This is mostly based on a Sherlock roleplay I am involved in. It is on Hiatus until August, so I decided to channel it into a fiction. There's a lot of difference, though. My memory from when I first started the RP is a bit hazy. Rated T for later chapters; may change to M.

Warnings: Contains slash.

Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC. I only own this plot.

It was a relatively normal day when their relationship elevated to another level. What had started out as partnership turned swiftly into friendship. 'Best friends' is what people would refer to them as. "What's that? Sherlock Holmes has a friend? You must be mistaken." That was what most people said when they heard that Doctor John Watson had managed to befriend the sociopathic detective after a mere week of living together.

But many people didn't know the other side of Sherlock; the good side; the humble, sensitive, emotional side. Most people just assumed the man was a shallow and cold human being, incapable of showing any kind of remorse for the people he would both knowingly and unknowingly upset. Then again, John Watson wasn't most people.

Of course, there were other exceptions - Mycroft Holmes, for example. Sure, he and Sherlock may not have had the most understanding relationship growing up, but they were brothers. Nobody could change that. Mycroft would always be protective of his younger brother and Sherlock may have bouts of resentment for that fact, but despite this there would always be a friendly, unbreakable family bond between them.

Another person was Lestrade. Of all of the people in Scotland Yard, Gregory Lestrade was the only one who appreciated Sherlock's genius. He also knew there was another, greater man beneath the stoic, cold consulting detective who solved his cases. There would be little hints; the flash of a glare when someone made reference to his past life and troubles, the little upward quirk of his lips when John fired off clues, and the shimmer in his eyes when he saved a life.

It was also Lestrade who suggested just how blissfully domestic John and Sherlock's life was in Baker Street. Of course, neither man really took notice of this. Not until one winter evening in their small flat.

John had noticed something off about Sherlock. He was too quiet, not his usual self. There was no bumbling about the flat while rambling off a million solutions to a problem - nor was there any experiments going on; not in the past week or so, John noted. If he was honest, the doctor would say he was split about his decision on whether or not he liked it. Peace was one thing, something one hardly came across around Sherlock Holmes. There was also the lack of body parts in inappropriate places and that was a very good thing. Then again, John didn't like the too quiet Sherlock. It was like eating toast without jam; there was just something missing.

John missed the inquisitive silver-blue eyes and the velvety baritone of his voice as he spoke about a new case. He didn't like the fact that without these, he began to question himself about his own feelings – Why did he miss those things? John Watson liked women. He liked breasts and curves and perfume. He liked thick dark curls and high chiselled cheekbones… He liked… Sherlock.

It all dawned on him as he sat on his armchair – the one with the union jack cushion – and looked upon the familiar sight of his flatmate sprawled out on the sofa with three nicotine patches stuck to the underside of his arm. John couldn't help but remember the last time Sarah came to visit (and by the last time, it literally means the last time.) She had asked him many times about his relationship with Sherlock. Then there was the morning they all sat around the cluttered kitchen table.

"Are you gay?" Sarah looked between both men. Sherlock had kept his neutral expression, blinking just once over at John before steepling his fingers beneath his chin. John, however, had ended up choking on his tea. It took the man a good minute before he could look at Sarah. Of course he had denied it (defensively; making reference to how he had dated Sarah), but there was a little niggling in his chest that screamed "half wrong there, Watson."

Sherlock had instead just excused himself from the table to retreat to his room. Sarah had left then, giving John a goodbye kiss on the cheek and patting his arm. She knew a lot more than people gave her credit for. When she left, that whole fiasco was forgotten about. Until a week later that is; on the very same night their relationship took the first step towards a new light.

"John?" Came the very voice of the consulting detective. "You're quiet. What's wrong?" Sherlock looked up from where he lay on the sofa towards John. The doctor glanced towards his flatmate once, thinking how he could say the same thing.

"Nothing, Sherlock, just thinking… We need to go shopping tomorrow." John stood and made his way to the kitchen. "Tea?"

"Please." Sherlock sat up straight and watched John as he pondered about the kitchen, fetching two mugs down.

"You want Darjeerling, yeah?" John didn't hear Sherlock get up and pad over to the kitchen. Not until he was by the door.

