Authors: Annie Amazing and junejuly15
Disclaimer: We don't own Sherlock, nor are we making any money by writing this. It's purely fiction and just for our own, selfish pleasure. Furthermore, it is not meant to insult anyone.
Warnings: This story will contain slash (male on male love and eventual graphic sexual scenes) - if you dislike the idea of two males sleeping together, I suggest you click the 'back' button now. It will also contain a lot of unspeakable awkwardness and a bit of fluff.
Summary: Affection, noun: a tender feeling toward another; synonyms and related words: attachment, attraction, devotion, fondness, love, sentiment. It all narrowed down to one simple fact: John loved Sherlock.
Important: This story is a collaboration, published not only by me, but also my dear co-writer junejuly15. Her version is different from mine, also she split this chapter up in two parts, so you should read hers, too! You can find it on her profile.
Only thing I can say now is this: enjoy reading and don't hesitate to leave a review on your way out, telling me what you liked and disliked. It will be greatly appreciated. :]
John was in the kitchen making tea and breakfast, unconsciously humming a melody in the back of his throat. Sherlock didn't recognise it, but then again, he wasn't really listening. He was thinking, slumped down in his armchair, elbows resting on the armrests on either side of his body, fingers steepled under his chin.
He didn't regard John with so much as a look when the good doctor entered the sitting room and dropped a plate full of toast, scrambled eggs, baked beans and sausages on the small coffee table next to Sherlock, a cup of tea following suit.
"Sherlock," John said, but remained unanswered. He sighed and rolled his eyes, stepping up closer to his friend and reaching out to pull Sherlock's right hand away from his face and inevitably shaking him out of his trance. Sherlock shook his head briefly, blinking at John in confusion and slight disgruntlement.
"I'm thinking, John," he growled, "and therefore far from delighted about your crude interruption. I'd very much appreciate it if you hurriedly told me what you want and then let me be before I'm forced to rely on physically harming you."
Despite Sherlock's threats, John smiled and rolled his eyes in a friendly fashion. "Sherlock, I made you a proper English breakfast, and I'd very much appreciate seeing you hurriedly eat it," John said in his calm, concerned doctor-voice, "You haven't eaten in three days, except for two biscuits and a piece of chocolate."
The detective blinked once again, his gaze shifting from John's face to the plate and the cuppa on the coffee table and back. "Not hungry," he exclaimed and freed his wrist out of John's grasp.
The elder took in a calming breath. "Sherlock," he said warningly, "you will eat this, and if I have to force-feed you, God help me, I will."
Sherlock snorted. "I'd like to see you try," he challenged and narrowed his eyes at John. Oh, he better had not. Something flickered in the good doctor's eyes, but in the blink of an eye it was gone again, before Sherlock had a chance to deduce what it was, and - more importantly yet - what it meant.
John flexed his shoulders and craned his chin upwards, suddenly seeming a lot taller than he really was, and glared down at Sherlock with demanding eyes. "Eat," he growled at him, pointing at the food, and clenched his jaw tightly.
For some reason, John's posture had a wave of respect, with just the smallest amount of fear added to it, rushing through Sherlock's body, tingling at his fingertips and toes, creeping up and back down his spine, and finally pooling in the pit of his stomach. Despite of being intrigued by the sensation, he swallowed thickly and bowed his head down in an obedient fashion.
"Yes, Captain," he croaked and picked up the plate from the coffee table. He took the fork that was delivered with the food in hand and began to eat.
It tasted... exceptionally good. Unconsciously, he made a humming sound of appreciation in the back of his throat and John smiled, unseen by the detective.
John remained standing beside his friend in his Soldier Stance, legs slightly spread, hands clasped around his wrists behind his back, chin craned upward. He was closely watching Sherlock feed himself.
When Sherlock was half-way through the plate and had just swallowed the last bite of toast and beans, he held out his hand in anticipation. Sure enough, Sherlock handed the plate over and folded his hands over his middle. Stuffed, then. Good, John thought and smiled to himself.
"Thank you," John said with the smile still lingering on his lips.
Sherlock shot him a questioning look. "Whatever for?" he asked and John rolled his eyes with a smirk.
