This is a fic written for reluctantabandon, because she won a sort-of giveaway on my tumblr! Her prompt was: "Sherlock says he loves John first. How does it happen & what's the aftermath? Any rating."

If it's a bit hard to tell, this takes place the same night that Sherlock wraps up Henry's case at Dewar's Hollow in The Hounds of Baskerville, and is a precursor to an AU gifset that I made, which can be found here: post/39467855022/au-meme-surprisingly-sherlock-is-the-first-one

Also, preemptive apologies for badly written smut. I tried.

One of John's worst habits is that he thinks about the wrong things at the wrong time.

It's a common problem – something that someone says or does triggers a thought that he'd been meaning to dwell on in his free time and he ends up thinking about that one summer before his first year of uni that he spent somewhere in Holland while he's supposed to be assisting Sherlock on a case. It gets him distracted and turned around and confused – three steps behind when Sherlock is ten steps ahead. But not tonight.

Tonight he's thinking, but it's definitely not about old summers and the Red Lights District.

Because - and he doesn't notice when the transition happens - he finds himself covered by his flatmate, whose lips are insistent against his own.

Tonight, he's thinking that he's most definitely going to get a lay from Sherlock Holmes, and so far, that's turning out absolutely fantastic. Before he thinks about this, though, before he manages to catch onto the topic at hand, he thinks about something else. And it's just for one fleeting moment – it's not really even pondering, it's just a passing thought; practically meaningless.

He muses – with the handle to the door of their room at the inn pressing sharply against his side, the wall against his back, and Sherlock pressed against every inch of his front – that time is a very odd thing.

Of course, that thought is dismissed just a moment later and replaced with a few more obscene ideas, but – well; it's the thought that counts, isn't it?

Time is a funny thing. That's a fact and is regularly brought up in passing conversation.

Time sure does fly when you're having fun, and oh, where did the time go?

People take advantage of the time they have and the time they don't. It's not a material object; it's a schedule they follow. Time runs lives, and that's a distressing thing, because time is more flexible than people are, and it's challenging to keep track of.

Eyes close for a mere moment, late in the evening, intending to pass a single second, but when they open again, it's hours later, and no one has felt a thing. Time can't be felt during its passing – it seems like it can be, with minutes dragging on and on during periods of tedium or agony, hours slipping by like seconds during enjoyable activities, but that's just the conception of a single human mind. Time passes differently for everyone.

Time passes in extreme contrast between Sherlock and John, but – in this circumstance and no others – John is the one that thinks about it; Sherlock doesn't pay it half his mind.

It wouldn't do him any good, anyway – thinking about time and the way it passes, that's all useless. Time is only useful as a marker, to learn how long a victim has been dead, or keep track of experiments. What difference is there in going to bed at three in the afternoon or four in the morning? He doesn't care.

John – John's always looking at the time. Sherlock calls him commonplace for that. Everyone looks at the time, lets it rule their agendas and limit them in their life. John checks his watch periodically, asks about the date, and complains to Sherlock about when it is appropriate to play the violin and when it's really, really not. John likes to keep track because he is a man of routine, and time is a good ruler.

But he uses the time for other things. To make sure Sherlock's eating enough to keep him out of the hospital, to know when he'll need to do the laundry, and to know how long he can wait to call his girlfriend.

However, as previously mentioned, time is hard to keep track of, so when he woke up one day and realised that he thought of Sherlock as a friend and not just a flatmate, he didn't remember when it happened. He trundled down the stairs and snatched the newspaper out of Sherlock's hands like it was something they did every day, and - as harmless revenge - Sherlock hid his shoes (and refused to tell him where they were using anything but riddles).

And for the first time since returning home, John was blissfully happy.

One thing John's sure of is that he definitely doesn't have any qualms about how the night is going to go over. A few issues might come up, but those can be dealt with when they make themselves known.

