I know this has been done to death, but I really did want to write it. As soon as this is over, I'll shove it back into the grave and never write something like this again, I promise. Mostly fluff, because me writing smut would be disastrous. Possibly even 50 Shades of Grey levels of disastrous smuttiness. I tried my best to make this sound like it wasn't written by an ignorant American, but I may have slipped up at some point. If I say pants I mean trousers, if I say taxi I mean cab, etc. Also, I basically pulled these "experiments" out of my head, so I have no idea if they would actually be something Sherlock would do. Concrit is welcomed. Enjoy!
{1}
It was early a chilly Sunday morning in 221B. The tile floor of the kitchen was cold as John's bare feet padded across it to the kettle. He yawned as he made himself tea, only half awake. When it was done, he poured himself a mug, picked up a newspaper, and walked into the living room. He sat down in his chair, opened the newspaper, and read the first line before he paused, feeling as though something was off. John didn't feel a pair of eyes on him as he usually did when he read the paper. Sherlock had made a habit of watching John's eyes move across the page, then calculating his reading pace, and almost always making a comment about how slow of a reader John was. John had been uncomfortable with it at first, but in time he got used to it like he did to all of Sherlock's odd habits, and Sherlock didn't tease him as often anymore. If anything, his gaze motivated John to read faster.
But this morning, for some reason, he couldn't feel Sherlock watching him. John looked over the top of his newspaper with a raised eyebrow that immediately gave way to a stifled giggle. Sherlock was fast asleep on the couch, curled into a ball beneath his robe. His expression was for once completely calm and almost childlike; his mouth was open and making small snoring noises. If John had to use one word to describe Sherlock in that moment, it would be adorable. And yes, John did realize that using "adorable" to describe Sherlock Holmes: sociopath, detective, and genius was absurd.
John watched his best friend for a minute or two, studying the way his chest rose and fell with breaths, the way his mouth twitched when he stirred. John felt a sudden surge of protectiveness for the sleeping detective.
Not enough protectiveness to keep John for wanting revenge for when Sherlock had baked cat entrails in the oven the week before. (Bits had gotten baked onto the inside of the oven, and guess who had to scrub it clean?) John slowly put down the newspaper and stood up. He crept back to his bedroom and rifled through his desk drawer to find his camera. He grinned as he came back down the stairs to Sherlock, still sleeping deeply on the couch. John turned on the camera, made sure the flash was off, and then snapped a few pictures of Sherlock. The detective didn't show any signs of waking. When he was satisfied with his blackmail material, John turned off the camera and put it on the coffee table. He finished his tea with one big gulp and a chuckle. Now that he had something to use against Sherlock, what would he do? He could threaten to post them on the blog if Sherlock used the kitchen appliances for body parts again.
The sleeping detective moved, stretching out his legs to cover the whole couch. John knew he would be awake soon, so John quietly walked to the kitchen, both to pour himself another cup of tea and to make it look like he hadn't been finding ways to blackmail his flatmate.
He heard rustling noises from the living room, and poured himself some more tea, enjoying his last quiet moments before Sherlock stormed in and started his experiments or complaints. John took a nice, long sip, and swallowed just before two long arms wrapped around him. He froze for a second before glancing down and realizing they belonged to Sherlock. John's tense pose relaxed somewhat, but he was still on edge. "What are you doing, Sherlock?" he asked cautiously. The taller man's arms tightened around him. Sherlock pressed his lips against John's neck.
John nearly dropped his tea.
"You know," Sherlock said, voice softened with drowsiness, "You don't need to take pictures of me while I sleep. You could just tell me you're attracted to me."
John felt his face go red. He gulped and stuttered for a second, trying to think of a reply, but he was somewhat distracted by his flatmate's lips against his neck. "N-no, that's not what I—I wasn't trying to—I'm not…" John trailed off nervously, trying to think of a slightly more eloquent way to tell Sherlock that he wasn't watching him sleep and that he wasn't attracted to him. John fought the heat in his face and the shiver that ran down his spine as Sherlock's lips ran across the back of his neck before the taller man stood up straight and took a step away. John spun around and looked at Sherlock with wide eyes. He was still speechless.
