Hi everyone. So generally I'm not much of a Johnlock-shipper. But it's my friends birthday next month, and she knows I write fanfiction. So she asked me to write her a "progression of John and Sherlock's romantic relationship from the very beginning to after the fall"-fanfiction for her birthday. So here it goes. Let me know if it's good because when it's done I'm printing it out and giving it to her to read.
There were a great many things that Sherlock noticed about John Watson. His odd habit of tapping the space bar with his right thumb while typing, without actually pressing the key. His routine of making tea: milk first, then sugar. Never sugar first. Sherlock never asked why because he already knew the answer. John was a creature of habit. He did things the same way everyday because that was what felt comfortable to him. Even now, with his seemingly never-ending running behind Sherlock, John's little routines stayed the same. This made it easy for Sherlock to notice the changes to come.
Sherlock was acutely aware of John's need for affection, made apparent by the shorter man's tendency to flirt with every woman he came across. There was the one with the nose, the one with the dog, the boring teacher, that woman with the strange laugh (ghastly!) and of course, Sarah. Sherlock had watched with great amusement at times a women flat out refused John's advances. Sherlock decided that John's need for physical affection stemmed from his childhood. Certainly John had not had an abusive family, just a slightly distant one if his sister Harry was anything to go by. Add on the trauma of John's military service (as he had once said, he had bad days), and Sherlock was left with one emotionally starved man.
The first time John let his hand linger on the back of Sherlock's neck for just a second too long while reading a case file over his shoulder did not go unnoticed by the detective. John never mentioned it, and for a week afterwards did nothing of the sort again. Then, while taking a cab, John sat close enough to Sherlock that their knees were touching. He didn't alter his conversation with Sherlock, but he didn't make an effort to move over either. Sherlock, while slightly startled, allowed the contact nonetheless. If he was honest with himself, he was enjoying the closeness. He supposed he had noticed the way John had been watching him more closely. The way he paid extra attention to where Sherlock was, made sure he ate and slept, took down that mugger with just a touch too much force when he threatened Sherlock.
After that cab ride, John's affections became longer, more frequent, and more overt. Squeezing Sherlock's arm when he helped him out of his coat, grasping his shoulder as John put Sherlock's tea in front of him. An especially bold arm around Sherlock's shoulders after one too many drinks after a case. Every time, Sherlock allowed the contact, even enjoyed it and reveled in the warmth of John's skin. As a child, he had never exactly been showered by the hugs and kisses and cuddles that other kids shared with their families. Certainly it had affected him in some ways, and Mycroft even more so. Until now, he hadn't given his childhood a second thought. Sentiment was irrational, as was regret for a childhood that could not be changed.
It wasn't until one month after what Sherlock liked to refer to as "the initial contact" that his relationship with John was truly and irrevocably changed. John was in a strange, distant mood brought on by the events of the day. A car bomb had killed a traveling diplomat and several bystanders had been injured. When John and Sherlock arrived on the scene, the bodies had not yet been removed and the smell of burnt flesh was thick in the air. This time, John had been the one to make deductions about the bomb before Sherlock could.
"Under the car, on a remote timer or triggered via cellphone. Plastic explosive with shrapnel packed inside, contained blast meant to inflict maximum damage and panic." John's clinical tone and rigid stance reminded Sherlock once more that he was a soldier. This was obviously not the first time he had seen such carnage. John's eyes were looking at the twisted metal and melted rubber before him, but he was seeing something else. Something far away in the past.
"Quite right, John." Sherlock agreed softly, placing a tentative hand on John's shoulder. John startled slightly at the touch, but didn't shrug it off. It was the first time Sherlock had tried to offer his own affection back to John, though it was quite subtle and most likely mistaken by John as the normal gesture of platonic comfort. Sherlock offered some conclusions to Lestrade that John didn't pay attention to and they went back to their flat, sitting in silence with John's knee touching Sherlock's.