Really, the only thing that's making itself a point of concern is how much Sherlock is shaking - John can feel tremors in his hands (wrapped around the back of John's neck and cupping his jaw roughly) and trembling throughout his torso. There's no question as to the cause - John can feel a fair amount of shaking in his own hands (grabbing handfuls of Sherlock's coat), and he's suppressing it as much as he can, but frankly, tonight he was fucking terrified.

He mumbles Sherlock's name against the man's lips and attempts to pull away, but Sherlock follows him.

"Sherlock," John repeats, turning his head, and Sherlock ducks to press his lips bruisingly against John's jaw. "Sherlock, you need to let me look at you."

"I'm fine," Sherlock mutters, nipping at his jaw. Despite himself, John shivers and pulls him just closer.

"We're not doing anything until you let me look you over or until you at least talk to me," he insists.

Sherlock growls lowly. "This wasn't traumatic enough to even nearly - "

"You just hallucinated and saw a man lose his life; you're shaking like no other; would you - " John grunts quietly and lets go of Sherlock's coat to place a hand on his chest and push him backwards, earning a piercing gaze that he can hardly see through the dark.

"I want this," John promises. "I don't know when I figured out that I do, but god, I do. Just let me look you over. Two minutes." He looks at the detective pleadingly.

Resignedly, Sherlock steps back the two feet it takes to fall onto the bed and shucks off his coat before plopping down. "Get on with it," he grumbles. John sighs in relief and steps forward, turning on the bedside lamp and kneeling in front of him.

"Look at me," he says firmly. Sherlock's lip turns up angrily but he stares down at John, and god, is it a sight. His hair is mussed and his lips are plump and kissed red; his pupils are dilated widely, but John can't be sure if that's shock or if it's his own fault. John's fingers cover the pulse point of Sherlock's wrist and his heartbeat is quick, but strong. He doesn't look any more pale than usual.

"Do you feel nauseous?" he asks.

"No."

"Light-headed?"

"Yes, but I have an entire different reason for that."

John bites down on the inside of his lip. "Err - " he clears his throat. "Yeah, I think you're - fine."

"Good." Sherlock reaches down to grab John by the front of his coat and hauls him onto the bed.

After the entire Irene Adler period of their lives, there had been an in-between, hazy white section, with Sherlock shifting back and forth between obnoxiously exuberant and depressed beyond reprieve, and John stuck dwelling on anything and everything that had confused him over the past few months. He'd been aware that he cared for Sherlock more than most people had in the past, and more than he'd cared for most people in general, but Irene had inadvertently shoved him into an interpolated state, looking back and forth between the point of friends and the point of beyond. And all that was rather terrifying to think about, because the person of affection in question was Sherlock, and the chances of anything escalating there were unbelievably slim.

Something that John discovered, though, was that Sherlock was a sort of mirror when it came to John's own actions and emotions; so when John sat down a bit too close to him on the sofa, Sherlock would do so the next night. When John had to pass by him, he'd place a hand on his back momentarily before letting the touch fall, and Sherlock would lay a hand on his shoulder when he did it later in return.

The awkward in-between became less awkward, but far more of a ground with no territory, where touches and extended gazes were far more common, and John didn't have a problem with that - not even after he realised that Sherlock was definitely somewhere on the same level as himself. He only wondered when the detective's personal policies had changed and why he was the exception.

The kiss Sherlock takes when he pulls John up leaves the doctor dizzy and breathless, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's slender torso and straddling his lap. Between each kiss he tries to gather a few more of the loose strands that are the scattered thoughts he'd had previously. Sherlock's hands have found their way to John's hips and his fingertips are digging into his skin, having slipped under the hem of his jumper.

"Do you want this?" John breathes. "Do you really want this? This isn't just some reaction to tonight, not just some stupid, adrenaline fuelled decision?"

"No. God, no," Sherlock groans into his mouth.