"You ate half of the food I made you. That's a huge improvement to the last couple of times. I'm proud of you, Sherlock, really, I am," he eventually answered and turned around to take the remainders of Sherlock's breakfast back into the kitchen. The detective just blinked stupidly at his friend's retreating form, not understanding what John liked so much about seeing him indulge in something as mundane and dull as eating.
"Why are you doing this, John?" he enquired when his friend returned into the living room.
John blinked at him in confusion. "Sorry, what do you mean? The feeding-thing?"
Sherlock nodded curtly and suddenly John's bright laughter reverberated from the walls. "Maybe it's some sort of kink I've developed. 'Feeding Sherlock to a healthy weight' - sounds really interesting, doesn't it?"
Sherlock raised a disbelieving eyebrow and John minutely shook his head, still smirking. "Seriously though, you can't deduce my intentions? Obvious, isn't it?" he teased.
"You're insulting me for asking a serious question, John?" Sherlock enquired and crossed his arms over his chest, demanding eyes fixed on his friend. "I insist you explain your behaviour to me, because I honestly don't understand it. There's no reason whatsoever for you to persuade me to eat."
John sighed, exasperated. He lifted his hands in defeat and shook his head once again. "I worry about you, Sherlock, and that a lot. That's the reason why. I'm your doctor, and your friend, I don't want to watch you starve yourself to death. Not as long as I can help it."
Sherlock blinked. "Is that so?" he murmured to himself, then, addressing John again, "Same with the sleep, yes? And the shooting people for me? And the yelling at - and almost beating up, may I add - Anderson for calling me a - what was it again? A faggot?" A delicate eyebrow rose towards the ceiling.
John chuckled. "Exactly, Sherlock," he answered, grinning. "Not to mention punching the Chief Superintendent square across the face for just so much as insulting you," he added with a wink. He didn't mention the fact he was constantly cancelling dates for Sherlock too, for fear the detective might decode this information all too well.
Sherlock nodded slowly, on the verge to drifting off into thoughts again. He took a deep breath and focused his eyes on John's once more. "But why, John? Why do you keep worrying about my health, or my dignity, or whatever else there is for you to worry about?"
John shook his head slightly, still smiling. "Oh, Sherlock," he said with not a small portion of fondness swaying in his tone. With three steps he was over at Sherlock's side again, sitting on the armrest of his chair, throwing his left arm around his friend's shoulders and pulling him briefly against his chest. "It's called affection, Sherlock," he explained eventually and, with a final squeeze of the detective's left shoulder, got back up to his feet and headed back into the kitchen.
"Affection," Sherlock mumbled, rolling the word around in his mouth as if to taste it, feel it's weight, measure it. "Affection," he repeated. It rung a bell somewhere in the back of his mind.
Affection; noun; a tender feeling toward another; synonyms and related words: attachment, attraction, devotion, fondness, love, sentiment.
Sherlock blinked in surprise. John was feeding him, making him sleep, dressing his wounds when he got himself injured, and generally took good care of him. John was also shooting evil cabbies and punching people worth less than the dirt below his shoes - all for the sole purpose of protecting Sherlock. And, most importantly, John called it affection.
It all narrowed down to one simple fact: John loved him. Now, what was he to do about that? With a grin he steepled his fingers under his chin once again and started setting up his plans for a new, promisingly intriguing experiment.
. . .
Sherlock was staring. It was not much of a disturbance at first, but now John started to feel his scrutiny like a heavy weight against his skin, pressing, burning, making him sweat. John squirmed slightly, uneasiness spreading through his system. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He opened them to find Sherlock continuing to fix his piercing, probing, enquiring eyes on John. Unwavering. Unnerving. It seemed like he was focusing him with utmost dedication and determination, but whatever the reason was, John couldn't quite fathom. Neither did he actually want to know. All he knew was that it was disturbing.
A glow of green of those incredible colour-shifting irises fairly pinned John to the spot, forcing him to cast his own gaze down and away from their beauty again.
