A/N: For a more explicit version, go to Chapter 2. Enjoy!


John runs his fingers through Sherlock's curls, over and over, amazed at their softness and availability. This thing between them is new, so amazement is acceptable. Although he's not sure that excuse will hold up thirty years from now. Sherlock mumbles something incoherent, and shifts, rubbing his nose across John's bare flesh. John smiles, happy that his lanky detective is finally getting some sleep. He glances down fondly at the taller man, this so rarely stilled specimen currently sprawled face down on his chest, and thinks of a time when this scenario only existed in his head. Sherlock's breath continues to waft in and out, tickling John's nipple. There will probably be drool later on, but the ex-military doctor doesn't mind; he will gladly suffer a thousand saliva filled nights if it means always having Sherlock by his side and in his bed. To have and to hold, a memory untold, he thinks, and closes his eyes.

Four hours earlier…

'Sherlock?'

John closes the door behind him and pauses to hang up his coat. He enters the flat fully and glances around. Nothing. John sighs and moves toward the kitchen. A thinking tea is definitely in order. These past few days have been unsettling, to say the least. John wonders how life progresses outside 221B, longing for the normal abnormality of his life with Sherlock that has somehow fractured in the last few weeks. This is the third time in as many days that Sherlock has sprinted off somewhere alone and John has a sneaking suspicion it has to do with 'The Incident.'

He reaches up into the cupboard for his favorite mug, automatically moving to set the kettle on as he ruminates. Could it really have affected Sherlock that deeply? Mr. Sherlock 'I'm married to my work' Holmes? He can't say. He tries not to think about it, most days. Most days, he fails.

His phone beeps. Finally. He glances down and feels a quick stab of disappointment when he sees the name; it's Lestrade.

John. Sherlock just left. I assumed he was headed back to Baker Street. He's not answering your texts? –GL

John sets his mug down and grasps his phone in both hands as he gingerly types a response.

No he's not, the git. Oh well – you know how he gets sometimes. –JW

He presses the send button and sighs again. Lestrade knows.

The kettle whistles and John moves to intercept its wailing before the noise gets to be too much. He fixes his tea and moves toward the living room, thinking wistfully of the fire he had built the night before. Seeing as the necessary supplies have run out, John settles for the steaming beverage currently warming his hands to heat the rest of his body.

He settles into his chair and flips open the paper. His eyes scan the newsprint restlessly, mind not fully processing the words in front of him. The flat is so empty without Sherlock in it, even with the evidence of his habitation strewn over every surface. Books. A stack of case files. A tray of beakers. Without the man, however, they are just things. Simple objects that paint a picture, but not a portrait. Madness needs a focal point after all.

A door bangs and John looks up sharply. Feet trod up the stairs, and the door swings open to reveal a dramatic figure in a grey wool coat. John raises an eyebrow as the head swivels toward him and piercing eyes (green today) meet his. They share a look and Sherlock huffs, unimpressed.

'Your presence was redundant John,' he states as he unwinds his scarf and shrugs out of his outermost layer. He glides farther into the room.

'It might have been nice to hear that before now,' John says, remarkably mildly. 'For my peace of mind?' He's already resigned to the fact that Sherlock will pay no attention to what he says.

Sherlock shoots him a quick glance as he flops down onto the sofa, but deigns to respond. John shakes his head and returns to his non-reading while Sherlock, being Sherlock, lounges languidly, hands steepled beneath his chin.

*scene break*

'John.'

John starts, not sure how long he's been sitting. He thinks he may have nodded off.

'John,' Sherlock states again, his tone bordering on impatient.

'What, Sherlock,' John replies, yawning. He covers his mouth with a hand even as his eyes squeeze shut and his head falls back. He wonders what time it is.

'I've been thinking,' Sherlock begins, and John snorts. He can't see Sherlock but the pointed silence can only mean one thing – the detective is glaring at him.

'We need to talk about what happened,' Sherlock says and suddenly John can't breathe.

He lowers his head to find Sherlock staring up at the ceiling. 'But you said -' John starts cautiously and then jumps as Sherlock swings his legs over to thump onto the floor, sitting up even as his eyes sweep down to crash into John's.

'I know what I said' he replies. There is steel beneath the deceptively velvet tone.

John swallows audibly in the tense silence of the flat, but keeps his eyes fixed on the curly haired man sitting across from him.

'What is there to talk about it?' He may be playing with fire here, but if there's one thing John Watson isn't afraid of, it's Sherlock Holmes.

