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Sherlock was never too stellar at sports, he knew that much.
Sure, he was a relatively athletic-looking type of guy, but would not go out of his way to participate in a sports event during Uni or any point before it whatsoever.
Baseball was a frequent fixture for most of his peers during that time, for some reason.
And, while he was never great, he worked well enough as a replacement for any injured players (if he felt like making himself available).
He had relative knowledge on the topic of baseball as a topic and nothing more — hello, he was Sherlock bloody Holmes — but his further 'education', if one wishes to call it such, didn't come until a bit later.
With the 'first base' kind of slang and everything.
John Watson, many years later, turned out to be attractive enough to the point where Sherlock wanted to try going for—not just a first base or a second base, but a home run.
The first time was an odd coincidence, he told himself (to no avail).
He knew — as well as Mycroft did in the premises of his pristine Mind Palace — that the universe was rarely so lazy as to make those a thing. After all, he and his flatmate had been living together for... what, just shy of two months now?
But Sherlock was still upset.
It had been an entire night of rummaging through boxes upon boxes filled to the brim with books that belonged to Brian and Edward, victims of a killer capable of at least some acrobatic-esque acts, desperately seeking the connecting link between them and whatever what they stole from China was (and, by extension, the group that hired them to bring these artefacts to England in the first place).
So when the morning had now become obvious through the curtains and John — the aforementioned flatmate — had just returned from a drowsy day at work, Sherlock only leaned his head forward as his elbows were propped up on a stack of the boxes and ruffled through his hair in a swift motion.
John had barely gotten far enough inside the room when Sherlock spoke up. "I need to get some air, we're going out tonight."
Sherlock then put his arms on his hips and turned to face the other way. John replied casually, dismissing what his flatmate just said. "Actually, I've... er—I've got a date."
Sherlock was still facing the window, but he immediately turned back to look at John and squinted his eyes. "What?"
"It's where two people who like each other go out and have fun."
Sherlock's gaze flickered to the side for a moment before pinning itself back onto John. "That's what I was suggesting."
John had a smile on his face, the annoyingly smug kind. "No, it wasn't," he firmly replied. "At least, I hope not," he added with absolutely no reason to believe Sherlock wouldn't be affected.
Oh, but he absolutely bloody was.
He had never felt this way for anyone, had never even attempted to pursue a romantic connection with anyone from either school or Uni, and now this man was almost making him go feral for the experience of those sensations alone.
That day, at the diner, Sherlock saw right through John and how he was basically throwing himself at him. Explicitly told him girlfriends were 'not his area', but did not claim that when men were brought up; a subtle invitation to allow John to entertain the thought that Sherlock is absolutely, 100%, not a straight man.
"Could've made for a decent invitation to proceed flirting with me as well, if he improved his approach," he reprimanded himself afterwards—when he realised his feelings for John went far beyond the platonic boundary.
The very moment he looked at John while explaining to Lestrade what traits the shooter they were looking for had, he instantly knew he was irreversibly, and irrevocably, attracted to John. He was a fascinating example of how stellar exceptions can be, and Sherlock had seen next to none his entire life.
He was so... normal and ordinary at first, or so Sherlock thought; but then the two months of cohabitation passed and Sherlock found himself growing more and more fond of his flatmate.
What to say, though? Two months is usually considered too early of a time to begin a romantic relationship, according to random information he got for a case a while ago and had since forgotten to delete (perhaps it was convenient at that moment, that it hadn't reached the bin yet)—much less with a man so set on telling everyone how probably straight he is that Sherlock will definitely see it in his dreams the next time he sleeps... whenever that is.
So, he decided to suck it up (whether to applaud himself for the unintentionally — yet appropriately — placed sexual innuendo or cringe at the idea of sentiment plaguing him, he didn't know) and instead give his flatmate dating advice for a woman he would probably find boring.
Not like he was wrong.
Sherlock just sighed. "Where are you taking her?"
"Er, cinema," John replied.