Sherlock was sitting opposite John, holding one of their delicate China teacups, gracefully balancing it between his long, pale index finger and thumb, blowing over the still scolding contents of it, his plush lips hovering over the liquid. The look he gave John over the rim of the cup held something feral. Behind all the posh manners and vocabulary, there was something raw and dangerous, hidden away from the public eye, but laid openly on the floor for John to see. The thought sent jolts of electricity down John's spine and straight to his groin. He cleared his throat and shifted slightly in the chair to hide his unease.
"Sherlock," John started, his voice cracking, and cleared his throat again. "It's impolite to stare," he continued rather witlessly and cursed himself only a split second after the words had left his mouth.
"Is it?" Sherlock asked with an amused quirk of one eyebrow. "I wasn't aware that my looking at you was discomforting. But then the faint blush and the disconcertment in your posture are clear signs I shouldn't have missed."
John didn't dignify that with a response, cursing his body for being so obvious, and broke the eye contact again. He needed to lay his eyes on something less disconcerting, less disturbing - less arousing - and settled on the bookshelf left to Sherlock's head.
So Sherlock could unsettle him just by staring, could control him just by fixing his eyes on him? This was messed up. How could they go on living with each other like that?
John summoned all his will and let his eyes snake back to fix on Sherlock, who was gazing at him unwaveringly still. The deep furrow above his nose was an indicator that he had shifted into his deduction mode. Although this was a realisation holding the power to unsettle John even more, he felt the need to attack.
"What are you doing, Sherlock? What is this about? Stop staring at me, and especially stop deducing me like that. It's bloody annoying." John shuffled forward in his chair, leaning towards Sherlock, "Isn't there a case you could rather dissect? No message from Lestrade? No cold case needing to be solved? No pressing matters in dire need of your intellect?" He was waffling, he knew it, and he saw the responding snarl on Sherlock's lips.
Damn it, is that going to be it? Will I react like that every time he looks at me? Get a bloody grip, Watson.
Sherlock slowly lowered the cup into its saucer and bent forward to place both items on the floor. The fluid movement brought a shift in the air and some of Sherlock's scent wafted in John's direction. His nostrils flared and he closed his eyes for a moment, but not quick enough, and so he couldn't help noticing the elegant curve of Sherlock's neck and the litheness of his body. Sherlock remained in that position for a second and peered up at him from underneath his eyelashes.
Interesting - he's affected by my closeness. He can't stand my intense scrutiny, but doesn't flee the situation either. He's determined to plough through it although he's clearly flustered and greatly bothered. It's the uncertainty which gets him, John is a man of clear lines, of black and white, of yes or no. He cannot take unresolved tension or undisclosed desires.
Sherlock blinked at his thoughts. Now, that is very interesting indeed! Undisclosed desires? His? Or mine?
. . .
John knitted his brows. He felt a feather-light touch at the small of his back, soon subtly morphing into an insistent one, applying more pressure, still slight, but unwavering. He glanced sideways at Sherlock, who was standing very close to him, so close, in fact, that their body heat mingled to a haze of all-enveloping warmth.
Sherlock noticed his inquisitive stare and nodded at him, curtly but friendly, a small smile lingering on his lips, his eyes twinkling with something John couldn't quite place, before he turned his attention back to Lestrade, who was pointing out the assumed escape route of the murderer, walking away from them, further into the building.
Again there was a slight increase of pressure on John's back. He felt Sherlock's hand as clearly as if he was touching his bare skin, felt the texture of his calloused violinist's fingertips burning through the thick fabric of his jacket, through the wool of his jumper and the fine cotton of his button-down shirt, very nearly scorching his skin.
The fingers pressed a tad more insistently into the small of John's back, gently urging him on, and he followed Lestrade into the dark basement of the building. The touch was still there, never breaking contact, never losing impact. He felt it fairly burning itself into his skin and this sensation sent shivers down his spine.
He tried to shift away from his friend, but the insistent fingers followed the movement with a kind of fierce determination, never losing contact. And John was at a loss, didn't understand just what this was about.
"Sherlock, why are you touching me?" he asked, his voice low, not loud enough for Lestrade to overhear.