"Everything changes after this, I can't - can't go back to - f-fuck." His sentence cuts short when Sherlock drags their clothed erections together. John bites down on the detective's lip before shaking himself and starting again. "I can't pretend this didn't happen," he rasps.

"No," Sherlock agrees.

"There's no going back to normal after this."

"No."

"What's that going to make us, then?" John asks. Sherlock opens his eyes to look up at John and he can feel the intensity of his gaze burning a hole into his skin, so he opens his eyes and chokes out a little gasp, because the complete openness of Sherlock's expression is remarkable.

"What do you want this to be?" Sherlock purrs. "I've wanted this - wanted something, anything - for months."

John exhales shakily. "Wanted to sleep with me?"

"Yes," Sherlock admits. "Wanted to kiss you, wanted to touch you, wanted to sleep next to you and wake up next to you; wanted to experience this whole odd situation you call a relationship. All of that. Everything."

For a moment John just stares at him, his mouth agape in the slightest, and he soaks in the absolute truth of everything Sherlock told him. "Everything?" he repeats.

"Everything."

Taking a slow breath, John nods minutely and kisses Sherlock again; far more slowly, their lips sliding together unbelievably sweetly. "Alright," he murmurs. "Everything." An exhilarated smile overtakes his expression and his fingers curl in the material of Sherlock's shirt, and he thinks that this is definitely happening, and that it's a bit fantastic.

About a week before Sherlock and John had headed to Dartmoor with Henry, there'd been a particularly arduous case that had ended with a serious case of sleep deprivation and John half-carrying Sherlock home. That wasn't anything particularly unusual, because most of the time Sherlock could hardly make it to the cab after a good case, and it was always a pain in the arse, but John never really minded.

So he dragged and shoved the lanky git up the stairs the way he normally did, managing to get down the hall and all the way to Sherlock's room. As per routine, he pulled the detective's coat and shoes off, and tossed him onto his bed. And just as he was ready to leave the room, Sherlock turned over and muttered his name, and John stared, and contemplated, before deciding that his room was too far away, and one time wouldn't hurt. His shoes and his coat joined Sherlock's on the floor, and he walked around to the other side of the bed and crawled under the duvet.

He fell asleep thinking that it didn't seem strange to him that he was lying in his best friend's bed at five in the morning, nor was it odd that he rather liked the way everything felt: good, content. And he thought that the way things changed over time was especially hilarious, because he wouldn't have been okay with it three months ago, but he was more than glad to be where he was right then.

As to be expected, everything is a bit rough, what with John having no experience with a man and Sherlock having no experience, period. Elbows poke and noses bump and fingers fumble over buttons and zips and delectable expanses of skin. John ends up laughing when Sherlock's ridiculously bony knee jabs him in the stomach, and Sherlock can't fathom for the life of him what John finds so funny.

"What the hell are you laughing at?" he persists.

"Nothing," John says, laughing again, pressing his face into Sherlock's chest. "This just isn't going over as smoothly as I'd hoped."

Furrowing his brow, Sherlock asks, "Well, that's easily assumable, isn't it?"

"Yeah, I guess," John submits. He lifts his head and settles his chin on Sherlock's sternum, looking up at him with a wan smile. "Probably should try a bit slower, hmm?"

"No rush," Sherlock agrees. John smiles a bit wider and pushes up off his stomach to inch closer and kiss Sherlock, running a hand over his chest.

"Have I told you," he mutters, "that you're absolutely gorgeous?"

"About three times now," Sherlock concedes with a smirk. His fingers trail over the bare skin of John's back and his hand splays above his arse. "But I rather think I like hearing it."

"Mm, you would." That turns Sherlock's smirk into a full-on grin.

"What are you implying?" he asks smugly.

John leans back so that he's straddling Sherlock's torso, knees on either side of his chest, and smirks down at him, a mischievous glint in his eye. "That you're an egocentric, self-aggrandising bastard and I can't stand to so much as look at you."