"Oh, dull, boring, predictable," Sherlock spoke, each word leaving his mouth with more bitterness than the last. He then turned around to the bookshelf behind him, snatched up a piece of a poster he had ripped off of an alleyway a while ago and handed it to John.
He tried his best not to focus on the way their fingers brushed momentarily ("Hands still damp by the way he washed them at the clinic, the air was too cold to allow them to dry fully, wonder what they'd feel like enclosed around my own," he deduced by himself involuntarily) and spoke again, this time with a breezy softness to his voice. "Why don't you try this? In London, for one night only."
John looked at what Sherlock gave him and vaguely recalled the circus advert on the wall, huffing out a nervous laugh to himself. "Thanks, but I don't come to you for dating advice."
If only he did.
The two of them broke up a while later.
Sherlock, while never voicing it, was more than relieved. Not just because of his... interest, he reminded himself, but also because having her in the flat was getting bothersome. Thank God they never got to shag.
Not like Sherlock wants to imagine John shagging Sarah. Or him. Or anyone else, for that matter. Women are a foreign concept to him at this point.
But then John just went for another one...
Seriously, was he never drained? Sherlock had even tried to take up more cases than usual to distract him, but he barely budged away from her—for God's sake, he even made her tag along for a case once! Without being threatened by a Chinese general/drug lord!
Sherlock was both grateful and utterly pissed that the case was tame and involved no smuggler gang with sharp objects this time.
The first one's name was Sarah, yes, and Sherlock had barely held on to it—only decided to keep it because he, admittedly, didn't find her so bad. She was still annoying, but he omitted that fact in favor of her assistance in cracking the code for that case.
Though the second one, he couldn't quite care enough to recall. She had a ton of brown spots across her face though, that much he could remember.
Now, John and that spotted girlfriend of his had gone out on some boring date in some boring restaurant of some kind, and Sherlock was left there to sulk.
He lay on the sofa, surprisingly calm and collected for a night without any cases (he had snuck out to smoke a cigarette or two earlier), hands joined under his chin as his eyes remained shut tightly for hours on end.
Sherlock wandered around the halls of his Mind Palace, checking for anything that could interest him right now—he would otherwise crash the date a second time, like he did with Sarah (which, ironically, proved to be useful!) if John hadn't been so adamant about keeping this one.
She wasn't completely unattractive; tall, intelligent... enough, dark hair, with the kind of blue eyes that stare daggers into you even with unfocused glances. Peach-coloured lips, tan-ish skin, pronounced cheekbones, and criminally fashionable—by the average British man's standards, the perfect woman.
Again, Sherlock didn't see the appeal. Comprehended why it's there, sure, but did not indulge himself. Not like he had to wonder why.
He shook his head minutely, not willing to think about John and his date at the moment. He focused on the task at hand; looking for a better distraction. In his Mind Palace, he looked through a bunch of newspapers with headlines oddly similar to John's blog entry titles, sighing out loud at the second pointer to his flatmate.
He opened his eyes, staring straight at the lamp above. Squinted for a bit at the brightness, then closed them again. "Think of anything eloquently distracting," he whispered resolutely.
Mycroft's baby pictures (made himself chuckle effortlessly), Mrs Hudson's joyful expression whenever she brings them tea (put a fond smile on his face), Lestrade's annoyed expression when Sherlock and Anderson quarreled (temporarily made him laugh, but then Anderson registered in his head and his face instantly fell to a frown), John's priceless grin as he watched them argue over nothing...
...Left him groaning as he buried his face in his hands.
Sherlock rolled around in the sofa, now lying on his side and wrapping his blue dressing gown right around him.
Did he have to make a list? He had to make a list.
He closed his eyes once more, now mentally writing down a list on a small piece of paper with a black pen.
Effective Distractions:
- A fresh case for him to solve (always).
- Tea (not always).
- Nicotine patches (oh, how he missed those).
- His brother (dear Lord above).
- Telly.
- His cellphone.
- Cigarettes.
Before writing the eighth one down, he contemplated if it was even justified to write it at all.
He wrote it anyway.
