Disclaimer: I don't own either of these characters, la la la, etc. etc.
"Sherlock, you can't say no to every case that pops up."
John followed the detective into their flat while he spoke, a hint of exasperation visible in his tone. This was the sixth time that week that they had gone to check out a possible case and, each time, Sherlock waved it off, saying that it wasn't worth his time. They hadn't taken on a case in nearly two weeks now. And, if they kept rejecting every offer, they'd never solve another one again.
"I will not take on a case that is not at least a seven," Sherlock reminded him simply.
"Okay..." John said slowly. He kept his lips pursed as he ran his tongue over his teeth. "Well, next time, could you at least not make anyone at the crime scene cry? I didn't think it was possible for anyone to sound like a wounded cat while bawling. Clearly Anderson proved me wrong."
Without even glancing back at his flatmate, Sherlock went to his bedroom and shut the door behind him.
The doctor rolled his eyes and kicked the side of the coffee table. Other than scooting it about an inch to the right, there was no damage done. John was normally able to tolerate his friend, but even his patience ran out from time to time. He constantly tried to reason with him (God forbid anyone else try to be logical), attempted to remind him that hedid actually have a job, even if he wasn't normally paid for it. And yet, Sherlock always let the words go in one ear and out the other (or, rather, "deleted it" from his memory) before insulting him in some degrading way.
He was sick of it.
Before he went along with his urge to storm into the other room and punch the taller man square in the face, John forced himself to walk into the kitchen to make some tea. For some reason, the mundane task cooled him off. He grabbed the electric kettle and filled it with water before plugging it in and turning it on. Normally, the appliance sat on the table, so he always knew where it was. However, the table was currently occupied by a transparent box of...something. It contained a liquid of some sort. It bubbled, it had a repulsive odor, and John was pretty sure that a fly he saw fall into it spontaneously combusted.
He glared at the experiment before sighing. That wasn't the main cause of his frustration. No, it was only one of the reasons. In the end, the real problem was just...Sherlock. John was simply fed up with him at the moment. It was nothing new, really. It happened every once in a while, when the detective decided to be a real pain in the arse. Despite the simmering irritation, the doctor had a feeling that he would get to do his rant and, not too long after, would act as if nothing happened. It seemed to happen every damn time. Truth be told, it was another thing he was tired of.
Why did he always end up dropping things when it came to his flatmate? He had every right to be angry with the man whenever he was and yet, once he lost his temper, he had to fix things...because Sherlock sure as hell wasn't going to make the effort.
Still, though...why couldn't John ever stay mad at him?
Yes, the genius sociopath was his best mate, but that was all. Friends got angry with one another. They fought and picked on each other. Normally, people in this type of situation would just go with the silent treatment for a few days before talking everything out. John, though? When it came to Sherlock, he could only ignore him for a few hours before practically crawling back to him.
Why?
Why, why, why?
The only other time John acted like this was when it came to his girlfriends. If they had a row, he was always the one to apologize, to try and settle things. He would do whatever the woman wanted in order to make things between them okay again.
His behavior, his feelings...they lined up with...romantic attraction. Love, even. Did John love Sherlock? Of course he did. He had to love the madman to an extent in order to live with him. But...it had to be just in a friendly way, right? A brotherly way.
"I'm not gay," John mumbled irritably to himself as the kettle began to whistle.
He wasn't.
He couldn't be.
As he poured the steaming water into his teacup, Sherlock stepped out of his room wrapped in nothing but the white sheet from his bed. Clothing was dull. Plus, the sheet was far more comfortable and...freeing. He didn't even have to look at the kitchen to know where John was and what he was doing. "Two sugars," he called to him while flopping onto the sofa.
John scowled a little. "I'm not your bloody maid," he replied grumpily. "Make your own damn tea."
The taller man sat up a little, somewhat surprised by his friend's retort. His eyes narrowed slightly and he tilted his head. Why was the other man angry? What could've possibly happened in the short span of time he'd been in his room? It didn't make the least bit of sense to him.
Despite John's irritation, he still ended up walking out of the kitchen with two cups. "Here, you ruddy git," he grumbled. He placed Sherlock's cup on the coffee table and began to head towards his armchair.
The younger man's eyes trailed after him. "...John?" Sherlock's tone was quieter than usual, hesitant even. He was not one to understand emotions, but he did know when feelings were causing high levels of tension.
