A/N: I've had this idea for a while, and I was finally able to write it. I have loved Johnlock since I watched the first episode. I hope I was able to do the ship justice and that you all like it. Please read, review, and enjoy!

Betaed by the amazing Blood-Sucker-1428! Thank you so much for all your help! I can't tell you how much it means to me!

Disclaimer: I obviously don't own Sherlock. I'm not Steven Moffat or Mark Gatiss.

"Everyone," the conductor tapped his baton on his stand. The talking and playing of the musicians in the orchestra gradually decreased until the concert hall was completely silent. "We have a new addition to our orchestra. Please make him welcome." He pointed to the sandy haired man standing just off to the side of the room, trying not to call too much attention to himself. His instrument and bow were held with one hand, and the other a metal cane to help him walk. He was shorter in stature, but his stance and haircut spoke of a military background, if you knew what to look for.

"Uh, hello," the blonde haired man said. "The name's John Watson. And, uh, I play the cello." Someone scoffed and John scanned the room, trying to find the culprit. His eyes caught on the man sitting in the first violin place and he forgot about his quest.

John's mouth dropped open slightly as he took in the man's appearance. He had always insisted to his colleagues that he was 'not gay', but this man made John's heart jump into his throat. He had black, curly hair that the cellist wanted to run his fingers through. The next feature that John noticed was the man's eyes. He would swear they were an ice blue, but when the dark haired man turned to talk to his stand partner, they became gray or green. His lips were full and lush, and John wouldn't admit it, but he would bet that they were soft. He wanted to… No! He wasn't going to think about those kinds of things.

The dark haired man turned towards John and their eyes met. The cellist sucked in a sharp breath. Now that those eyes were focused on him, he noticed how carefully calculating they were. They seemed to see through John in an instant.

Suddenly someone cleared their throat, and John was broken out of his trance. The conductor was staring at him expectantly.

"I'm sorry?" John asked. He hadn't heard a single word that the conductor had said.

"Please take your seat Mr. Watson," the conductor responded. John nodded, using his cane to walk to the back of the cello section where there was an open chair. The woman sitting next to him acknowledged his presence before returning to her conversation with the people in front of them. John set his bow on the stand, and his rock stop on the floor. He then extended his cello's end pin, placing it inside the rock stop. He tightened his bow next, also putting a coat of rosin on the delicate horse hair.

The conductor tapped his baton on his stand again to gain the whole orchestra's attention. "Your section leaders will be passing back a new piece for our group to sight read today. It's called Serenade for Strings in C Major, composed by Tchaikovsky. Just one per stand please. You'll be handing them back at the end of our time together today." The conductor handed out the music to the sections, and John quickly got a copy for him and his stand partner to use.

The piece looked relatively simple to the cellist, but he fingered through the notes before even putting his bow to the strings. After he was finished with that he began playing the piece with his bow. He let himself get lost in the notes, the outside world fading away. John always loved to play his cello. It was a way for him to escape from the real world and forget his troubles for a while.

When the last notes had faded out of existence, John realized that he had an audience. The dark haired man stood a short distance from John's place at the back of the orchestra, his gaze fixed on John. The violinist was taller than John had originally thought. He held his violin under his left arm, his bow no where in sight. John figured he must have left it back at his own stand. The cellist glanced at his music, then back at the violinist.

"Can I help you?" John asked the dark haired man, his heart stuttering in his chest. He was right there. Dark blue eyes met blue/gray/green ones but the dark haired man still didn't say a word. "It's rude to stare at people like that you know."

"Not good?" The dark haired man asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Bit not good," John replied.

The violinist nodded once. "The name's Sherlock Holmes." It was a name John had heard mentioned in the papers before. All the critics raved about his abilities on the violin.

"John Watson," he stuck the hand that wasn't holding the neck of his instrument out for the other man to shake. Sherlock did.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something in return, but was interrupted by a gray haired man who John identified as the violinist's stand partner. "Hey Sherlock," he said. "The conductor wants to start practice. Come sit down."

"Graham," Sherlock acknowledged, causing the gray haired man to sigh loudly.

"It's Greg," he said gruffly. His voice was harsh, but there was a fondness in his eyes when he looked at Sherlock. "Not that you care enough to remember." Greg turned to John and they shook hands. "Nice to meet you. The name's Greg Lestrade. Sherlock just likes to pretend that he doesn't know it to try and annoy me." The violinist in question scoffed, rolling his eyes.

"John Watson," the cellist said, introducing himself. John reconized Lestrade, or Greg as he had introduced himself, from the papers. He was another professional violinist, having been praised by the critics as being excellent in his own right.

"Come on Sherlock," Greg nudged the taller man, gently pushing him back towards his seat. "Everyone's waiting on us." The dark haired man conceded and let himself be led away so that the practice could begin.

Well that was strange, John thought. He shook his head, turning his attention back to the music sitting on his stand. Up on the platform, the conductor motioned for everyone to be silent. As soon as the orchestra complied, Sherlock took his place. He put his violin on his shoulder and the bow across the strings. Just before he gave the 'A' for tuning, he glanced over at John and winked. The cellist felt his face flush, his cheeks undoubtedly staining pink. He could hardly concentrate for the rest of the practice; he kept losing his place in the music as his thoughts kept drifting back to Sherlock.

