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You See, You Just Don’t Observe!
John Watson was truly, obviously, and 100% heterosexual. Except for this moment in which John Watson realised that he was truly, obviously, and 100% in love with his insufferable prat of a flatmate. His insufferable flatmate who was married to his work. His flatmate who couldn't possibly ever reciprocate his emotions. Of course, John hadn’t noticed his affections for Sherlock until they became glaringly obvious; John had accidentally caught himself staring at Sherlock’s hair on one of their cases last week. Oh, how John just wanted to card his fingers through those black-as-night curls. John sighed and leaned back onto the sofa, staring up at the ceiling, silently questioning whatever cruel god chose to play tricks on him.
Sherlock was out doing god-knows-what. It wouldn't surprise John if Sherlock walked into the flat covered in mud and blood and some sort of odd organic material. He huffed a breathy chuckle, thinking of last week when Sherlock came in covered in potting soil. He had given John a quick sideways glance as if to say, "please don't ask" before shuffling into the bathroom to clean off, leaving John with a trail of soil to sweep up. No matter what Sherlock did or how much trouble he got himself into, John didn't question him. His behaviour was just...Sherlock being, well, Sherlock. John wouldn't have it any other way.
Sherlock was always nosing his way into John’s personal space. At first it was odd, but as things progressed, John looked forward to the touch. Whether it was a hand to pull him in the right direction, or a tap on the shoulder to wake him up from an accidental nap on the sofa, Sherlock was just…there. Without Sherlock, John worried constantly, although he worried about the same amount when Sherlock was around, with the amount of trouble he got himself into on a daily basis.
John soon grew tired of looking up at the drab beige ceiling and decided to do something at least slightly productive. After tidying up the living room area and attempting to organise Sherlock's mountains of dishevelled paperwork, John decided to do something else to keep his mind occupied. John gave up on the monstrous piles of casework files and made himself a cup of chamomile before grabbing his laptop from Sherlock's desk; it had been ‘borrowed’ yet again. John sat in Sherlock’s favourite chair, drumming his fingers on the armrest in a slow rhythm as his computer started up. Hell, without Sherlock barking at him incessantly, he may actually get a chance to blog quietly for a change. John knew better, of course. He’d grown accustomed to Sherlock’s mannerisms…or lack of.
Sipping lightly on his tea, John opened up his blog and began working on a new entry—not one of his usual posts, no. Something deeper, something more. John began typing at a leisurely pace, his hands moving across black keys with a steady click-clack-click as his fingers tapped out the words in his mind. Suddenly, John got an idea. Now, the normal John Watson would not normally be so nervous about telling someone he was romantically interested in them, but this was fucking Sherlock Holmes he had fallen for, and how on this bloody earth could he possibly explain his emotions to that man, of all people? He picked up his mobile.
When is your ETA? Urgent. –JW
Five minutes passed. Sherlock was probably just busy. He’ll reply soon, John thought. Ten minutes. This wasn’t like Sherlock. Sherlock was always punctual. After fifteen minutes passed, John began to worry about Sherlock more so than usual. He checked his phone once, twice, three times, just to make sure he didn’t miss anything. He stood up to put on some proper footwear and go look for the man when the door suddenly clicked and creaked open, revealing a rather stressed-looking Sherlock Holmes, leaning heavily against the doorframe.
“John?” Sherlock inquired, stepping into the flat, peering his head around the corner. “John, are you all right? Where are you?” He made his way to John’s bedroom. The door was ajar, but nobody was inside. The bathroom was unoccupied. Sherlock walked to the kitchen…empty. That left only one possible explanation for the brilliant detective, and it certainly piqued his curiosity. John Watson was in his bedroom.
“In here, Sherlock.” John stated nonchalantly as Sherlock made his way into the room. “Find anything interesting today?” he asked. John tried his best to hold his ground, to act normal, to just be the John Watson that Sherlock was used to. His body said ‘John,’ but his rapidly beating heart said ‘nervous teenager.’
Sherlock cocked a brow. “Nothing in particular, other than coming home to find you in my bedroom. Care to explain?” he questioned, removing his gloves and tossing them onto his bedside table. Next, he began to unbutton his coat, so agonizingly slowly that John had to fight back a growl. He tossed his coat on the back of an old, dusty wooden chair beside the bedroom door that clearly hadn’t been used in at least two months.
