This is my first fanfiction and I would love if you commented or followed or whatever and help me make my future entries better.
I do not own any characters below (except for Becca of course).
"You are actually allowing me access to an addictive liquid that takes away all morals and common sense?"
John rolls his eyes and plops down on a leather stool, waving down the bartender, "It's not like you have morals or common sense anyway." When Sherlock continues to bore him down with an intense gaze, most likely deducting, John adds, "Oh bloody hell just sit down and have a pint!"
Sherlock sits on a neighboring stool. He looks quite out of place with his posture and cold composure. "You are sad," he states. It is not a question.
Holmes confuses John's pause of irritation for one of befuddlement at how he reached this conclusion, "Red rimmed eyes, slow swallowing, flickering gaze, shortness of temper..."
"Of course I'm sad!"
Both men recieve drinks and avoid the gaze of the other.
John answers the question Sherlock would never ask for the sake of his pride, "I'm upset because of the case."
"The case? The case is solved."
"Well yes but a child had to die in the process..." John's voice fades out. He looks into his amber drink and takes a sip. The alchohol leaves a burn mark down his parched throat.
"But..."
"Sherlock, I know you have no heart but honestly!"
John waves down the bartender for another beverage and his flatmate does the same. Watson has never seen Holmes drink before. His composure is as rigid as ever but his blue eyes lose their familiar sharpness. They both drink away the silence.
"The man at the bar was most certaintly attracted to you," Sherlock strides into the flat, John stumbling in behind him.
"I don't believe you."
Sherlock looks at him haughtily.
"Okay, fine, I believe you. But still! He's a... well a guy!"
"So?"
John looks at Sherlock curiously.
Sherlock can feel his own mind move at a snails pace and struggles for words, "About the...child..."
"Oh Sherlock you don't have to..."
"...I'm sorry."
John, who knows Sherlock better than anyone, knows that this does not mean Holmes honestly feels pain at the loss of the boy but feels sorry for the pain Sherlock's own indifference inflicted on him, John. This does not make this statement any less rare or monumental.
Without quite knowing what he is doing, John makes his way across the flat and does not stop until his lips meet those of his friend's.
The kiss is stumbling and awkward but both men feel a bubbling warmth rise within them and do not make any move to stop. John's legs become even shakier and Serlock cannot honestly conjure a logical thought.
Their bodies seem to lean towards the ajar bedroom door. Their fingers tremble as they explore unknown territory.
John wakes to the sun shooting blinding rays into his weary eyes. Sherlock conducted an experiment last week using the fabric of their curtains (John chose not to question), leaving light to pour unfazed and to illuminate the bedroom.
He smiles stupidly as hazy images resurface in his mind. The dim lighting of a bar and the pungent smell of alcohol and sweat. The feeling of Sherlock's thin lips on his own. His tingling spine as Sherlock traced circles on John's bare back.
He looks down to see that he is in fact lying naked in his flatmate's bed. A blush creeps up his neck as the reality of the situation hits him. He feels he should be horrified or embarressed or regretful but instead he just gets butterflies. Slipping on boxer shorts, John pads into the living area. He is not quite sure what to expect.
Sherlock is perched at the computer, eyes shut and his fingers folded in their familiar pose. John bites his lip and crosses his arms to cover his chest, as if Sherlock hasn't seen him naked already.
"Sherlock?"
Holmes does not seem to hear him. John is both relieved and dissapointed to discover that Sherlock is deep in his mind palace and unavailable to talk. With a pit in his stomach that he internally blames on hunger, Watson goes to prepare himself breakfast from the sparse food in the kitchen.
As time sludges on John continually finds reasons not to confront his flatmate about that night. Or the fact that it has been playing through his mind like a skipping tape. Sherlock is seemingly oblivious the night happened at all. With an aching heart John accepts the inevitable and gives up his pursuit. When an attractive woman from his work asks him out to dinner he grudgingly accepts.
The night is all any bloke could hope for. His coworker, Becca, is warm and open. Her chocolately brown eyes never stray from his and she continuosly 'unconciously' brushes her hand against John's.
"What was your childhood like," she queries, her rich red lipstick leaving a smudge on her wineglass.
"Believe it or not I was quite popular back in the day. Lots of mates and lots of parties."
Becca teasingly smiles, "Popular? You?"