"I am chastened and ashamed," Sherlock says with a mocking pout, sitting up on his elbows. "However, I'm not sure that looking at me is necessarily a requirement." His hand moves around to John's front and over his stomach, down onto his thigh. John shivers against his touch.

"God, you're a tease," he mutters.

With a small, defiant huff, Sherlock shifts his hand to the side and loosely curls his fingers around John's erection. "Would you prefer I were more direct?" he purrs.

John's eyes flutter shut and his lips part slightly. "Direct is - err - good," he mumbles breathily.

A soft scoff escapes Sherlock and he wraps his hand around John's shaft more firmly. "Do you like direct?" he asks, stroking slowly. "Right to the point, straightforward? Or could you like to be drawn out as long as possible?" His grasp loosens again and his fingertips drag lightly from root to tip; John moans softly. "Pushed to the edge of your limit? It's a tad masochistic, but I can see it as a contingency." Sherlock smirks up at him and slides his thumb over the head of John's cock.

"That's - uhm," John breathes. "I could definitely like that."

"I have to say I enjoy the image I'm receiving from that particular option. You, writhing, begging. It's... Very nice."

John runs his hands up Sherlock's sides and over his pecs, running a thumb over one of his nipples when he brings them back down to his stomach, earning a little shiver. "Okay, this can't be the first time you've done this," he says, a bit shakily.

"Research, John," Sherlock rebuts, twisting his hand experimentally.

"Hold on. You've... watched porn?"

"Watched, read," Sherlock says in a musing tone. "Looked at articles and forums. Really, it's all quite easy to find."

"Yeah, I know," John says, half a smile on his face. "Did you find any of it... Interesting?"

"Very little," Sherlock admits. "But the few I did discover, I found extremely arousing."

John swallows thickly. "What were those?" he asks, feeling a quiet pride at the lack of hitch in his voice.

"Penetration; either giving or receiving, both seem equally stimulating." He grips John's cock more firmly again and strokes from base to tip, starting up a steady rhythm. "Bondage. Pulling rank; that'd be you, of course." A light flush covers his cheeks and John can feel that the very idea getting him more aroused. "Exhibitionism."
John looks down at him with a quirked brow. "Public?"

"Thrilling," Sherlock says lowly. "A constant possibility of being caught, keeps the adrenaline rushing; you, if anyone, should surely be taken by that idea. Dangerous."

John gapes at him and a shiver spikes down his spine. "Christ," he mutters. "Yeah, that's definitely - yeah." Sherlock smirks at him and strokes a bit faster.

"I could suck you off in the restroom at the Yard," he suggests sultrily. "Or meet you at the pub and take you around back. Lift you up against the wall and fuck you." John screws his eyes shut and rocks gently into Sherlock's hand. "Bring you off in the back of a cab."

"God, yes."

"Watching you try to control yourself would be magnificent," Sherlock continues. "Holding back all sounds and faces. Your expressions are extremely telling; has anyone ever mentioned?"

"Uhh," John mumbles. He licks his lips, shaking his head. "Err, no. I don't think so."

"You're transfixing. I'm still not able to read every look you have. Still discovering new ones." He gazes up at John and tilts his head, and John doesn't have to open his eyes to know the look he's being given. It's a visual dissection, but he doesn't mind, because he's under the full attention of Sherlock Holmes, and it's blindingly brilliant. "This one is... Unfathomably alluring," Sherlock exhales a few moments later. "Something I've never seen from you before, for sure. Torn down to your very core."

They stay where they are for a moment, silent, Sherlock still stroking John absentmindedly, and John eventually opens his eyes and looks down at the man, and his expression is much like John imagines his own must be. His eyes are half-shut and his lips are parted and he's just so unbelievably infallibly imperfect, and John decides that he loves the man sitting right there with him.