John mentally scolded himself for being a total idiot. There was no backing out of this now. “I propose an experiment.” he stated matter-of-factly. Sherlock’s eyes brightened considerably at this offer, but immediately his brilliant mind began to work and his brows furrowed together.
“What kind of experiment, John?” Sherlock countered. He stepped forward, trying to deduce what John had on his mind at the moment. John just smirked. Not even the great Sherlock Holmes could possibly guess what was going on in that incredibly ‘vapid’ brain of his.
“Just promise me you won’t kick me out, all right? After all, you said yourself you need your blogger.” John chuckled. If Sherlock wasn’t interested before, he sure as hell was now. Sherlock smiled that devilishly entrancing smile of his, the corners of his lips tugging upward into a light smirk.
Sherlock nodded in silent agreement and cracked his knuckles. “You have my word, John. What’s the experiment? Let’s get to it, shall we?”
John stepped forward. “Okay, close your eyes.” John had turned a rather fetching shade of pink, from the tips of his ears to the ends of his toes. Here goes everything, John thought. Sherlock closed his eyes, albeit hesitantly, and stood still while John composed himself.
“John?” Sherlock chimed, eyes still closed, as if saying, Get on with it already! John cleared his throat nervously and stepped forward. He could feel Sherlock’s breath ghosting over him. John quickly gathered all the courage he had stored in his body and surged forward, cupping Sherlock’s face and kissing him quickly, yet softly, on the mouth before stepping back, face braced into a tight wince as if expecting a blow to the head.
Sherlock opened his eyes, wide with shock, trying to comprehend what had just happened. He blinked again and again and again before finally remembering how to speak.
“John—what the hell was that?” Sherlock sputtered, bringing a hand to his lips. The world’s most brilliant man had no idea what to say. Dr John Watson had left him absolutely speechless. The man who could expect anything and everything to happen had never in his life seen this coming.
Oh, shit. John thought. “I’m—I’m sorry, Sherlock.” he sighed. “I knew this was a horrid idea. Just delete it, please.” John walked as fast as he could without running and sat on the edge of the sofa in the living room. Shit, shit, shit. This was not good. He lived with the man, for Christ’s sake.
Sherlock followed almost immediately. “You didn’t answer me, John.” he said calmly. “Answer the question. What was that?”
“A stupid decision, obviously.” John spat. “Please, Sherlock, for the love of God, I know you’re married to your work and all that, I just…I’ve wanted to do that for a very long time, okay?! So kindly forget it ever happened. I’m sorry.”
Sherlock laughed, he fucking laughed and walked over to John, standing in front of the couch, his tall form looming over John’s smaller form. “It was an experiment, correct?”
John looked at him quizzically. “Pardon?”
“John, you of all people know that experiments are a matter of trial and error. Obviously, that resulted in an error. Don’t you think you should try again, John? For science.”
What had Sherlock just said? John had to be dreaming. Surely Sherlock had actually punched him in the face and he was now lying unconscious and this was all some sick, lovely, twisted dream. The real Sherlock Holmes would have stalked off to do something useful with his life, not stick around with a stupid blogger who had been pining over him for the past year.
“John.” Sherlock snapped him back into reality. “Apparently you need someone to assist you with this experiment. Stand up.”
As soon as he was on his feet, Sherlock grabbed him by the jumper and pulled him into a bruising kiss. It took John a moment for his brain and his body to catch up with each other. Sherlock Holmes was kissing him, hot and needy. Sherlock Holmes was actually kissing him. John grabbed that stupid purple shirt and tugged him closer, their bodies flush against each other. It wasn’t perfect, clashes of tongue and teeth, but it was oh-so-lovely and everything John had ever wanted. It was Sherlock who parted first, leaving both of them breathing heavily with swollen lips and dishevelled clothing.
“Brilliant,” Sherlock sighed. “I’d say that was a success, wouldn’t you?” He plopped down on the couch with a thump and motioned for John to join him. John sat beside him and Sherlock huddled close, nuzzling at his side like a goddamned cat. By gracious, Sherlock Holmes was a cuddler. And John wouldn’t have it any other way.