"Open wide," Sherlock said, suddenly completely awake, taking a thermometer out of his pocket. He was using his 'experiment' voice, the detached one he used when he expected John to deal with a jar of human eyeballs, no questions asked.
"What the hell—what—you just…you want me to put that in my mouth?" It looked clean, but you could never trust things that came out of Sherlock's pockets. For all John knew, it could have been kicking around in there with a dead mouse for weeks.
"It's your mouth or your arse," Sherlock said without a hint of emotion, and the thought of him sticking things up John's arse made the doctor turn an even deeper shade of red.
John took the thermometer, but didn't put it into his mouth. "You just—kissed me!" He spluttered.
"Under your tongue. Now." Sherlock said, rolling his eyes like his reasoning was obvious. "I'm studying how embarrassment affects the body. The lips are very sensitive, so it was easy for me to sense your heart rate. Now I need to take your temperature."
John stuck the thermometer under his tongue with a sigh.
{2}
John stood cornered in an alleyway with a gun pointed at him. The gun was held by a serial killer deemed "interesting" by Sherlock, in fact, so interesting that the killer was worth spending a Friday night running across London. John had had a date, but Sherlock had insisted that he needed the doctor's help.
John probably would have picked a chase over the date anyway.
But now he was stuck. He and Sherlock had split up, after Sherlock insisted he needed John's gun (why the detective didn't bring his own on a search for a serial killer, John would never know). John was defenseless as the young man, maybe in his late twenties, aimed at him.
John swallowed, preparing for the end, when a tall shadow with a billowing coat ran towards them. John froze. Was that…?
It was. Sherlock hit the man over the head with his gun. The killer's head slammed against the pavement with a sickening crack, and he went out like a light. Sherlock's face was scrunched up angrily as he ripped the man's gun away and kicked him in the face, breaking his nose.
"Sherlock!" cried John, both in gratitude for saving him and exasperation as Sherlock hurt the already incapacitated man. The detective huffed and turned away from the bleeding man and took out his phone, undoubtedly sending a quick text to Lestrade.
"The police will be here in a few minutes," Sherlock said a minute later, putting both his and the killer's guns in his coat before checking his phone. Then he looked at John, put away his phone, and took a few steps forward. John had gotten used to a lack of personal space since he'd moved into 221B, but the mere inches that separated them now was pushing it. He took a step back, and Sherlock stepped forward again.
John cleared his throat and took another step, back colliding with the wall of the alley. "Sherlock, what are you…" The tall detective stepped even closer, breath tickling John's face. John swallowed, sudden lack of space between them making his face flush. He made a sound of surprise as Sherlock's lips pressed against his. Cold hands fingered the hem of his jumper before sliding up to rest just over John's heart. John wasn't sure what to do. He stood frozen for a moment, very aware of Sherlock's hands on his bare skin. Sherlock's tongue flicked out and slid across John's bottom lip. The doctor's mouth opened, a small moan coming from the back of his throat. He wasn't sure how much longer they kissed.
John heard a cough from behind them, and opened his eyes, not remembering exactly when he had closed them and relaxed into the kiss. It was Lestrade, standing by the body, pointedly not looking at the consulting detective with his tongue in John's mouth. Sherlock stepped away, explained the death and case solution to him. Lestrade still didn't look at Sherlock's tousled hair (when had John's hands ran through it?), or John still standing against the wall.
Finally recovering enough from the surprise to move, John spluttered: "Lestrade, this isn't what it looks like—I'm not—we weren't…"
"I really don't want to know," the detective inspector grimaced as he walked away.