8. John Watson (even more than drugs).
The most frustrating part about it all was how Sherlock wasn't even able to pinpoint exactly what it was that made John Watson so distracting; he was as ordinary as it gets.
Except that he wasn't. He killed a man for Sherlock a day after they met. Aggressively defended his not being homosexual after almost eye-fucking him ("oh, who am I kidding, we're both guilty of that.") and openly tolerated him when everyone else didn't.
Even toleration was a massive improvement in his book.
And, though it started off innocent enough (with imagery of John in many of their previous situations), it escalated to an extent that Sherlock could never expect.
It gradually shifted from John looking at him fondly after calling him an idiot after shooting down the cabbie and John staring at him (while also glancing just barely at Sherlock's lips) during the drugs bust to... to...
Could Sherlock even describe this?
"Completely acceptably, yes," he told himself out loud as if trying to dispel the thoughts. Of course, John's always been the romantic one—Sherlock's a man of laconic ways, would never sprinkle unnecessary epithets and descriptors into literally anything. Fucking hell, he'd probably go as far as to call sex 'copulation'.
Safe to say, his mind was now sufficiently stimulated to get over the fact John had left him for a date again.
His lower half told a different story.
"Hoo-hoo!" A cheery voice and a small knock at the door resounded in the room, accompanied by footsteps.
Sherlock was pacing around, too focused on the case at hand to even acknowledge the lady walking in.
"Busy with another murder, dear?" Mrs Hudson spoke fondly as she made her way to the kitchen and left some shopping bags at the counter (table was full of chemical equipment, as per usual).
"Never a dull moment when criminality decides to make an entrance, Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock exclaimed, not ceasing his pacing, but visibly excited to have someone to talk to about it.
"Of course, dear," she waved her hand as she emptied the bags. "Oh, where's John? Not here tonight? You didn't have another domestic, did you?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John's too busy snogging a woman with a nose far too big for her face at her flat, I wouldn't mention him right now."
Mrs Hudson only smiled. Would laugh, but she knows how defensive Sherlock gets when people laugh at him; even with the sincerest of intentions. "I hope he comes back soon, I can't stand seeing you like this!"
"Like what?" Sherlock inquired with a dramatic turn towards her, face contorting so now confusion shines through. And then back to the mirror he looked, where he then looked frustrated at his own confusion.
"All... pent up and ready to shoot up the wall again!" Mrs Hudson scolded, but not before putting a hand on her hip and pointing vaguely at the wall with her free hand.
"...Pent up?" he asked himself, completely dismissing the second part. "Pent up? Why would I be pent up?"
Apparently, the thought was expressed out loud, because Mrs Hudson actually answered that question. "Well, Sherlock, the two of you have been busy with cases left and right! Surely you need time to... unwind...?"
Sherlock groaned at the implications, but made no effort to correct her like John would. He had stopped pacing at that point, instead stepping over the coffee table and sitting down on his leather armchair rather unceremoniously.
He then propped his left elbow on its arm, placing his fingers right under his cheekbone and tapping them on his face in a melody resembling Bach, perhaps.
"That's precisely why he's at a woman's flat, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock curtly told her. "He wants to, as you so intelligently put it, unwind."
"Oh, you don't have to be so jealous, dear!" she had just finished placing everything in its place, picked up the now empty bags with one hand, and walked over to Sherlock. "John's just distracting himself, I'm sure."
"From what? His uncontrollable urge to pin me to the wall and shag me into oblivion? Don't be ridiculous, Hudders," Sherlock spoke bitterly with a roll of his eyes.
Mrs Hudson shook her head. "You two only need to talk it out and you'll be perfectly alright. Heading downstairs now," she added as she turned around and went for the door, "Connie Prince's makeover show is on the telly and I can't miss this episode!"
Sherlock said goodbye in some way insignificant enough for him to not even remember it a few seconds later, and then sunk back into his own thoughts.
This... desperation of John's to get some action, any action, was almost enough to make Sherlock laugh. Not like he had any better reactions than that.
