Sherlock Holmes has been called many things over the years. Brilliant, genius, unnaturally perceptive. A borderline psychopath, anti-social, asexual. One step away from becoming a serial killer. A crazy guy who has no emotion, no regard for human life. A freak.
John Watson had gotten a variety of warnings and paranoid predictions about his flat mate ever since they had moved in together.
"I don't know how you put up with him."
"He's insane. How do you sleep at night?"
"How can you let him treat you the way he does? You're his only friend and he doesn't act like you exist."
"One day, solving murders won't be enough."
"You need to be careful, he might turn those disgusting, creepy experiments on you."
John hated hearing all of these things. No one had any idea. Their warnings fell on deaf ears, because all of it couldn't be further from the truth.
While he never thought Sherlock to be a borderline serial killer, like some, he too used to wonder if the man had an emotional bone in his body. Over time, he came to care for the private detective as more than a friend. He fell madly in love with Sherlock. Of course, he tried shutting off such thoughts, because those feelings would always be one-sided.
That turned out to be very untrue, however. One night, after a rather nasty bout, John had stormed off to his room to pack a bag. He remembered how angry he was, how fed up. He just couldn't do it anymore. He was going to rent a motel room just to get away from that flat, and that infuriating man he couldn't help but love so damn much. That was when it happened. Sherlock's barrier came down that night. His mask cracked, and before the night was over they were snogging like teenagers.
No, Sherlock Holmes was far from emotionless. He definitely wasn't asexual. In fact, as their relationship became more solidified, he began to surprise him more and more. Sherlock had one of the kindest, most selfless and caring hearts John had ever encountered.
When they made love, it was all about John. He was gentle and caring. He would go out of his way to make John laugh. From a crime scene to a taxi ride to a cup of tea at home, he would always find a way to touch him affectionately. A brush of the shoulder, a stroke of his hand...
"John?"
That deep, heavenly voice brought the doctor out of his thoughts. Sherlock was handing him a cup of coffee. John smiled, blinking to come to reality, and he smiled up at him as he took the drink.
"Hmm?" he asked back, taking a sip.
"What on earth are you so lost on thought about?" he asked, sitting down next to him on the couch and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "That's my job."
John laughed, leaning against Sherlock's shoulder and breathing deeply. He always smelled so wonderful.
"Just thinking about you," he said casually. Finishing his coffee, he sat his cup down and reached for the morning's paper. He started glancing through it, eyes open for potential cases (Sherlock was rubbing off on him too much). He was vaguely aware of the gaze that was locked on him and a heat started rising up from his gut.
"Me, hmm?" Sherlock mused. John felt the couch shift slightly. He almost yelped as a pair of soft lips connected with his neck, right under where his ear and jaw met. His weak spot. The newspaper was abandoned as he practically melted into the touch, whimpering slightly.
"Your thoughts can only do so much," he whispered, his breath hot on his neck. Then, those lips were brushing along his earlobe, and John's trousers had become rather uncomfortable. He turned, sliding his fingers through Sherlock's soft, curly hair, kissing him passionately. He bit Sherlock's bottom lip just barely, pulling a slight moan out of him. He grinned into the kiss.
This was Sherlock Holmes. This was the man he had fallen head over heels for. No matter what anyone thought, John Watson knew the REAL Sherlock Holmes. He was bloody brilliant. He was protective. He was surprisingly romantic. He had opened up and finally worn his heart on his sleeve, and John swore to always treasure and protect it.