When John tried to make his tea that night, his hands shook slightly, so Sherlock took over, making sure to rest his hand on John's for a moment as he took the mugs from him. He added the milk first, then the sugar. John still looked far away, in a desert place that was soaked with the blood of his friends and enemies alike. Sherlock found himself moving over on his sofa so John could sit next to him as the watched crap television. John inched closer and closer, his hand laying so close to Sherlock's that even Sherlock's limited social skills picked up on what John wanted.
"Oh, come here." Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. He slung and arm around John's shoulders and pulled the smaller man to his side. John's head laid awkwardly on Sherlock's shoulder and his hand was on his chest. It was an awkward position for both of them at first, but John shifted until his head under Sherlock's chin and his arms were wound around the painfully thin waist. "It is the social norm for me to ask you what is bothering you."
"Oh...Well, today just brought up a lot of memories I don't want to think about." John shrugged, and Sherlock felt the tensing and relaxing of muscles. "Sherlock, are we...cuddling?"
"Yes, if that is what you choose to call it." Sherlock replied, his deep baritone rumbling in his chest. John laughed suddenly. "What?"
"It's just...I never imagined I would be cuddling you." John shifted slightly so he was facing the tv more. Sherlock didn't mind.
"But you have been thinking about it for awhile, have you not?" Sherlock questioned. "It came as a bit of a surprise when you began showing affection in a more than platonic way."
"Oh, believe me, I was more surprised." John pulled his feet up onto the sofa and tucked them underneath himself, feeling like a teenager.
They lapsed into a comfortable silence. Silence on John's part, at least. Sherlock was yelling at the television as he often did, pointing out how the smudge on someone's left sleeve exonerated them as the father or what have you. John half-paid attention, laughing occasionally, but mostly he just enjoyed the feeling of being held. He was usually the one that did the holding in past relationships, and he enjoyed being needed, but the feeling of being protected was much better in John's opinion. John took the hand that Sherlock didn't have wrapped around his shoulders and began tracing the bluish veins on the palm. Sherlock noticed his doctor's ministrations and watched, fascinated. It did feel rather interesting. Not quite tickling, not quite massaging, but somewhere in-between. John, for his part, was mostly just giving into his curiosity. Sherlock's hands, perpetually in motion, were something that John had first noticed as attractive. Pale, slender fingers that danced gracefully over the strings of a violin just as easily as they picked locks or wielded a riding crop. Those fingers curled over John's smaller hand and held tight, not painfully so, but firmly without the intent of letting go anytime soon.
"John...what happened with Afghanistan?" Sherlock asked softly. "I do not mean to dredge up bad memories, but as they are already on the forefront of your mind-"
"No, it's fine." John sighed, sinking further into Sherlock. "I was raised with a lot of patriotism. Queen and country, honor and glory and all that." John paused, studying their intertwined fingers. It took a moment for him to continue. "There was very little about Afghanistan that was honorable."
"You were injured. Shot in the shoulder." Sherlock stated. He knew that, John had told him even though Sherlock had worked it out minutes after meeting John. He had even seen the scar once or twice. A large, knotted mess of scar tissue and the resulting lines from the crude surgery to remove the bullet fragments. "Surgery performed in less than optimal conditions."
"Well, not every Army doctor was as good as me. And it's hard to concentrate while under fire with a patient bleeding out and writhing in pain." John stated sarcastically, but it was half-hearted. Then his voice softened. "There were so many shortages. Supplies, food, antibiotics, morphine...Most of the time, we just had to make do with what we had and it wasn't enough. The IEDs were the worst. Most of the men in the vehicles died before we could get to them, the rest have to live on without a limb or with scars, and the memories of those that weren't as lucky."
Sherlock, sensing the John was done talking for the night, moved his arm from John's shoulders to his waist and pulled him closer still. John tensed briefly, considering whether or not this was a good idea, but he was drained from the day.
They would figure it out tomorrow.
So this is it. The spark that starts it all. Reviews are welcome, this is a gift, remember? It has to be good.