'Did you mean it?' Sherlock stares intently at John. 'Did you mean what you said after you, well, you know.' Sherlock shifts his gaze down for a brief second and it's the first indication John has that perhaps Sherlock is more nervous than he's letting on.

'Course I did,' John replies steadily. He is a man of his word, after all.

Sherlock's eyes (grey now) widen slightly and John fights to stay immobile. His fingers tighten on the arm of the chair. He knows the next few moments are crucial.

Sherlock runs a hand through his hair, tumbling the curls into disarray. 'John,' he begins. 'I-' and suddenly John can't stay still anymore. He pushes himself up and strides quickly across to kneel upright between Sherlock's legs, hands placed lightly on either side of his thighs. He knows it's an invasion of personal space but this is important.

'What is it Sherlock? Tell me,' he commands.

Sherlock stares at him for a long moment and then sighs. His eyes lose their stormy color, softening into deep pools of blue. He lifts his hands and reaches out to slowly cup John's jaw. He leans forward, intent, and John feels his heart quicken.

'I love you too,' Sherlock whispers and then his mouth presses against John's and he is kissing him. John's eyelids flutter close and he kisses back, savoring the feel of Sherlock's full lips against his rather thin ones. He moans his approval and Sherlock responds in kind. They stay like this for a few seconds or maybe years; John isn't sure. He does know that this is a moment he will always treasure.

Sherlock moves on first, pressing against the confines of John's closed mouth with the tip of his tongue, eager for entanglement. John acquiesces with a sigh, parting his lips in a slow tease even as his own tongue reaches out in exploration. Sherlock tastes faintly of coffee; John presses more firmly into Sherlock's mouth, determined to learn what other flavors may be hidden. He draws a plump bit of flesh into his mouth and sucks noisily, drawing a deep rumble of appreciation. A nip here, a lick there – John wonders hazily how there is still so much to learn about his best friend. He leans forward, hands fumbling for purchase in Sherlock's suit coat, desperate to find out.

Sherlock seems to have the same idea. Having slid his large hands down from where they have been stroking John's face, he trails narrow fingers across John's neck and shoulders before finally coming to rest against the solidness of John's back. His thumbs knead through wool into flesh, their sudden tensing the only warning John has before he is pulled upward to crash awkwardly into Sherlock's lap even as the lanky detective twists to the side in an attempt to become horizontal. The sofa impedes John's movements, however, stopping Sherlock as well; and the sturdy doctor ends up with his nose crushed against Sherlock's chest, open mouth tasting Sherlock's shirt, legs sprawling out on the floor behind him.

Disoriented as he is to find himself suddenly tasting cool cotton instead of warm flesh, John can't help but giggle as he glances up to find a very disgruntled detective looking down at him. Sherlock's naturally plump lips are swollen, his pale eyes bright, his nose scrunched up and his curls in wild disarray. He stares down at John, panting slightly. John thinks he has never seen a more beautiful sight in his whole life.

'Well that escalated quickly,' John quips with a huffed laugh.

Sherlock's lips quirk upward in a sort of wry acknowledgement. He tilts his head down, verdigris eyes rapt upon John's face.

'Not entirely,' Sherlock begins as he arches a brow and leans even closer. 'This particular scenario has been building for some time. You first made overtures several weeks ago and I have had ample opportunity to consider the extent of my reaction to them in the interim' –

He is stopped mid-sentence by the return of John's mouth. 'Sherlock,' he murmurs with a half-grin.

'Yes John?' His reply is muffled, but John can still hear the smugness in it.

'Shut up.'

And Sherlock does.

*scene break*

Sherlock hears a steady thump as he regains consciousness. A consistent rise and fall of a sturdy chest. He opens his eyes to near blackness, noting the sprawl of his limbs, and most notably the resting of his head on John's upper torso. He has a crick in his neck but the closeness is worth it.

He shifts his gaze up to rest on John's face, eyelids fluttering in automatic defense as John's breath wafts across them. His eyes adjust to the lack of light, and he studies the face of his best friend. The doctor looks content, his mouth slightly open, the lines of his face smooth. Sherlock exhales in time, mingling the air from his lungs with that of his partner. He returns his head to its resting place, directly over John's heart. Fitting, he thinks drowsily. Closing his eyes, he drifts off to sleep.


A/N: Comments and other such feedback much appreciated! Again, if you're looking for a continuation into sexier times, simply continue on to the next chapter, where this is posted in its full glory.