"Because I want to, John," Sherlock said matter-of-factly, turning to look at him, but he didn't take his hand away as if breaking the connection would mean much more than just that.
John shivered just slightly, almost unnoticeably. Yet, Sherlock picked up on the tiny motion and filed it away in a folder labelled John's Reactions to Sentiment.
Finally, the good doctor twisted his body away from Sherlock again, and this time remained out of his reach. "Well, stop it," he hissed, obviously distressed.
Interesting, Sherlock thought with a satisfied smile. Apparently, John did not want to be touched by him, yet he claimed to feel affection toward Sherlock and showed obvious signs of pleasure when treated in such a fashion. Then why did John not want to be touched by him?
This certainly could have multiple reasons. Whether John just didn't want to be touched in front of other people's inquisitive eyes, or not at all. Presumably, John's affection toward Sherlock was something... less physical, something rather spiritual. Purely platonic, perhaps? Or maybe he didn't love Sherlock at all? Then again, maybe he did, but was in denial? Or did Sherlock misinterpret the signs? He dismissed the thought as quickly as it came to his mind. A mistake was out of the question. He was Sherlock Holmes, after all. He did not make mistakes.
Sherlock couldn't fathom the reason just now, he decided, and shook his head. There was no use examining John's reactions, he would have to file them away for later use. For now, he would settle for collecting more data.
Yet, Sherlock wasn't done analysing reactions, but for once, he took to investigate his own. He couldn't deny he had liked touching John. It had felt warm and familiar, yet novel and agitating. John's body was undiscovered territory, and Sherlock felt the strong need to explore it, map all of it, very thoroughly. What did that tell him about himself?
Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts when Detective Inspector Lestrade cleared his throat. Yes, there is a case to solve. Focus.
. . .
John all but fell onto the couch, dropping two plates of Chinese takeaway on the coffee table in front of him.
Sherlock pulled one of the plates to sit right in front of him, took the fork in his hand and dared to take a bite. He felt John watch him closely and when he turned his gaze to the left, he took in John's slight, satisfied smile in pure contradiction to the raised eyebrow and questioning gaze he wore.
"What?" he asked eventually, equal parts annoyed and intrigued.
John smirked and turned to tend to his own meal. "Oh, nothing, Sherlock. Just... lately, whenever I bring you food, you... well, hum."
Upon seeing Sherlock's appalled look he added, "Oh don't worry, it's not very loud. It's just... I noticed, is all. Don't stop on my behalf. Well, I like it, actually."
Now Sherlock shot him a look of utter confusion. "You like it?" he asked, delicate brows raising toward the ceiling. John just shrugged.
"It suggests you like your food. That's a good sign, especially for someone with an apparent eating-disorder." Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but got cut off by John, who held up his hand and continued speaking. "No, Sherlock, don't give me that look, we both know it's true. So yes, I like the noises you make when eating, they are sounds of approval."
"The same way you like seeing me sleep?" Sherlock shot back, annoyed and angry by the fact John thought he had an eating-disorder. He just didn't need food. That was all it was.
John didn't dignify that with a response. Instead, he dug his fork forcefully into his food, throwing a sideways glance at his friend, watching the sharp lines soften again, the anger leave the angular features.
"Do you watch me sleep, John?" Sherlock asked then. His voice was calm, even, and betrayed nothing.
John blinked at him in surprise. "Wh-" he started, but Sherlock interrupted with a shaking of his head.
"No, don't answer that, I know you do, John. I also know you tend to touch me when I sleep," the unusually soft baritone said, and John felt as if it was piercing his lungs, all air fading from them.
John's eyes went wide in shock. "What gives you that idea?" he choked out, taken aback.
Sherlock tore his gaze away and fixed it on his plate. "Unimportant," he said, "I know you do and the reddening of your cheeks is evidence enough to tell me I'm right. Now, explain to me, John, why would you touch me when no one, not even I myself, can see, but wouldn't let me touch you?"