Sherlock walked next to John on their way back to the street. "Well, that went well!" he remarked happily, turning up his coat collar and waving to a cab.
"What went well?" John said, "The case? Shooting the criminal? Or the fact that you shoved me against the wall of an alley, kissed me, and then let Lestrade catch us?"
"All three, though I hardly shoved you against the wall. You were the one who kept backing up. I would have expected you to stand your ground. Though shoving might be an interesting variable for different results…"
"Variable? You mean this whole thing was another of your bloody experiments?"
"Yes."
"Then why the hell didn't you tell Lestrade?" John said furiously, still embarrassed that he was probably going to be thought of as gay for the rest of his life by the man, no matter his protests. And all so Sherlock could get some stupid data.
"He doesn't need to know about my experiments."
"He does when he walks in on you molesting your flatmate-"
"Oh don't act like you didn't enjoy it."
"Of course I didn't enjoy it! I'm not gay!"
"Your moan said otherwise."
All of this was said in Sherlock's calm, factual voice and John's flabbergasted protests. "I—I didn't—I was just in mortal danger, I think I have an excuse for moaning when someone who just saved my life kisses me-"
"Exactly!" Sherlock whirled on John, eyes flashing with details only his brilliant mind knew. "Your mind was trying to bring your body down from the rush of adrenaline you felt while in danger, but my advances gave your body something completely different to think about. So, which would win over? Calming down after adrenaline, or being flooded with dopamine to make your heart beat faster again?" Sherlock finished his excited rant and stood grinning at John for a few seconds.
"…So that's what you were experimenting on? How fast my heart would beat after a chase with you kissing me?"
"Yes."
A cab pulled up and John got in and held up a hand to stop Sherlock from following him. "For once, I'm getting my own cab. I'm not in the mood to talk."
John slammed the door shut.
{3}
Typing the last few words on a blog post, John clicked 'Post' and closed his laptop. He would check the comments later. John stood up in time to notice Sherlock striding out of the kitchen with a handful of Q-tips. John moved to the couch and leaned over the coffee table, picking up the newspaper. He didn't even have time to glance at the headlines before Sherlock stepped onto the table and grabbed his shoulders.
Looking up in surprise, John was caught off guard and dropped his newspaper as Sherlock pushed him back onto the couch, then climbed on top of him. "Sherlock, what the hell are y—MMPH!" The detective's lips crashed against John's in an impromptu and very…enthusiastic kiss. John squirmed, trying to get free, but Sherlock pinned him there, not letting him move away.
John opened his mouth in an attempt to tell Sherlock "get off of me!" but the detective just used it as an opportunity to deepen the kiss with his tongue.
"Kiss me back," growled Sherlock, the husky tone in his voice making John's heart beat faster. Against his better judgment, John did as he was told and kissed him back.
After another minute of breathless kissing, Sherlock pulled away suddenly. "Open your mouth," he said, and when John did, he swabbed it with a Q-tip. Then he took another and swabbed his own mouth before returning to the kitchen. John lay on the couch in shock for a moment before springing up and following Sherlock.
"What—you—then—what could you possibly be experimenting on that involves us snogging on the couch?" John was angry at Sherlock for constantly using him for things like this. In way, John would have preferred cleaning cat entrails out of the oven over kissing Sherlock, especially because the former didn't make him wonder if he really was gay.
"Testing the amount of saliva exchanged by kissing," Sherlock said calmly, tapping saliva from each Q-tip into a different petri dish.
"So you used me?"
"Who else was I supposed to use?" Sherlock snapped, putting the experiment down and turning toward him. "Lestrade? Mrs. Hudson?"
"You could have used Molly," John pointed out. "She would have been more than happy to participate in that particular experiment."
Sherlock waved him off, turning back to his work. "I'm not going to take advantage of someone's feelings for me for something like this." John stood there gaping.
"Sherlock…that was…actually nice of you." The detective said nothing.