"This was back when I was still scarily skinny and my bumbling awkwardness was adorable."
"Very hard to believe." Her words are drawn out and her finger traces the ring of her empty glass.
John tries in vain to feel some sort of attraction for the beautiful woman basically throwing herself at him but instead feels sick to his stomach. "What about you," he asks with a thin smile. He has to try hard not to zone out her answer and pretend like he actually cares.
"I lived in an orphanage most of my life. My happiest memory was the day my parents brought me home. I never doubted how lucky I was."
Am I supposed to be touched by this, John wonders and can't help but be a bit disgusted by the sincerity of Becca's smile.
Paying the check and calling a cab as soon as tactfully possible, John can only think of getting back to the flat and Sherlock.
The car rumbles beneath them and John's mind strays to his flatmate and his own confusing emotions towards the insufferable genius. It is a moment before he realises Becca is caressing his upper leg. I should enjoy this, he scolds himself, Why am I thinking of my best friend...a man when here Becca is right beside me? John turns and kisses her, hating himself all the while.
Her lips and hands move with certainty and it is quickly obvious that this is not Becca's first makeout session in the back of a cab.
When the car screeches to a halt at Becca's flat John abstains from getting out. "Work in the morning," he lamely mumbles. His heart seems to be tugging him home and the thought of sleeping with slutty Becca makes him want to vomit.
Becca gives him a look that says she will not be seeing him again and yet he is not at all perturbed.
With only the lulling sound of tires on gravel John's focus once again leaves him. Becca's warm touch pales in comparison to Sherlock's cool, slender fingers on his heated skin. He ponders Sherlock's blue eyes that seem to tell an untold story. Sherlock's thin body curved around John's. Sherlock's fervent lips... John shudders involuntarily and looks out the smudged window to see he is at 221B.
He pays the cabbie and makes his way up the stairs, now dreading another sickeningly cordial encounter with Holmes.
"My date was horrid thanks for not asking," John says to the back of Sherlock's head.
"I don't see why it was so horrid."
"Excuse me?"
"I don't see why it was so horrid," he repeats.
"You are going to have to expound."
"By the state of your apparrel and hair and the redness of your lips your date was quite...steamy."
John is both befuddled and horrified. Befuddled because he does not recall Sherlock even glancing at him since he entered the flat. Horrified that he even uttered the word 'steamy' let alone used it to describe his awkward date with Becca. "She only wanted sex. Plus, she was far too...normal and kind."
"Kindness and normality is dull and overrated."
"Agreed."
Holmes turns around for the first time, "Isn't now the time you should be scolding me for my general apathy instead of complying? It goes against your entire personality and is quite offputting."
With the lingering feeling of Becca's cold kiss and the wine in his system John finally addresses the issue he has been sidestepping for weeks, "Why won't you talk about it?"
Though Sherlock does not respond his pursed lips and wandering eyes suggest he knows exactly what Watson is referring to.
John continues, "You can't just sleep with your best friend..."
"I don't have friends."
"...and then pretend it didn't happen."
Sherlock takes note of John's shallow breathing and teary eyes and takes a moment to formulate a curt yet clear response, "Relationships are tedious and I have no desire to form a further one with you. It was a moment of weakness and I am sorry for the pain I may have inflicted with my carelessness."
Tears spill onto John's flushed cheeks and his voice becomes audibly strained, "A moment of weakness implies you were holding back before."
"I am far too busy with me work..."
"...and with being a total dick to your only friend to pay any attention to your emotions which I know are present."
"Don't put words in my mouth John," he clips.
"If you didn't want commitment maybe you should've, I dunno...not slept with me!"
"John!"
"Maybe you don't care but..."
"...you are being utterly..."
"...I LOVE YOU."
Sherlock stops in his tracks, face vulnerable in shock. Though it is a large leap from the prior conversation he reaches out and squeezes John's hand. His heart beats wildly.
He does not tell John why he has been so distant. He does not tell him that he feels so intensely for him that he feared and ran away from his own emotion. He does not mention that John was his first and only. He does not tell him that he clings to those moments with him like a life preserver in a world of people who he does not care for and do not care for him. He does not say I love you back. But his hand clasping John means all of these things. All in one, simple touch. A moment all their own.
Both of their hearts ache with a passion so potent they know they will never be just be colleagues. Never just flatmates. Never just friends.