"What?" John finally snapped. He turned around sharply, like the soldier he used to be, in order to look in his direction. "What, is your tea not up to standards? Is it like all of these cases have been? Boring? Uninteresting? Or, oh– wait." He placed his free hand on his hip and locked gazes with him. This was all totally uncalled for, but he couldn't seem to keep his mouth shut. "No, you're going to point out my lack of intelligence because I can't even make a bloody cup of tea right? Tell me what an idiot I am, like you always do? Because you seem to get some sort of sick pleasure out of it?"
Sherlock had grown pretty accustomed to the older man's sudden emotional outbursts. There was something different about this time, though. It was as if something had caused his one and only friend to crack. There was more to this than just the situation at hand, obviously.
He tried to deduce John, but eventually came to a dead-end, as always. There were many things he could pick out, mostly in regards to physical appearance and choice of clothing. However, a full deduction? He could never do it...which both intrigued and irritated him. There were plenty of reasons as to why he kept his blogger around, of course. This was definitely one of them.
The detective sat there silently in his sheet, observing. Minutes passed between them before he spoke up again. "John...come here." He patted the spot next to him on the sofa. When the other man glared, he sighed softly. Why did he have to make things so difficult sometimes? "Please."
Although he didn't want to, John somehow ended up beside him. What the hell are you doing? Stop it! You're supposed to be mad at him for being a prick! "What?" he hissed.
Sherlock, for once, had no idea what he was doing. He was just following what he had seen on crap telly and read on the Internet. Instead of answering his friend, he inched closer to him. Elevated heart rate... he thought to himself. Strange. I have not even done anything yet.
Was he aware of his feelings for John? Oh, of course. He had picked up on his clear interest before they had even finished solving "A Study in Pink." (Still a terrible name for the case.) He acknowledged them, but he had never done anything...since he hadn't been sure what he was actually supposed to do.
John's anger wavered a bit when he suddenly felt his friend's thigh press up against the side of his own. "Um...Sherlock?" The bitterness had melted away. "W-What are you doing?" The red flags were starting to wave obnoxiously in his mind. Danger, danger!
"Shh," Sherlock replied harshly, as if John were breaking his concentration. His mind was racing more so than usual and part of him wished the thoughts would just stop. He always got like this when he was around the blonde, especially this close to him. Now that their bodies were touching, he started to lean over and down to make up for their height difference.
What is he doing?! Get away, get away! Push him away! Do something! Sherlock wasn't the only one with speeding thoughts. For John, though, it was more about the mixed emotions and frightened, heteronormative voice. That side of him was about to throw a panicked fit. The other part of him?Well...it was making him slowly move his torso to the left, closer to his flatmate. The detective felt a faint smile tug the corner of his lips upward. John's body language, though tense, told him he had permission to proceed. His face closed in on his at an achingly slow speed.
John gasped when he could feel his friend's breath on his face. They were only a couple of inches apart now. He could nearly feel Sherlock's perfectly-shaped lips brush against his skin. "S-Sherlock..." he said breathlessly. He was barely audible. "I...I'm not...gay..."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. Only John could ruin a moment like this. And people thought he didn't understand how society worked? Morons. "John?" He paused, his voice barely above a whisper. "Shut up." With that out of the way, he closed the space between them and captured his lips with his own.
John's eyes became huge and the voice was now screaming in his head. He would've shoved Sherlock away...he would've cursed him out and called him a crazy prat, among other things. He didn't, though...because the majority of him didn't want to. Oh, no...who could reject someone with such...soft lips? Who wore the scent of cologne and shampoo most people would have to pay an arm and a leg for? And – oh Dear God – whose hands had such a comforting touch? By this point the man in question had rested his hand on John's shoulder. Shuddering with pleasure, the doctor slowly closed his eyes and, despite the internal battle he was having, allowed himself to return the kiss.
Sherlock tried to keep his attention fully in the moment since he was determined to observe John's reaction. Every twitch, every muscle movement, he wanted to note and memorize. He found his friend was quickly losing himself in their rather innocent intimacy. He wanted to do the same, but – oh, wait. His thoughts...where were they? They were...silent. Dead silent. Muted. How? How could something like that even be possible? Oh...what did it even matter at this point? The man he had fallen hopelessly in love with, his "straight" flatmate, was kissing him and easily proving that the feelings he'd been so hesitant to share were reciprocated.
And, for the moment, that was all that mattered.