Once they had finished for the day, John packed away his instrument and bow in their case. Mostly everyone else had left already, and John was one of the last who was still in the room. He was about to leave when he saw Sherlock approaching him. "Hey Sherlock," John greeted the violinist as the taller man came to a stop next to him.

"John," he said. Sherlock paused, almost hesitating for a moment before continuing. "Afghanistan or Iraq?" John froze, a chill running down his spine.

"Sorry?"

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock repeated.

"Afghanistan," John answered. "How did you know?"

"I deduced it," the taller man said as his only explanation. "Now what's an ex-soldier with a psychosomatic limp doing in a London orchestra?"

"I always loved playing the cello as a kid," John got a faraway look on his face. "And I wasn't half bad at it either! After graduating high school I was considering going into a career that would allow me to keep playing my cello, but my parents forced me to go to medical school. They said they would disown me if I didn't. And there was no way I could afford college on my own, so I decided to follow along with what they wanted for me. After I graduated, instead of getting a job right away I went and lived at home for a year. My parents disapproved. They would give me strange looks whenever they found me practicing my cello. They told me that I was being idle when I could make a difference in the world. This lead to a huge fight, and me eventually joining the Army." John's voice got quiet. "Life in Afghanistan was difficult. And then one day, I was out in the field on a mission. It was supposed to be a standard surveillance op, but something went wrong. We were ambushed. Several of my men died and I got shot." John pushed the shoulder of his striped jumper down, showing the taller man his scar. "They sent me home a few weeks later. I really struggled for a while, but then I started with a therapist. She told me that playing my cello again and joining an orchestra would help much more than she ever could. So here I am."

"I'm sorry John," Sherlock whispered, reaching out to brush his long fingers against the other man's skin. The dark haired man wasn't usually a very sympathetic person, but John brought out a side of him he thought that he had long buried. His heart began to beat faster as he was captured by John's dark, blue eyes. He took slow steps toward John, and though the shorter man had a confused expression, he didn't retreat. Not even when Sherlock was standing almost pressed up again him. Sherlock bit his lower lip nervously, and drew the shorter man into his arms. John flushed again, but didn't pull away. The dark haired man was surprisingly soft for someone who had very sharp, angular features. John wrapped his arms around the taller man, laying his head on his chest.

They stayed that way for a good minute before John pulled away. "Uh, thanks Sherlock," he said, his voice unsteady. "I'd better be going now. I'm supposed to look at a flat today. See you later." He started to turn away, but Sherlock grabbed his wrist.

"I have a flat," Sherlock said quickly. He didn't want to be parted from John for some reason he couldn't figure out. "And in need of a flatmate. Between the two of us, I'm sure we could afford it. It's a logical decision for both of us."

"Why are you doing this?" John asked incredulously.

"I…," Sherlock took a deep breath in. "You don't have a place to live. I'm offering one to you."

"That's all?"

"Yes," Sherlock sounded uncertain, and John raised his eyebrows. "It's not the only reason. I… I would like to spend time with you."

"Why?" John was the one who sounded uncertain this time.

"Because you are unlike anyone I've ever met before," Sherlock responded.

"And that's a good thing?" John joked. Sherlock nodded.

"Yes," the taller man was completely serious causing John to go quiet. He suddenly found his shoes very interesting. "John?" Sherlock asked. The cellist's head snapped up, and his blue eyes met Sherlock's multicolored ones again. And in that moment he decided.

Jolting forward, John grabbed the front of Sherlock's shirt, dragging the taller man down and crashing their lips together. He pressed himself closer to the violinist, his hand akwardly between them. Sherlock's brain had shut down when John's lips had touched his own and was unable to process anything else. John's heart sank when Sherlock didn't respond to his action, and he stumbled backwards. Sherlock's brain restarted enough to grab John at his elbow as he was starting to stammer an excuse to leave. John paused, his gaze unsure but hopeful at the same time.

The violinist closed the distance between them, lifting the hand that wasn't holding on John's arm to rest on the side of the cellist's face. Sherlock placed his other hand on John's hip, causing a shiver to run down the cellist's spine. A hitching gasp escaped from John's throat as Sherlock closed the gap between their mouths. It started off soft and uncoordinated, but they quickly found a rhythm that crescendoed into a symphony of lips, teeth, and tongues. John pressed closer to Sherlock his arms rucking up the back of the violinist's shirt. He put everything into that moment, and kissed Sherlock until they were both thoroughly breathless.

At last they broke apart, lips swollen, and rested their foreheads against each other as they caught their breaths. Sherlock stole one last kiss from John, then stepped away from the shorter man. They both gathered their music folders and instruments as they prepared to leave.

"So," John began once they had gotten all of their things. "Does your offer still stand on the flat?"

"Of course John," Sherlock responded. He bit his bottom lip hesitantly. "Does this mean you're interested?"

"Yes it does," John nodded, putting his arms through the straps on his cello case so he could carry it like a backpack. "Could I possibly come see it now? We could share a cab."

"Alright," Sherlock said. He and John exited the building through the main entrance, a comfortable silence between them. Outside, Sherlock raised one of his long arms, hailing a taxi for the two of them. After the vehicle had come to a stop, idling by the curb, the cabbie opened the trunk so Sherlock and John could have more room in the back where they would be sitting. Once the violin and the cello were secured, and the trunk closed, the pair got into the cab.

"Where to?" The cabbie asked.

"221B Baker Street," Sherlock told him.

And the the rest was history.

A/N: Reviews are always very appreciated!