"Yes, John." The doctor jumped and almost dropped the box of Darjeerling tea. He didn't make out that he got a fright though, just nodded and prepared two mugs of tea. Turning around, he handed the detective his cup. For a split second, their fingers brushed together. Something in the back of their minds screamed at them to stay, but before it could last the both of them had turned away – John to the sink and Sherlock to the door frame.

For a while there was silence, with John washing up quietly and Sherlock finally moving to use John's laptop. For the evening, John and Sherlock had resigned to watching Doctor Who re-runs. When John could stand the confusing television show no longer, he stood up and stretched.

"I'm off." He said, picking up their dinner plates and placing them in the sink. Sherlock had lay down on the sofa full length, legs sticking out over one end and his head resting on the other.

"I might use your laptop before I go to bed. You don't mind do you?" That made John pause for a second. Sherlock was asking permission?

"No not at all. Go ahead…" John sounded just a bit surprised. Shrugging, he moved in the direction of the stairs. Stopping just as he reached the door, the doctor turned around.

"Night, Sherlock." At this the detective tilted his head back to look at his flatmate.

"Goodnight, John." He said this with a warm, genuine smile and John couldn't help smiling back. The tingly feeling that rose in his stomach at that point hadn't faded until he was in his bed and fast asleep.

The next morning when John descended the stairs, he noticed a familiar blue dressing gown clad man lying asleep on the sofa. He tutted, muttering about back problems, before pulling a tartan afghan over the sleeping detective. Sherlock didn't stir. John stood there a few more seconds, taking in just how peaceful his flatmate looked. Sighing, he turned away and padded over to the kitchen to make some tea.

"John?" Sherlock turned onto his back and looked over to the kitchen, where John was readily making his own cup of tea. Stopping mid-stir, John turned to his flatmate, who had risen from the sofa and was now leaning against the doorframe.

"Morning, Sherlock. You hardly slept that well on the sofa?" John got down another cup and set it down on the counter. Sherlock's curls were mussed, sticking out just a little bit on one side and as smooth as ever on the other. He kept his gaze on John for a moment, thinking things over in his head.

"I was fine. John, erm… Can I test something?"

"Yeah, just don't blow anything up."

"No, John, I mean on you." Sherlock's voice had gone softer, almost meeker. The detective wet his lips nervously and took a step forward so he was fully in the kitchen.

"Oh… Okay?" John looked up as his flatmate came closer. By the time he pushed away his own cup of tea and turned back around to face Sherlock, the man was less than a foot away from him.

"John…" Sherlock reached out his hands. John swallowed silently when he felt two hands on either side of his face, thumbs resting on his jaw. Sherlock leaned forward tentatively until his lips were brushing against John's.

It took a while for John to react, but when he did, he felt himself pushing his own lips against Sherlock's. The kiss got quite clumsy then; Sherlock not having enough experience and John not expecting this. Though it was clumsy, neither man disliked it. Sherlock was the first to pull back and let his hands fall to John's shoulders, before sliding off entirely. He glanced down to John's hands which were on Sherlock's hips – John couldn't even remember putting them there – and back up to the shorter man's eyes.

"…Sherlock-" John removed his hands and they both separated.

"John, when Sarah asked you if you were gay… Why did you get so defensive?"

"I- I just…" John willed his mind to search for a rational thought. What in the world could he say without looking stupid –Because I like you, you crazy, sociopathic detective-

"How long?" Sherlock was looking straight at John now, those silver-blue eyes burning right through the doctor.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"How long have you liked me?" Well of course Sherlock would know John liked him.

"…A while. Sherlock, please don't tell me what you just did was only to discover the truth?" John's cheeks displayed light colouring now and he turned to stir his tea again. Sherlock slid behind him and carefully set his arms awkwardly around the doctor's waist. John froze and let out a sigh.

"Do you really think I'd kiss you if that were the case?"

"No. I suppose not." John couldn't help but smile, turning around and looking at his flatmate. "And I'm not gay. I'm bisexual."

"Right," Sherlock smiled back and turned away to his experiment set. "We need to go shopping don't we?" John could only shake his head but his goofy grin still intact.

"Yep. We're fresh out of shampoo and milk."

Like it? Loath it? Let me know. There will be more chapters. Yes, Sherlock and John will seem a bit OOC.

Also, the title is reference to a later chapter. Not the actual rating.