John keeps correcting whoever assumes he and Sherlock are a couple, and... well, they both know the relationship between them is purely platonic ("for now," Sherlock's mind added viciously).
Besides, as a man (and a gay man at that), he was not afraid to admit that John was... indeed quite attractive. He loved getting him irritated on purpose, too; probably his favourite thing in the world.
He had gotten used to having the most straightforward of thoughts. Needed for the job as well, can't help it—he's been like this since he was a wee little lad.
But with John, it was different. It's always different with him. Something about those deep blue eyes, that blond hair touched by the greys of early aging, the tan face, and then the posture... oh God above, that firm posture and the strength of his body...
Sherlock may or may not have had a thing for soldiers for a while now. There was one occasion when he was still a tween and his mother caught him snooping around her magazines. She was fully expecting him to be looking for those particular ones with the female models in revealing swimsuits, but he went for those with the soldiers.
The very clearly male soldiers, with the shirtless men posing for a cheesy photograph together and whatnot.
They had a very awkward conversation after that. Worst twenty minutes of his life, and he was incredibly thankful to have been able to delete them after he found out how.
Even at that moment, where Sherlock sat adamantly on the black leather, thinking about anything even remotely related to John Watson was too overwhelming for him.
He couldn't help but wonder further; would he be soft with him, or would he exhibit bouts of possessiveness and go incredibly hard on him in an intimate scenario? Would he make any noise at all, or refrain from it? Would he be submissive or would he... give commands?
Shit. And now Sherlock needed a cold shower.
Suddenly, he was very glad John wasn't home.
The Christmas party several months later was diabolically boring. As was the case with practically any holiday, Sherlock told himself, but he digressed.
He sighed in exasperation as he delicately put his violin back in the case after a rather unremarkable performance of a carol, smiling with himself after Mrs Hudson made that comment about wishing he wore the antlers.
John was chatting with Lestrade before eventually handing Mrs Hudson a cup of tea, assumedly to tone her down. "Mrs H," he acknowledged as she took it gratefully.
Another woman came up to Sherlock, holding a tray with mince pies and some slices of cake—something akin to a resting bitch face exemplifying her mood.
Sherlock was aware of her approaching him, but made no move to take anything from the tray. In spite of that, he spoke with the most polite tone he could muster. "No, thank you, Sarah."
The woman immediately soured, but John came up behind her nervously, put an arm around her and scrambled to patch up the mistake. "Uh, no, no, no, no, no. He’s not good with names."
"No-no-no, I can get this," Sherlock quickly replied.
The woman put the tray down and straightened her posture, folding her arms and practically glaring at Sherlock.
Clearly, she was not the only one who didn't want to be here today.
Still, Sherlock ignored the foul look directed his way. "No, Sarah was the doctor; and then there was the one with the spots, and then the one with the nose, and then... who was after the boring teacher?"
"Nobody," the boring teacher replied curtly.
"Jeanette!" Sherlock huffed, flashing a fake grin at her. "Ah, process of elimination."
John awkwardly shepherded her away, and Sherlock was left there alone again. Strength he used to distance her aside ("I wouldn't mind those hands on me right now if it means distracting me from this pathetic excuse of a get-together," he aptly thought to himself), he was yet again left dissatisfied with John's tendency to get a girlfriend at seemingly impossible speeds.
Even Fast & Furious movies released less frequently than John got romantic partners, and Sherlock had to bite back a sigh of annoyance at the surprisingly accurate comparison ("only accurate in an ironic way, but hyperbole tends to work in my favor."), thankfully missed by everyone else.
They had also met Irene Adler a few months before, much to John's dismay—at least, when it came to the texts she sent Sherlock.
Not to mention the ghastly sound that played any time Sherlock received those. He never replied, never quite saw a reason to. Didn't really care enough to even seek out a reason.
By that point, it had already been a year and a half since Sherlock and John moved in together, and Sherlock's feelings for John — though he was certain would eventually dissipate — only grew stronger.
It was a nightmare.