John's fork fell onto his plate with a clangour. "You're unbelievable, Sherlock," he said, anger making his voice tremble, "it was one, time, okay? One bloody time, and I only did it because you seemed so goddamn vulnerable, sprawled out on the couch, for once at peace with the world and yourself. At least, that's what you looked like. I couldn't resist, okay? That doesn't give you the right to-"
Sherlock looked at him again, his piercing grey-green eyes boring holes in his heart, and for a moment John lost track of his words. He shook himself out of his stupor and inhaled a deep, calming breath. "Look, Sherlock, I know that wasn't... I've crossed a boundary, I know. And I'm sorry, okay? But that doesn't mean it gives you the right to do the same. Especially not in front of Lestrade and his snoops, for goodness' sake!"
Sherlock blinked, then nodded. "You're saying I've crossed a boundary tonight, too," he murmured. Then fixed his eyes back on his food. "You don't want me to touch you, then?"
John inhaled deeply again, his breathing unsteady. "I - don't know. I don't mind, not really, just... we're not a couple, okay? Don't get all... intimate with me, that's just... so wrong, on so many levels, Sherlock."
"Then what am I allowed to do, John?" the detective asked, confusion edged into every line of his features, embedded in his voice.
"I don't know, Sherlock, just don't... I don't know. You're not supposed to hold my hand or put yours on the small of my back just so, in front of everyone, that's... as far as affection goes, Sherlock, this implies we were more than just friends. But we are not. Okay?"
Sherlock's head snapped up and turned toward John again. He blinked. "Aren't we?" he asked with a lopsided grin claiming his lips, "The evidence speaks otherwise."
John rolled his eyes and closed them to calm his nerves. "The evidence is wrong, then, Sherlock, because no, we are not a couple. And I'll even explain why."
The younger listened carefully, then nodded. "Go on then," he said, genuine interest engraved in his rich baritone voice.
"First off, Sherlock, couples... well, they go on dates together, and no, eating at Angelo's does not count as a date. Visiting crime scenes together also doesn't meet the requirements for a date. Okay. We don't go on dates together.
"Secondly, I'm not aware of ever having kissed you, which is another thing couples regularly do, and we, for a fact, do not. Lastly, and most importantly yet, Sherlock - we're not sleeping together. Couples sleep together. We don't. Okay. That makes us not-a-couple. We're friends, colleagues, flatmates, but that's it."
Sherlock lifted his chin and stared at the ceiling as if in deep thought. He then took up his favourite thinking pose again and didn't say a single thing for the next fifteen minutes. John continued eating.
When his plate was empty and Sherlock's food inevitably cold, he got up from the couch and made to carry the plates into the kitchen. However, Sherlock spoke when John was halfway there, and it shocked him so much that he dropped the porcelain.
"I want to touch you, John. I want you to touch me." Calm. Even. Dark. Somehow promising. Oh so tempting. John trembled in anticipation of what was to follow. What did follow, however, was nothing he would have expected. "Based on the evidence I found you interested in a physical relationship with me, John, and I suggest you start acting on it. Take me to bed." Demanding, rough, detached.
Enough, John thought and balled his hands into tight fists. A growl rumbled in the back of his throat. "I am not your bloody experiment, Sherlock. You don't get to invade my personal space like that. Forget it."
With that, he all but bolted from the place, up into his room, and locked the door behind him. Sinking down to the floor, back pressed against the solid wood, he took his head in his hands and breathed. Just breathed, in, out, in, out, conscious of his painfully drumming heart and the heat in his cheeks.
He felt his nerves calm down with every moment that passed, his breathing became more stable with each breath he took. He sighed.
John really shouldn't be surprised by Sherlock's behaviour. It wasn't as if he could expect anything normal from him, anyway, couldn't expect it at all. He knew that, even granted him a certain amount of eccentricity, but there were boundaries to everything. And right now, John felt used, he felt dirty even, something he did not want to attribute to the feelings he harboured for Sherlock.
But that was the problem, wasn't it? What feelings did he have for him? When he had explained to him what made a couple - the kissing, the touching, the sleeping together - he had felt anger, but also regret and, for a huge part, longing. But then Sherlock had reacted to his unspoken desires, had offered him something. Why hadn't he been able to take him up on his offer?
Because, he told himself, I'm not his bloody experiment.
