This is the first chapter of what will eventually be a Johnlock fic of about 10 chapters, most of them shorter than this. Please give feedback as this is my first attempt at Johnlock and I really want to get better! Hope you enjoy!(Side note: this is rated M for later chapters ;D)

It was getting late. Too late to do this, but John hadn't given himself much choice had he?

The flat was dark, it's usually autumn-evening dark, and the fire was in need of more wood. The window-panes where compressed by the heavy London air, and the heady heat of 221B after nightfall. Sherlock's superfluous abandon of antique texts perfumed the living room. Like always in the early evenings, the scent sent John spiralling into a hazy state of comatose need. For what, he of course, was never quite sure.

Sherlock was nowhere in plain sight as John proceeded to stoke the fire, and remove his heavy coat. He bit his lip. He glanced around the flat, considering that it was more appropriate for Sherlock to be absent for this. He grabbed the phone from the kitchen, fell into his armchair and dialled the barely familiar number, with each new tone reverberating sickeningly. God, he was dreading this.

Sherlock was hidden in the ample darkness of the hallway. Smirking against the purple light, he heard the sounds of John's torment and was for once anxious to not be found by the doctor. He knew that John would rather not have Sherlock hear his latest struggle to depart from a relationship, and what John didn't know didn't hurt him. Sherlock's abilities to stretch gracefully and silently through 221B, its measurements, angles and textures etched into his subconscious, was undeniably useful for an abundance of occasions; the foremost, toying with John like he did.

He heard the minute sounds of John's guilty movements and the choked tone of his ever-strong voice as he gave a small greeting to his converser. He felt the change in John's breathing as he continued. It made him smug. He could trace every outline of John's attempts to be consoling and compassionate blind.

After waiting until the bitter exchange had reached its later stage, Sherlock waltzed into the main room, discarded his own coat and glanced toward John. Within the briefest millisecond, he had let his gaze fall upon John's strong jaw, his sweeping brow and sturdy limbs, and he had read the relief that was present upon his face.

Then Sherlock felt his breath steady a little, which was abnormal as he had never realised it had been abnormal in the first place.

Sherlock crossed to the window, and chanced another look at the doctor. The conversation was moments from its end and Sherlock could tell John hadn't seen his eyes hover over him. And that he hadn't wanted Sherlock to notice his forbidden glance in his direction, as he swayed on the spot.

John spoke softly now, reassuring himself, the phone slipping away from his attention. Sherlock caught these words only, for he had paid no attention to the trivial recital that played out before him seconds ago. And he heard them with the accompanying drum of his untaught heart and surging blood.

'No, there's nobody else'

'No, he doesn't count'

'Wait, what did you say?' John pondered.

'Okay, then maybe, uh, what do you want me to do…' and Sherlock stopped listening to John's hopeless attempts.

John stopped talking entirely. He put down the phone. He sighed. He smiled weakly. The temperature in the flat grew reasonable again. He let his eyes wander to Sherlock and met his gaze with a questionable look.

'What did you expect, John?' Sitting now, in his armchair.

'She took it well, well, as well as she could, being dumped by phone,' John smirked then, fully aware that Sherlock was watching as his lips moved to form new words, and fully aware that Sherlock knew he was aware of this.

The detective brought his knees to his chin, his heels to the seat of his chair and sat with his hands resting about his neck.

'No new cases?'

'No, John'

The doctor's eyes fell to the fire; he let its soaking warmth dry out the regret he was feeling. It was unlike John to end a relationship via phone, and Sherlock had noted this with interest. He had considered all of the possible explanations, but was yet to ask John of this matter. He wondered if he should wait, until morning at least. But something about the way the doctor's hands lay on the side of the chair, and the way his back arched, and how his eyes moved to examine Sherlock's fingertips, made him ask that question then.

'John'

'Yes, Sherlock?'

'John, you understand that I don't concern myself with your private life-'

'Sherlock, you can hardly call scaring off my girl-'he began.

'John, why didn't you tell this woman that you wanted to end your relationship with her by other means, if phoning her was such hardship?'

'You're telling me, the great Sherlock Holmes can't figure that out?' John looked puzzled rather than teasing. He brought his head up to meet Sherlock's impenetrable gaze.

'It seems to me, John, that you didn't want to cause this woman any harm, and yet it also seems that you knew doing what you did, would do exactly that. You have never ended a relationship so intentionally, and it leads to me to a conclusion that baffles me in the most profound way, John.'

Sherlock had said it before he had known what it was he was saying. The way he let his dry, un-quivering explanations fall from his unexplored lips on a case turned even the most quick-witted of men into word-less observers. He liked it that way.

But now, he couldn't stop these things he saw spilling from his mouth, however true they were. John knew what was coming; the colour drained from his face. He breathing hitched. His grip on his chair tightened, and for the slightest second Sherlock let his eyes hover on John's rough, strong hands.

'John-'

'No, Sherlock, you can't interrogate me like one of the clients, this isn't how this works,'

His words had been strong and echoing, but never loud, and they hit Sherlock squarely. John, blinked. Then again. What else to say? He waited.

Sherlock looked ready to begin his monologue again, but abruptly John stood, his anxiousness to do something propelling him a foot further forward than anticipated and he found himself awkwardly positioned in front of Sherlock, his crotch level with Sherlock's head, and unbearably close.

In that moment Sherlock could have done a number of things, and all of them crossed his mind in the bizarre second for which he and John were silhouetted by the fire in their vulnerable position. He didn't however, do anything out of the ordinary.

He stared ahead for the briefest of brief moments, eyes flickering over what lay in front of him. His eyes darted upward. His hands relaxed on his neck, falling to his sides. He smiled. He saw the embarrassment in John's expression and he wished him goodnight.

John turned on the spot, brought his hand upwards to play at his hair line, and trod out of the room.

He was halfway up the stairs, when Sherlock, who had reclined in his chair and replaced his hands together below placid expression, heard him.

'Sherlock, I'm-'

'Not gay, yes, you've mentioned, John' Sherlock finished.

John continued up the stairs, wishing his shoulders hadn't flinched the way they had at the sound of Sherlock purring his name the way he did.

Thanks for reading this far! Please tell me what you are thinking! The next chapter will be up within a few days.