Any time he even looked at John or thought of him, he risked being derailed from any task at hand in an instant. It got worse whenever they had a case together, as well—Jim Moriarty proved to be more trouble than either of them thought, and Sherlock's mind couldn't help but wander while he took off that bloody explosive-covered vest John was shoved into.
"You, ripping my clothes off in a swimming pool—people might talk," he had said, sitting on the floor with his back against a pillar and his jacket lopsided on one shoulder.
"People do little else," Sherlock breathed, and the two stared at each other vacantly for a moment before just laughing softly.
That fond look they both shared almost felt intimate. He was sure he could scare off Moriarty if he just made those eyes at John the whole time, but then realised that'd make him a bigger threat than he already was.
"Sherlock? You alright?"
"Oh, what?" he murmured, shaking his head slightly to bring himself back to reality.
"Molly's here," John replied, eyes boring right into Sherlock's with that kind of attitude that said he was not too willing to deal with any spontaneous deductions later. "Might as well say what you have to, yeah?"
Sherlock sighed, turned around to face Molly — who had just walked in and hadn't even taken her coat off yet — and proceeded with the festivities as if nothing happened.
All he knew for now was to expect a text from Irene Adler and that he absolutely did not like Jeanette very much. He was patiently awaiting their eventual separation, as he did with every single one of John's girlfriends so far.
Also noted he'd likely retire to his room earlier than usual.
The stern face John made when calling for him to greet Molly manifested some twitching below and he was not very eager to deal with it.
But it is what it is.
At least he'd have a mental image or two to help this time...
Sherlock was pent up. Possibly.
It was a chilly morning around the end of February, the gentle touch of spring was just around the corner, and Sherlock found himself tense.
Mycroft had visited — of course he'd take the opportunity to the moment John wasn't home — and, surprisingly, had no case this time around.
"I'm here to see you, brother mine," Mycroft spoke in that velvet tone of his as he sat on John's armchair ("note to self: sanitise anything my brother touches that belongs to John.") and crossed his legs. "Are you that surprised by my display of familial affection?"
"Yes," Sherlock replied effortlessly, sat comfortably in his own armchair, "I am. You never do that unless you're oddly desperate to convince me to take another case that is of, as you claim, national importance."
Mycroft did not miss the seething irony in his brother's speech, yet chose to ignore it. "I only wanted to check on you, Sherlock."
Sherlock brought his hands under his chin. "Why?"
Mycroft hesitated; a rare occurrence. "I think you may be more susceptible to emotion than I expected."
Sherlock remained silent for a bit. Tried to speak up a few seconds later, but his brother got to it before him. "John Watson. A great man, isn't he?"
He froze. Whenever Mycroft began a line of questioning like that, it usually meant it would end in interrogation, humiliation or both.
Sherlock could already see the latter coming from a mile away, and ensured to stop it in its tracks. "What are you trying to do exactly? I'm not a child anymore, Mycroft. I won't fall for your nonsense."
"This is no nonsensical matter, little brother," Mycroft replied with that fake smile he loves using. "I'm only ensuring I'll be there before you make a mistake."
Sherlock was still upset even after Mycroft left a few minutes later, and it was almost nighttime now. John had been out the entire day, working or whatever he said he was doing.
Sherlock could only pray to the deities he didn't believe in that John was not attempting to get another woman in his pants. It had been a while since he broke up with Jeanette ("again, it was inevitable.") and Sherlock wanted to actually let John know how he felt this time.
With the imminent threat of Moriarty probably attempting something soon, Sherlock wanted to get to it quickly—especially after he found out John most likely felt the same way since that day he followed him out and overheard his conversation with Irene Adler.
Even after hours had passed, Sherlock remained still in his armchair. Only his position itself had changed; he had sat on the top of the armchair, feet where his bottom would supposedly be and elbows propped up on his knees. His hands remained in front of his face the entire time, and his eyes were fixated on the door.
He waited—no, anticipated John's return. He had been waiting too long for this and was probably incapable of suppressing it any longer.