John exhaled to calm down, to steady his nerves once again, to find his balance. He wiped his hands over his face. He was tired, he was flustered and more than a little bit unsettled. He heard the faint noises of Sherlock padding around in their living room, heard him walk from the sofa to their kitchen and back. Then there was silence.
John assumed that Sherlock was sitting in the almost dark room, in his favourite chair, in his customary pose, replaying the scene, maybe wondering where he went wrong this time. Or maybe he didn't even understand that he did something Not Good. John really didn't want to care right now. He strained his ears, but there was only silence drifting up to him.
With a grunt, John got up and started to undress. He let all his clothes fall in a heap on the floor, not bothering with putting them on the chair next to his bed as he would normally do. Old habits die hard and John Watson was a tidy man, years of military life had left deep traces. But today he didn't even bother with his nightly ablutions and went to bed as he was.
He couldn't find sleep, though, as the scene in their living room replayed in an endless loop in his head. Damn you, Sherlock bloody Holmes, John thought. Why do you have to be so impossible?
. . .
Sherlock was pacing up and down the living room, circling the armchairs by the fireplace and back to the couch, stepping on and over the coffee table, then around it. When he accidentally stepped into the remainders of his cold Chinese and the shards of porcelain for yet the third time, he grudgingly decided to clean it up.
Returning to the living room and all but falling back onto the couch, he turned to face the backrest, drew his knees up to his chest and encircled them with his arms. "Having a sulk again, Sherlock?" John's voice rang in his head, reverberated from the inner walls of his skull. Sherlock found himself caught between a pout and a smile.
"You're not my experiment, John. Not now, not anymore. I want you to be part of me in every sense of the word," he whispered into the empty darkness, loosening his grip around his knees and turning to lay on his back. He stared at the ceiling, his hands folded over his torso, sighing.
"I know you're attracted to me, John, and I've developed the insistent urge to reciprocate. I want to be near you, see every line and edge of you, feel your hair, your warmth, your skin and the strength hiding underneath. I want to breathe your unique scent and taste your taunting lips. I want to hear the drum of your heart increase when I do so, and I want to know what it would feel like. John."
There was no answer, and Sherlock sighed. Of course there was no answer. John had gone up to his room, scared off by Sherlock's - offer? Demand?
He sighed once more. It sounded loud to his ears in the silence of the empty living room. Getting up, he padded across the room and picked up his violin, plucking the strings to check their tune and adjusting them when necessary. The calloused tips of his fingers stroked rosin along the bow, careful and lovingly. Then, sitting down in his chair and closing his eyes, resting the instrument on his shoulder and lifting the bow to meet the strings, he began to play.
A tune he'd played often in his head, a melody he associated with warmth and home and John.
He didn't hear the footsteps on the stairs, didn't sense the presence of his friend, hovering next to him, didn't feel the gaze locked on him for a moment, before John also closed his eyes and took in all of the precious tune Sherlock was playing, bathing in it.
When Sherlock ended and lowered his violin, John sighed contently, opening his eyes to look at his friend, smiling. "That was beautiful," he whispered, trying not to disturb the peaceful cloak of stillness that surrounded them.
Sherlock looked up at John and blinked confusedly, wondering how the other man had managed to sneak up to him without being noticed. Then, he turned his gaze down and clenched his jaw. "It's you," he answered, his voice raw.
It was John's turn to blink at his friend in confusion. "It's me? What's me?" he asked, tipping his head to the left. His bare toes curled against the cool wooden floor boards and he shivered slightly, crossing his arms in front of his chest and rubbing over them to heat himself up.
"The melody," Sherlock explained evenly, "it's you, John, your song. I wrote it for you a while ago, not knowing what it had to offer, what it wanted to tell me." He inhaled a slightly shaking breath.
"I know what it means now," he continued, finally lifting his gaze and staring intently into John's eyes.
John swallowed visibly, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue. "Tell me, then," he answered, voice still low but far from a whisper, "what does it mean?"
Sherlock huffed out an annoyed breath and rolled his eyes. "Sentiment," he replied shortly and shook his head in exasperation.
