Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. I will most likely never own it, and I'm glad that I do not. It would be a mess in my hands.
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Warnings: There's gay in it, other than that there's only kissing and some language.
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Author's note: I wrote this quickly and with the prompt "I thought I would never do that again". I don't write a lot of Sherlock, but this isn't my first. Still, be gentle. Reviews are loved.
John Watson had kissed only one boy in his entire life.
It had been at a party when he was seventeen. Being dragged there by one of his best friends at the time already felt like a bad idea, but John didn't have many friends and he felt ridiculous spending his Saturday night studying, so he allowed this one taste of freedom.
He was on his fourth beer after three vodka shots and was proper wasted. He had started out with a beer in his hand, but when the anxiety started causing him to twitch, he decided he could do to knock back a few, if only to dull the headache that was starting to pulsate behind his eyes.
Because of the drink, he didn't protest when his friend pulled him towards a group of twittering teens sitting in a circle.
"Spin the bottle makes talking up a girl so easy, mate." His friend was hurriedly explaining as they took their seats in the circle. John didn't really care as he grinned sloppily at the others in the circle. There were about eight of them, not including the two newcomers. There were five pretty and wasted girls giggling with their rosy cheeks and fuzzy judgement and three other guys who were obviously there for the same reason that John and his friend were.
They didn't even care about the possibility of having to endure a kiss from another male.
John waited patiently for his turn, kissing one sweet looking girl with curly red hair braided down her back. He didn't much care for the kiss, however, and was simply riding the waves of drunkenness.
Suddenly, it was his turn and he sloppily spun the bottle, watching it wobble across the small patch of hardwood until it slowed to a stop in front of a boy with his shoulder-length auburn hair pushed back casually and his light skin barely covered by his slimming black button-up that was not very buttoned-up and his lithe legs folded in front of him.
His light brown eyes landed easily on John, a smile rising on his lips. "This'll be a first." He drawled with a thick Scottish accent. John swallowed thickly as he felt his head nod. Yes, but not a bad first.
They both shrugged submissively and leaned towards the other and John found himself reaching his hand up to clench the other boy's shoulder. It took them twenty seconds over the agreed thirty second minimum to drop their hands and finally part. The Scottish boy flashed a grin and a wink at him before introducing himself as "Roy".
Later that night Roy found John again and pulled him into a nearly empty hallway and they went a good fifteen minutes over the agreed thirty seconds.
John had figured in his hungover haze the next morning that it had been nothing but a drunken mistake and tried to forget the tingling feeling at the pit of his stomach whenever the memory drifted subtly into his thoughts.
He wasn't gay. He knew this, he was certain of it, but then again... he'd really only dated women. However, that stayed the same. He dated only women for the rest of his life.
The thought of Roy and that fifteen minute, thirty second make-out session in the safety of the dim hallway rarely breached his conscious until nearly fifteen years later when he met a certain Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock was definitely not the type John would have pictured himself becoming friends with, and definitely not the type he pictured himself finding attractive in any way shape or form. He had thought, briefly, about what sorts of guys he might have fancied if had turned out gay, and Sherlock didn't even come close to the conclusions he'd made. Still... John couldn't help the odd feeling in the pit of his stomach when he stepped a hair too close to his flatmate, or when the latter would lean precariously close to John when inspecting something over his shoulder or when they had just finished a case and there was that brilliant look on the consulting detective's face that caused something to stir in the pit of John's stomach.
John ignored it all, obviously, in attempt to clip the problem in the bud, but eventually the feelings broke through the wall he'd built and John found himself hopelessly infatuated with this brilliant, idiotic, completely daft man.
It wasn't easy. It still isn't easy, but John tried to deal with it maturely. He looked up websites online, tried to figure out what these things might mean. He read articles about hormones and sexuality and how many men go through brief phases where they question their orientation, but soon it blows over.
It all just blows over.
John waits for it to blow over.
It definitely does not.
In fact, the whole situation starts to get out of hand. John will spot a sliver of skin as Sherlock stretches after a long day of investigation and something nasty will stir within him, something beyond his control. Eventually he starts to distance himself from Sherlock, hoping that the further away he is from his friend, both physically and emotionally, the easier it will be to exterminate this awful feeling he has for Sherlock.
It all was going well until the concerned looks and the feeble attempts at a reconnect made by Sherlock, ignored by John build up into a humongous burst of emotion.
"NO! You have been going out every single night for the past three weeks, John! I am obviously not an idiot, I know there's something wrong!"
John had just announced his departure from 221b, planning on going to the pub or taking a walk, anything to distance himself from Sherlock, when he got brutally attack and was now backed up against a wall, Sherlock metres from him but still dangerously close.
"Sherlock, please, just let me go. Everything's fine, I'm fine. I just need a walk."
Sherlock narrowed his dark eyes, stepping even closer. "You're hiding something. Something important. You know you're going to reveal what it is- no," The consulting detective takes another minuscule step, ignoring Johns sigh of frustration. "No, you're afraid of something else. I can't put my finger on it, though. Perhaps... you're afraid of something you'll do?" The slight twitch in John expression confirms it.
"But what? What could you possibly do to me or the flat? Perhaps you have been contemplating killing or harming me?-"
"Sherlock, this is ridiculous. I'm not going to kill you, now let me go!" John was about to slip past his friend and make a swift escape when Sherlock blocks his exit with an arm only centimetres from John's shoulder.
"Although, I'm sure I could get away with it." He murmured darkly. Sherlock was watching now. He was observing, waiting for John to either crack or reveal something vital. Suddenly, Sherlock's eyebrows flew up and he stepped back a few feet. "Oh." He said, his voice soft. John swallowed thickly before slipping quickly past the other and hurrying down the stairs and into the cool London air.
