"The Doctor." Sherlock's voice sounded from the sofa.
"What?" John voiced his confusion as he stepped over the threshold, stripping from his thick jacket. "Have you been watching TV again? Doctor Who?"
"No, 'The Doctor'," Sherlock repeated, sitting up and meeting John's gaze.
Sherlock was in his bathrobe, the grey pajamas underneath and a messy 'in-need-of-a-brush' mop of dark curls on top of his head. It had once again been boring for weeks. As if for once people couldn't find the need to bash each other in the heads due to spats over family Christmas diner.
John tucked the newspaper under his arm so he could move whatever had been placed on his chair. Some books about human anatomy and deformations… and something that was currently wrapped in plastics and looked worryingly much like a thick boomerang… yes, a boomerang, no arm, definitely not an arm.
"What's this about, Sherlock? You hardly ever repeat yourself." John sat down on the chair, tugging the pillow under his arm and placing the paper on his lap.
"Your name." Sherlock answered vaguely.
"My job, you mean," how could the genius make such a mistake? Or..? John stood again, pulling Sherlock's sleeve up before the detective could protest.
No, no new puncture wounds on this arm.
"I am clean, John. Have been for almost two years now." The detective stated with annoyance clearly ringing through in his voice as John inspected the other arm.
Sherlock spoke the truth. John couldn't find any tell tale signs of any drug use.
"Then what are you blabbering on about 'doctor' being my name?" John once again moved to his own chair, unfolding the paper this time and glancing at the front page news.
"Your superhero name," Okay, that did catch John's attention. "it would be 'The Doctor'."
"'Superheroes don't exist'," John replied in an imitation of Sherlock's voice.
"If you find the need to quote, then do so correctly and stop twisting my words," was Sherlock's reply, moving to his own armchair opposite of John's. "'Heroes don't exist and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them.' Those are the exact words, John."
"Okay, so you decided that making up a superhero name for me, a grown man, was a useful way to make your boredom more bearable?" He was surprised that Sherlock could remember the conversation at all. One would think that dealing with Moriarty was more important than a little spat between the two of them. John shook his head, dealing with a bored Sherlock was like dealing with a young child. "Exactly how long did it take you?"
Sherlock did catch onto the amused, but exasperated tone in John's mocking words and took the liberty of pouting ever so slightly. "The name might seem simple and very obvious, however it's the arguments which have to support the choice. Exactly those arguments are what take up some time."
Interest piqued, John folded the paper again, dropping it on top of the laptop and unopened bills. "You actually made up arguments to prove how a fictional nickname would make sense for me?"
"'I wouldn't be of them', but there are heroes, John." Sherlock's fixed him with a piercing stare, hands steeped together against his chin like usual.
John pulled a questioning face, eyebrows rising high on his forehead.
Now what was the best way to bring it? Sherlock remained silent for several more minutes before finally opening his mouth. "There are heroes," He repeated, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue. "There are people who save lives, John. People who will fight for justice. People who care." It had been the very thing that John had accused him off, not caring, but John always did, John always cared.
John already started to shake his head, suddenly getting what Sherlock was trying to tell him.
"You, John, are a hero." Sherlock obviously didn't heed the signals of nervousness and denial that oozed from the ex-soldier.
But John wasn't the only one who could act before Sherlock reacted. Sherlock could do exactly the same thing. Sherlock too could do things before John even had the mind to protest, and so he did. Padding over on bare feet and draping himself onto John's lap, legs dangling from the armrest. John was taken aback, completely frozen, hands dangling uselessly from arms that were raised in surprise. Sherlock flashed a smirk, winding his long, delicate fingers around John's neck and pulling him closer, their noses almost touching. "My hero, John. The ever caring, gentle and loyal 'Doctor'."
And Sherlock could claim it was all an experiment, 'The human reaction to compliments' or 'How far compliments and seduction work on a straight man'.
He could claim this 'superhero'-talk to be all of that. But, eyes closed in anxious anticipation, he realized he didn't need any excuses, for after half a minute after he had pulled him in fully, lips sealed, did he feel the gentle pressure of the kiss being returned.
The detective opened his eyes, wanting to catalog every expression and reaction to this new experience, to memorize every aspect of this superhero, his John.
It was no full force, mind blowing, breath taking kiss, but a chaste one, small and shy, but that didn't take away that there had been contact and the evidence of that was a bright red John Watson. Sherlock quickly stole another small kiss before this event turned out to be a dream, one as fragile as a soap bubble.
But it was no dream.
If it had been a dream John would have spoke up with something like "I'll always be your hero, Sherlock, if you want me to be." Or "You are completely nuts, Sherlock" followed by an amused and either a playful shove (so he would fall from John's lap, but he never cared) or a more passionate kiss, often leading to more…
John's answer was, after all, far from ideal. "My leg, Sherlock…"