"You could have used Anderson," John suggested, and then broke into hysterical laughter at the idea. Sherlock turned and glared at him coldly. John left the room, still chuckling.
Sherlock swallowed as he went back to his microscope, putting speculations about why John had complied so easily in the back of his mind palace, to be analyzed later. He could still taste the doctor, and he stored how that fact made him feel even further back in his mind palace to gather dust.
{4}
John opened the door to the flat and closed it quickly behind him once inside to keep out the freezing air. He yawned to himself and took off his coat and gloves, eyelids drooping. It was nearly two in the morning. Work at the surgery had gone very, very late, and he was exhausted. The night before, Sherlock had kept him up half the night with screeching violin and crashes from the kitchen. Needless to say, John was desperate for sleep.
He plodded up the stairs and took off his shoes. The flat was dark, meaning Sherlock must have finally passed out. As far as John knew, he hadn't slept in four days, so it was about time. John went up to his bedroom, and couldn't be bothered to flip on the light. He felt his way over to his dresser, quickly changing into his pajamas. He slipped out to the bathroom and brushed his teeth before coming back and climbing into bed. He pulled the covers up, and put his head on the pillow. But something didn't feel right in his bed. It was almost like someone else was already there.
"Hello, John."
John jumped and fumbled with his bedside lamp. When it clicked on, he squinted at the detective until his eyes adjusted. Sure enough, there was the detective, lying next to him in bed, head on a pillow, and with just a hint of a smirk on his face.
"Why are you in my bed?" John said, exasperated. His tolerance for lack of personal space did have its limits, and his flatmate in his bed was over the line.
"I'm studying the changes in sleep patterns when someone sleeps alone and when they have another human being to keep them company."
John opened his mouth to object, closed it, and opened it again. "You're going to conduct this experiment whether I want you to or not?"
"Yes."
"And there is nothing I can say or do that will get you out of my bed?"
"Absolutely nothing."
He sighed. "Fine. You win. But at least try to get some sleep if you're here. And you better not hog all the blankets." Sherlock huffed and released some of the fabric towards John.
The doctor turned out the light and settled down to sleep, ignoring Sherlock's warm breath on his neck as he fell asleep.
The next morning, John woke to sunlight streaming in through his window. He was surrounded by a comforting warmth. He looked down to see that it was Sherlock, wrapped around him, long limbs clinging to his body. John swallowed, not sure how he felt about the detective touching him like this. It didn't exactly say 'just friends'. The idea alone of what people would think if they saw this made John blush.
"Sherlock," he muttered, trying to untangle himself unsuccessfully. In response, the dark haired man grumbled something unintelligent and sleepy before pulling John flush against him. Their lips brushed. Sherlock's lips were barely touching John's, but it felt like electricity was tingling though every nerve of the doctor's body. Sherlock's long, thin legs were wrapped around John's waist completely (how had he slept through that happening?) and his feet were tucked together just over John's backside. His arms rested on each side of John's ribcage, hands against John's back. Their lips were pressed together. And their chests were together too, so that John could feel both of their heartbeats against his t-shirt.
John watched his friend sleep for the next few minutes, until Sherlock opened his bright blue eyes and examined John trapped in his embrace. He hummed into their just-barely-kiss, making John's whole body buzz. "Sherlock," John mumbled against the detective's lips, "Can you please get off me?"
"Of course. I've already gotten the data I need; I was just prolonging the cuddle until you were ready to get up." He pulled his limbs away from John and sat up in bed, running his hands through his hair before standing up.
John stayed in bed, looking up at him incredulously. "Did you just say cuddle?"
Sherlock looked at him curiously. "Yes. It's a perfectly valid word, and has no attached innuendo as far as I'm aware. Or do I need to brush up on my lewd language?"
"No, it's just…I never thought you'd say that." Sherlock rolled his eyes at this. "So, explain to me. How was that kiss part of the experiment this time?"