What did he figure out? Was it the truth? Was it just a fraction of the truth? John was sure he was keeping himself from doing anything too revealing. He was sure of it.
However, when he finally felt the warmth in his cheeks and realised what he'd missed. He was a doctor, he knew the signs. The dilation of the pupils, the body temperature rising, breathing quickening, and; of course, blushing.
Bloody blushing.
He was so close.
After an hour and a half walk and a fifteen minute coffee break, it was almost midnight and John resigned to returning to the flat, knowing he had no where else to go and accepting that he couldn't avoid Sherlock forever.
He climbed the steps up to the lounge, hoping to slip easily up to the next floor and into his room before he was forced to talk about his feelings. However, when John spotted Sherlock with his head in his hands, mumbling something to himself, he realised that this couldn't wait.
"Sherlock?" He murmured, shedding his coat and hanging it up dutifully. The other man raised his head, a forlorn look on his face. "I'm sorry, John."
Sherlock's expression was sincere and regretful. John wondered, bewildered, what on earth Sherlock had to be sorry about.
"I scared you. That's what was it, wasn't it? You're frightened of me, of this lifestyle. You want to go back to normality. This always happens. People pretend not to care for so long until they snap. I'm not easy to live with, I know this. I was waiting for this to happen. I knew it would."
Sherlock sighed deeply, running a hand over his face. "I can-"
"What the bloody fuck?" John exclaimed, suddenly. Sherlock stepped back, surprised. "You really think you frightened me? Sherlock, I wasn't alive until I met you! You are, by far, the best thing that has ever happened to me and you think I want to leave that? Are you bloody mental?"
He gritted his teeth, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. "Sherlock, I'm in love with you. I'm bloody in love with you. There is no way you could ever drive me away."
Then his eyes flew open. Oh.
Sherlock was staring, face blank, a little disappointed, but generally blank. Then, finally, he murmured, "So I was wrong?"
John blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of everything. "Y-yes! Yes you were wrong, you bastard! How could you ever think that I wanted to leave?"
Sherlock gave him an exasperated look. "You spent as little time as possible here. You even took extra hours at the surgery and avoided speaking to me for days on end. What else was I supposed to think? When normal people are attracted to someone, the reaction is dramatically different."
When normal people were? Did Sherlock just call him less then normal? Perhaps that was what John needed, honestly.
"Well, I'm not too normal, am I?" The ex-soldier with a psychosomatic limp and a fetish for danger finally realised that he was definitely not normal, and pretending that he was didn't get him anywhere.
Sherlock smirked minutely, shrugging. "I never really thought you were, John." He said. John laughed at himself, running fingers through his cropped hair.
"So... you're in love with me?" Sherlock questioned tentatively, but there was a hint of amusement behind the words. John's smile fell, along with his mood. "I suppose I did say that, didn't I?" I murmured to himself. Yes. He did.
"Very not-normal of you, John. Being in love with a high-functioning sociopath who also happens to be the only consulting detective on the face of the planet... very abnormal."
John allowed a smile when he noticed that Sherlock purposefully did not mention that he was also a man.
"Yeah, I suppose." John responded lamely, licking his lips as the anxiety started to creep up on him. It was so easy to forget nervousness around Sherlock. He moved so quickly and made it so easy to forget. But now it was sneaking up on him. The reminder that he had just told his best mate that he was in love with him... that was definitely nerve-racking.
Thankfully, Sherlock moved closer to the other, a curious look on his face. "However, I am also abnormal. Perhaps we could make that count for something."
John watched as Sherlock crossed the room, his movement deliberate and hesitant, as if making sure if this was all okay.
Everything is okay, Sherlock.
Finally, they were standing a foot from one another and John took a deep breath as he felt a hand tentatively placed itself against the crook of his neck and slowly started to stroke the skin there. "John, I have a confession." Sherlock said softly, his voice shaking.
"I am a sociopath... but you seem to have defied even that about me, amongst most other things. You are my exception, as I hope I am yours."
John blinked again, looking up at his friend, his flatmate, his detective and for the first time he saw doubt there, a shimmer on the surface of those beautiful azure eyes that suggested honest uncertainty and hope.
John smiled, sighing as he reached his hand up to touch the one on his neck. He watched as emotions flickered across the other's face, rejection, sadness, sadness, then as John brushed his thumb across knuckles, the hope returned.
"Amazingly, you are my exception." He said, finally, moving closer in an awkward shuffle, resting his head against the other's shoulder. He wasn't sure what to do, but when he felt the hand move from his neck to his shoulder and back as it traced comforting shapes and another encircle his waist, bringing him closer, he realised that he didn't have to know. He hugged Sherlock. For the first time, he wrapped his arms around the man's shoulders and he squeezed, a grin pulling on his lips. Being this close was so nice, it overwhelmed him. The feeling of fingers on his skin and a breath on his neck and warmth that is not his own... it was what he was missing.
They pulled away, finally. The proceeding moments were slightly awkward as they both tried to figure out what they were supposed to do next, and as they both reached to touch the other's face or neck or chest... they realised that nothing needed to happen. It would happen as it was meant to. Sherlock bent down minutely to plant a very chaste kiss on his flatmate's cheek before hugging him once more and retreating to his room, leaving John standing in front of the couch, a bit confused but completely sated. Something satisfied and happy. Truly happy. It was comforting to know that, as he lowered himself into his bed that finally going to sleep happy.
He had convinced himself that he would never kiss another boy again. He still hadn't but he wasn't sure how long that would last, and he definitely never thought that he would ever be kissing Sherlock Holmes.
It seems, as he heard a knock on his door and a slim figure slipped inside, that he thought completely wrong.
That night, John had kissed two boys in his entire life, and he was sure it would stay that way.