins beneath the skin on his wrists and neck, the pale lines disappearing beneath the detective’s shirt collar. “Why are you so interested in snogging all of a sudden?” John asked.
“It was your idea to engage in inane chatter,” Sherlock said.
“That didn’t answer my question.”
Sherlock looked away again, but John caught the slight blush on his cheeks.
“Have you really never had…anything?” he asked quietly. He’d never really wanted to know before. Sherlock hadn’t volunteered anything and it didn’t seem relevant. Whatever Sherlock’s romantic past, John didn’t have any intention of forcing information out of him. But now, seeing the detective's obvious interest and discomfort, he couldn’t help but feel a bit pushy. When Sherlock didn’t answer John felt a small pang in his chest. “God, you really haven’t.”
“Never seen the point,” Sherlock said, voice sharp.
“The point? Look, I know you think you’re a sociopath, but you are human, Sherlock. Everyone wants…something.”
“Do they?” Sherlock asked, feigning boredom but not dropping John’s gaze.
“They do,” John said quietly, suddenly finding himself closer to Sherlock. He swallowed hard but didn’t pull back, feeling Sherlock shift a bit, bringing their head’s level but still far enough away.
“How does that feel?” Sherlock said.
“How does what feel?”
“’Something.’”
Sherlock was obviously fighting hard to maintain his pretend disinterest but it was quickly fading away. He seemed to almost unconsciously lean forward, just a fraction, but enough that John was suddenly very aware of just how warm Sherlock’s body was.
And then John was pushing himself closer, practically climbing toward Sherlock. He heard Sherlock’s breath hitch and felt his heart speed up. He forgot that their door was open and that Mrs. Hudson could walk in at any time. He forgot that Lestrade might call back any minute or that Mycroft could probably see everything they were doing. It didn’t seem to matter anymore because the expression on Sherlock’s face, the curiosity and nervousness and hope written across it seemed to make up John’s mind for him. And suddenly he was flush against Sherlock, a hand on the detective’s jaw and lips pressing to lips.
It was a bit odd, kissing Sherlock. Especially because his mind was only just now catching up to what his body was doing. But he felt the warm mouth beneath his own soften and a soft breath blew across his lips as a sigh reached his ears. A tentative hand had risen to his shoulder and he felt his own hand sliding upwards into Sherlock’s ridiculously soft hair. He pulled back a bit, staring down at his flatmate. The surprise written across Sherlock’s face no doubt mirrored on his own.
“Well,” he said, feeling a sudden embarrassment wash through him as he realized what he’d just done. He tried to pull back but the hand on his shoulder held him there and he noticed that his own hand didn’t seem too eager to relinquish its hold on those dark curls.
Sherlock just looked at him, his face somehow smaller though his eyes were blown wide. The swirling blues and greens and greys drew back and he found that Sherlock was moving, shifting so that John was more comfortably settled half on top of him. He hadn’t noticed when Sherlock had slide down the sofa, but he wasn’t exactly complaining with the sudden and wonderfully clear access that he had to Sherlock’s neck. He stopped himself before pressing his lips beneath Sherlock’s jaw, half his brain desperately trying to figure out what had possessed him to do such a thing in the first place and the other cheering him on as though it had a secret agenda he’d only just now discovered.
The detective looked up at him, cautiously lifting his other hand to John’s face. The long fingers practically reached from his hairline to his chin and he found himself leaning into the warmth there. Wrong. It should feel all wrong. He wasn’t gay, he didn’t fancy Sherlock. And yet, here he was, stranded on a couch because his insane flatmate had poured chemicals all over their floor, snogging the very man himself. But it had happened so naturally. Just as he’d said it should.
“That was,” he tried again, looking down at Sherlock.
“Something, John. That was something.”