"Everything else is transport my arse," he scolded himself mentally. And he was about to go further, but finally—fucking finally, that blasted front door opened and in came John.
Sherlock instantly jumped up from the armchair, walking towards John and leaving little distance between them. "Where have you been all day?"
John raised his eyebrows in surprise, but backed up quickly. "Evening to you too," he spoke lightly with a would-be laugh. He then headed towards the kitchen, opening the fridge and not even reacting to the severed foot in there. "I was out for a pint with Stamford, I told you that earlier."
Sherlock paused in his tracks, vexation temporarily vanishing. "You did?"
"I did," John replied as he closed the fridge, turning his attention to Sherlock again. "Not my fault you weren't listening."
Sherlock grumbled something under his breath, looking away for a few seconds. He looked back at John, and their eyes suddenly were unable to move anywhere else.
Led along by his second head and not the one with the actual brain in it, Sherlock took a step toward the kitchen. And another. And another.
John somehow remained still, face surprisingly relaxed when Sherlock eventually got close enough to be able to feel his breaths ("Short, rapid, hot—he clearly doesn't have a partner this time around to relieve himself, and the small distance between us is now making him tense.")
"What are you doing?" John asked calmly, eyes glancing down at Sherlock's lips several times.
Sherlock caught the gesture, and then proceeded to mirror it. He licked his lips, too, and John caught that in turn. "What?" he asked back in a daze.
"Jesus Christ—"
"Not quite," Sherlock breathed with a sly grin.
"Don't make that joke again—don't you know of boundaries?" John muttered.
"I know they exist," he said as if listing out reasons for why couples divorce, "and I know I'm currently not respecting them."
"Exactly," John retaliated, already moving away with backward steps. "There you are, you answered it yourself, now just—"
John tried to move fast, having already turned around as he spoke, but Sherlock managed to be faster and gripped John's arm seemingly at light's pace. "I also know you never actually minded my being that close to you."
John turned his head around, glaring daggers at his flatmate. "Oh, really? What else are you going to deduce?—"
Sherlock interrupted John once again. "That I wanted to kiss you."
This time John was completely fucking speechless. "What?"
"You heard me, John, and you know how much I hate pointlessly repeating what I've just said," Sherlock pointedly replied with an eye roll that was almost audible in its force.
John then turned around entirely, Sherlock's hand still gripping his arm (and the skin below his jumper absolutely and positively burning). "What—" he hesitated; a rare occurrence, though much more commonplace in a context as intimate as this. "I... what makes you think I wanted it too?"
"Come on, John," Sherlock scoffed at John's vain deflection. "You've been eyeing me as if I'm a past girlfriend of yours since before you met any of them. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you're probably not as heterosexual as you like telling me," he added snarkily with one of those devilish grins that came up whenever he was in, as John put it, his more 'impish moods'.
"That's—"
"Not to mention the constant glances at my lips whenever I talk, or sometimes when I don't talk at all, the studies of my wrists whenever we're seated in the cab — plus the accidental brushes of thighs which always got a jolt out of you — and the very insistent staring into my eyes. I'll admit, I've indulged myself numerous times too," Sherlock mused, "but you've been found guilty far more often than I have."
John didn't even know how to respond to that. There the two were, Sherlock's baritone still lingering in the air, Sherlock's hand still on John's arm (though John could swear it moved higher, near the shoulder), blue staring into blue and hot breaths mingling with one another.
"So, what do you say, Doctor?" Sherlock's voice had dropped to a tense whisper. His head reached the side of John's, lips brushing just barely against John's earlobe. "Up for some field testing?"
Sherlock didn't even get a verbal response as John quickly shoved his hand down Sherlock's nape and brought him to his level to kiss the living daylight out of him.
And as their heads tilted to a more extreme angle, their kiss accommodating lips and tongue and teeth, neither needed to confess their love verbally (at least, not yet; the sloppy confessions didn't come until during or after sex most of the time).
And there, in the middle of the kitchen of all places, Sherlock finally came to a conclusion and proudly announced this case as closed:
He'd finally get a home run he was able to boast of.