"Allowing yourself to be completely wrapped up by another person in your sleep without waking shows surprising amounts of trust and compassion, especially for an ex-soldier with PTSD," Sherlock said in his high-and-mighty science tone of voice. "The kiss was something else entirely, more of an experiment on your subconscious. I won't bother telling you, since your tiny brain wouldn't understand such things." And with that he whisked out of the room. John sat there for a moment, wondering, before he shrugged and figured that it was just Sherlock being Sherlock. He climbed out of bed and pulled on a pair of jeans, then walked out of his room to go make breakfast.
{5}
Sherlock had been pacing the living room for the past half hour while John read the paper. He hadn't slept in days, and had only eaten when John threatened to throw his microscope out the window unless he ate some damned dinner. There was a manic look in his eyes as his blue robe swished around him. Suddenly he stopped short and turned to John, who paid no attention and turned the page to read the sports section.
"John."
"Yes?"
"I need you to kiss me."
That got his attention. "Again? What experiment are we conducting this time?" John peered over the top of his newspaper, but didn't move. He was getting tired of being constantly used like this, especially when Sherlock didn't even mean it. How John would feel if the detective did mean it was another story, one that John didn't want to read at the moment.
"It's for science. Very important. You wouldn't understand."
"Sherlock-"
"Oh, for God's sake," Sherlock rolled his eyes and lunged forwards, grabbing the newspaper out of John's hands and putting himself there instead, straddling the smaller man's lap and grabbing his face roughly, crashing their lips together in a sloppy kiss. When they were both out of breath, Sherlock pulled away and put his face right in front of John's, making eye contact. "Now, this is vital to the success of the experiment. I need you to kiss me hard. Put your heart into it, and don't stop for anything until I tell you." Deciding that the time it had taken himself to growl those instructions was plenty for John to get his breath back, Sherlock attacked him again, nipping at his bottom lip and breathing between his lips.
"You want a kiss?" John asked, as if it were a challenge. Sherlock growled in assent, and John responded passionately, tangling his fingers in Sherlock's hair and shoving his tongue in the detective's mouth, ignoring how Sherlock's tongue against his made other parts of him feel and desperately trying not to imagine how Sherlock's tongue would feel in those other parts. He was just doing this to surprise Sherlock out of these experiments. That was all.
John pushed forward with sudden strength and shoved Sherlock off the chair. He hit the floor with a thud, and John wondered what Mrs. Hudson would think when she heard it. John practically jumped onto Sherlock from the chair, bringing their lips together again. John was on his hands and knees above Sherlock, who was lying flat on the rug. He could feel Sherlock tensed with surprise beneath him, and smirked to think what the virgin was thinking with someone kissing him like this.
"John," Sherlock mumbled, "You can stop now." No response. "John!"
"You said you wanted a kiss," snarled John with a grin, "Or are you too afraid? Could there be something the great consulting detective isn't sure about?"
This was unexplored territory for Sherlock, but he wasn't about to let John insult his pride like that. He yanked John's jumper so that their bodies were flat against each other and rolled so that John was the one squirming under him. Sherlock let John curl his fingers in his hair again, tongue slipping into the doctor's mouth. John let out a small moan just as the door opened and Mrs. Hudson stepped in. "I heard a bump on the ceiling; are you boys all r—oh!" Pink spread across her cheeks as she took in the sight of them.
Sherlock removed his tongue from John's mouth and stood up. "Good morning, Mrs. Hudson," he said, beaming. He straightened his clothes as John sat up, redder than the landlady.
"Sorry you had to see that, Mrs. Hudson," John mumbled embarrassedly. She waved a hand and smiled benevolently at the two of them.
"Oh, I don't mind, boys. I'm not the judgmental type. I understand completely if you want to be physical with each other" (John went an even deeper shade of red) "But I would recommend locking the door. And if you two want to do anything more…intense, just give me a warning, and I'll clear out." John's face resembled a tomato when he realized what she was implying, but Sherlock just beamed again.