John nodded his understanding and absentmindedly chewed his bottom lip. After several long moments that stretched into an eternity, he spoke again. "What kind of sentiment does it speak of, Sherlock?" he enquired, a hint of something pleasant, something Sherlock couldn't quite decipher, lingering below his words.
The taller man snorted. "It's called affection, John," he mimicked the statement that had started it all. This stupid, useless experiment that all but drove John away instead of pulling him in. Yep, sulking, indeed.
John just stood and stared for one long moment. His mind reeled with thoughts, memories, trying to decrypt Sherlock's statement. He gasped as he shook himself out of his thoughts. "Not an experiment?" he dared to ask, his voice low, cautiousness embedded into it, also showing in his expression and posture.
Sherlock just shook his head no. When John's gaze still reflected wariness, he sighed. "Not anymore, no. I'll admit that it was, before I understood that even I am not superior to sentiment, that even I couldn't block it out of my life forever. You won't let me, John. I don't know how you did it, but you-" he cut himself off, his words reduced to a stutter, and hung his head.
John, sensing Sherlock's discomfort, put a hand on his shoulder, trying to encourage him. He squeezed gently and smiled down at his friend even though Sherlock still didn't look back up. "I, what, Sherlock? I need to know." Please, I need to hear it, he thought, but left it unspoken.
The silence stretched into what felt like hours and John felt his heart sink. Then, Sherlock finally opened his mouth. "You taught me something," he whispered, staring at his fingers which were curled around the hem of his shirt.
Sherlock took a deep breath, but paused. John waited, his hand still resting on his friend's shoulder, thumb drawing absentminded circles on the purple cotton.
"You taught me what it feels like to be loved, what it is like to reciprocate the sentiment. But I - was wrong. I misinterpreted."
John blinked, confused. But before he could ask what Sherlock meant, the taller man continued. "You made it very clear you want nothing to do with the idea of-"
"Oh, Sherlock," John interrupted, finally understanding what is friend was aiming for, fondness deeply edged into his words. He withdrew the hand resting on Sherlock's shoulder and used it to force his friend's face up by putting a finger under his chin. He shook his head. "Misinterpreted indeed, but the wrong thing."
Sherlock blinked up at him, confusion flickering in his eyes. As bold and brazen as he had been when it had been him testing and studying John, as shy and out of his depth was he now. He didn't dare freeing himself from John's oh so gentle touch, although the finger under his chin burned like fire. Instead, he cast down his eyes again.
John noticed the uncharacteristic shyness that seemed to have taken hold of Sherlock and his heart skipped a beat. Misunderstood indeed - both of us - all of it - everything.
John took a step towards Sherlock then, closing the gap, purposefully invading his personal space. He came so close that he could smell him, feel his body heat, sense his nervousness. A nervousness that emboldened John, for once giving him the feeling to be one up on Sherlock. John shook his head almost imperceptibly, he didn't want to think along those lines, didn't want to let competitiveness or whatever it was creep between them before other, more important things had been settled.
Slowly John moved his finger over Sherlock's chin and trailed it along his defined jawline, causing him to slightly open his mouth and his eyes to flutter half-closed. John gulped when he saw this reaction to the merest of touches, this tiny loss of control. His finger moved on, along the long and slender neck, the calloused fingertip momentarily rejoicing in the softness of the pale and perfect skin, before his hand gently slid down Sherlock's arm. Sherlock shivered at the contact and locked eyes with him. When their fingers touched John halted, as if asking for permission to move on. He couldn't hold back, though. He would go on now, there was no way back, this was it.
Sherlock looked down on their hands, John's smaller one resting on his own, and this touch was everything, was all he had kept back, was all he wanted. "John," he whispered, his voice raw and dark, his fingers twitching against the warm ones of his friend, "John, touch me."
John smiled and without thinking his fingers intertwined with Sherlock's and his other hand sneaked up to his neck, lightly resting there before exerting just a tiny bit of pressure. Sherlock willingly followed John's lead and craned his neck to meet John's mouth. Their lips touched in their first kiss, clumsily at first, but soon moving in sync. It was chaste and tender, a mere prelude and a promise of what was to come.