John takes a slow breath before reaching down to take Sherlock's hand from his erection. "Sit up," he mumbles, lacing his fingers through Sherlock's. Sherlock gives him a quizzical look, but shifts to sit up against the headboard anyhow. John lifts his hips and just barely lets out the beginning of a breathy moan as Sherlock's cock drags along his arse and rests against Sherlock's stomach, and he settles himself back in Sherlock's lap, hips pressed together in a startlingly perfect fit.

The pair's breath intermingles when John leans in, and their noses touch and their lips brush. Sherlock's free hand settles on John's leg and his fingers curl around the back of John's thigh. They watch each other through half-lidded eyes until Sherlock cranes his neck the rest of the way and takes John's bottom lip between his own, pressing softly and trailing his tongue along the edge. John moves their linked hands to take both of their erections and stroke together, and his other hand comes up to tangle in Sherlock's unruly curls.

The progression of the evening is rather backwards, having started off in a whirlwind and slowed down to a languid push and pull; skin sliding against skin; John's legs bracketing Sherlock's lithe little hips. Half of what they're doing is simply just snogging: smooth and drawn out, teeth grazing lips and yielding to tongues pressing one over the other and curling and twisting. There are slip-ups and nose bumps and clashes of teeth on teeth and every single one makes John smile and Sherlock reciprocate in turn, because it's half one in the morning and they're alone in a room miles away from their home and there are stories being played out on the other side of the walls; but this one is theirs, cast out by the dull orange glow of the bedside lamp and a bit of moonlight trickling in through the half-shut curtains.

They get there, eventually, to the end of the start, and John lets his eyes open for a split second of a moment and Sherlock looks back at him, and it's a silent inquiry of are you ready? and god, yes, please and I love yous that they can't say just then but are spoken nonetheless. Their breathy moans and huffs and half-formed utters fill the quiet in the best awkward sort of way, and John's hand strokes their cocks in time and it's perfectly frictional and new and such a sweet, sweet burn, and Sherlock comes with John's name on his lips, and John thinks he'd absolutely love to hear that for the rest of his life.

When Sherlock regains his breath and the haze surrounding his mind clears, he takes John's erection with his spidery digits and continues to bring him off, mimicking John's own movements and twisting and pulling and kissing him with complete control. John's hand (covered now in Sherlock's semen) curls around the man's sharp hipbone and his other grips Sherlock's hair tightly when he comes with a muted groan against Sherlock's lips.

They lie there in a heap of each other, which is somewhat sticky and wet, but they're too content to move immediately. John buries his face in Sherlock's neck and lets his breathing steady out, paying the smallest of attentions to the sensation of a warm hand in the small of his back and lips against his hairline. His head lifts eventually, his forehead pressing against Sherlock's. The detective looks at him with an open sense of curiosity before kissing him once and pulling back again.

"What are we now, then?" John asks softly.

"Do we need a label?" Sherlock inquires, and the question is genuine.

"No," John murmurs warmly. "No, we don't. We're us."

Sherlock beams. "We could use a good washing up," he points out.

"We should have a shower."

"We are far too spent to have a shower," Sherlock protests.

John snorts. "We are covered in semen," he rebuts.

"Then we ought to go get a wet flannel."

"And now 'we' has lost its meaning and is in complete reference to me," John mutters.

"We're quite correct," Sherlock says with a smirk. John jabs him in the side with his thumb and Sherlock laughs that gorgeous baritone laugh that makes John's heart absolutely melt. With a reluctant sigh, John climbs off of Sherlock's lap, wincing at the feel of the cold air of the room, and tries not to show his flushed face, because he knows that Sherlock is watching him as he walks to the toilet.

He takes a moment when he gets there to stare at himself in the mirror, and ends up chuckling under his breath. His hair is disheveled and his cheeks are red and there's come on his abdomen (and some on his chest), and he feels positively giddy with it all. There are fresh flannels under the sink, he recalls, so he crouches down to open the cupboard and pulls one out. John wets it under the tap and wrings it out, using it to wipe off the semen on his torso before stepping back out into the room and walking over to the bed. He holds the cloth out for Sherlock to take, but he just gets an expectant stare in return.