"Of course, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said, and then she was gone. John looked at Sherlock for a second before the detective burst out laughing. John did not.
"Well, off to the kitchen table with you, then," John said, picking the slightly crumpled paper back up again. Sherlock looked at him curiously.
"What?"
John raised his eyebrows. "Your very important experiment? The one that involved a passionate snogging session on the floor of the living room?"
"Oh, yes. Right. Of course." Sherlock turned and headed into the kitchen before John had time to wonder if it had been an experiment this time.
{x}
Sherlock was in an unusually good mood in the cab ride back to the flat one afternoon. It had been a surprisingly interesting one from Mycroft, who had already called Sherlock and said he'd be over in an hour to pick up the last of the evidence. When they arrived at their destination, the detective hopped out and strode up to the front door almost cheerfully, like there was an extra spring in his step. "You head on up, John," Sherlock said. "I need to have a quick word with Mrs. Hudson."
Five minutes later, John was making tea when Sherlock entered the kitchen. "How's Mrs. Hudson?" John asked, stirring a little sugar into his tea and handing one mug to the detective.
"She's fine. Just heading out to do a little shopping, in fact." There was something odd about his tone. John glanced up at him. He seemed nervous. And excited. It was probably just the exhilaration wearing off after a case, John thought. Sherlock walked (practically skipped!) back out to the living room, and John followed, chuckling at the absurdly happy detective.
Sherlock put his tea down and suddenly turned around, grabbing John's shoulders and staring at him. John leaned down to put his mug down too before straightening up and staring back at him, confused.
"I wouldn't have been able to solve this case today without you," Sherlock said, eyes wide, mouth turned up in a hopeful smile. John raised an eyebrow, trying not to let on that his heart was beating faster, though undoubtedly he had already picked up on it. John looked up into those bright blue eyes. Suddenly they closed and Sherlock pressed his lips to his gently. John didn't even bother to feel surprised.
"So, what kind of science was that for?" John asked when Sherlock pulled away.
"None," the detective said quietly, sounding crestfallen. "I've found myself having feelings for you. Ones that could be described as love, I suppose." He stepped back, but John, in an unexpected epiphany, put a hand on his shoulder to stop him from slinking off to sulk. The detective looked down in surprise when John stood on tiptoes and planted a light kiss on his lips. His surprise quickly evaporated, and he kissed John furiously as the doctor's hands unbuttoned the top few buttons on his shirt. They broke apart, breathing heavily. John's pants felt too tight, and he pulled off his woolly jumper, suddenly too hot to wear it.
"Mrs. Hudson-" John stammered, but Sherlock grinned and finished taking off his own shirt.
"Gone out shopping," he grinned into John's neck before his tongue flicked out and trailed along his skin.
"My room or yours?" John gasped.
Sherlock pushed him onto the couch. "Right here," he murmured, and climbed over John.
"Sherlock!" he protested. "Mycroft will be sitting here in less than an hour!" The detective merely chuckled against John's warm. "You're a bastard, you know that?" John asked and couldn't help but laugh along. "Fine," he agreed a minute later, when Sherlock moved down, kissing along his chest. "But only because he kidnapped me again last week."
"The bedroom was too far, anyway," Sherlock said, and unzipped John's trousers.
…
Mycroft wasn't Sherlock. He hadn't deleted most everyday information so that he could become the world's greatest detective. Mycroft wasn't a master of deduction. He was, however, better at it than the average person. He had to be, with a job and a brother like his.
So when he arrived at 221B to discuss the case with Sherlock, he made a few deductions of his own about the air-freshener scent hanging in the air of the flat, the tousled hair of the two inhabitants, and Sherlock's giddy, laid back mood. He made a mental note to congratulate his little brother later.
Much to John and Sherlock's amusement, Mycroft did not deduce that he was sitting where the doctor and detective had been lying just half an hour before.