"No," John laughs, plopping down on the sheets. "You're completely off your mind if you think I'm cleaning you up."

"This is half your mess," Sherlock tells him, tilting his head in slight.

John throws the flannel at his stomach and gets back up, striding over to his case to pull out his pyjamas. With an exaggerated sigh, Sherlock picks the cloth up and wipes himself down, tossing it across the room when he's finished. John picks up Sherlock's pyjama pants from the floor where he left them in the morning and throws them to the bed, pulling his own on before flopping face down next to Sherlock, who ever-so-elegantly squirms around until he gets his pyjamas on without having to stand up. He turns over, accomplished, and half smiles at the man beside him.

"Hello," John murmurs.

"Hello," Sherlock repeats. John smiles widely as Sherlock leans over him to reach for and turn off the light, and lets himself curl closer to the other man, apprehensively resting his forehead against Sherlock's chest. Sherlock's arm drapes over John's shoulders and he hooks an ankle with one of John's, wriggling nearer to him.

"Oh, god, you would be the type to drape yourself all over someone," John half-groans into Sherlock's chest. Sherlock grins.

"Problem?"

"Yes; I'm afraid your bloody octopus limbs are going to strangle me in the dead of night." Sherlock laughs again and John revels in the feel of it shaking in his chest, the vibrations of his voice throughout his torso, and lets a few giggles his own slip past his lips. He lifts his head and tucks it against Sherlock's neck, letting one of his arms rest lazily over Sherlock's waist.

He had figured that he'd be able to fall asleep faster, worn from all the events of the day, but he finds himself lying in a content silence, stuck in a drowsy haze, comfortable and warm in Sherlock's loose embrace.

It has to be at least thirty minutes that they lie there together, and John knows Sherlock hasn't gone to sleep, and he thinks that Sherlock must know he hasn't either. His state of near rest, however, must have been convincing enough, or the detective isn't quite up to his usual par, because he starts to shift (cautiously, softly). One of his hands lifts and his fingers gently thread into the hair at John's nape, and his lips press against the top of John's head. The doctor remains as he is, now hyper-aware of the speed of his breathing and his movements, because he doesn't want to give up the illusion of his being asleep; he has a feeling that Sherlock wouldn't be showing this affection if he knew that John was awake.

When he remains like that for a good two minutes or so, John decides that he must be comfortable once again and lets himself start to fall back into that in-between cloud of contentment. Sherlock moves a few more times, for the most part just changing the location of his face in John's hair, and the quiet attention is lovely. He doesn't expect this to happen back home; this cuddling of sorts - Sherlock isn't the affectionate type, and John doesn't have a problem with that. He doesn't want Sherlock any other way. But this, at all hours of the night and well spent, is nice.

John is nearly asleep again when Sherlock speaks. It's a murmur, really, blanketed by John's hair, Sherlock's voice lowered to levels nearly inaudible. But when he does speak, John has to make a conscious effort not to show any hitch in his breathing or surprised stiffening of his muscles, because when Sherlock speaks, he says, "I love you."

It's more than evident to John then that Sherlock is quite secure in the fact that he thinks John is asleep, and the doctor has enough wit not to pipe up and reply or hug him tighter, because Sherlock had waited for him to be unconscious before he said anything aloud. He wasn't ready to say it just yet; not to John directly, at least. So he remains as he is, as well as he can, and tries to slow the loud pounding of his heart as discreetly as possible, and he thinks I love you, too, you madman, and he thinks that he'll tell him that in the morning.

When John falls asleep, it's to the thought that time is unbelievably strange, because an hour ago he would never have believed the notion that Sherlock Holmes loves him, and it is astonishing how quickly things can change.