Disclaimer: I own no part of Sherlock or its characters.
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson. Sherlock/John.
Genre: Fluff…?
Rating: PG/K+, verging on PG-13/T?
Word Count: 1246.
Warnings: Awkward kissing?
Summary: Their first kiss is like a crash. A spectacular car crash. A pile-up, really. With buses and maybe a lorry or two. Because to be entirely honest, it's terrible.

The first time they kiss is on the fifth anniversary of the day they met (not, of course, that either of them remembers it), and it...

It happens at ten in the morning. John's just come downstairs after a really, really crap night filled with more nightmares than sleep, which would have been awful enough even if he hadn't wrenched his shoulder during a chase the evening before. So now he's aching and tense and tired and irrationally disgusted with himself, and all he really wants is tea or coffee or something with enough caffeine to make him feel a little less hideous. So he shuffles into the kitchen and brews himself a cup of coffee so hot it nearly scalds his palm through the ceramics.

And that's when he turns and—jerking back, coffee sloshing over the lip of his mug, narrowly missing his foot—finds Sherlock looming over him, still in his pyjamas and dressing gown, his hair sleep-tousled but his eyes intense and alert. John's laptop dangles carelessly from one hand.

"Jesus Christ," John breathes, his heart racing. His nerves, already shot to hell, fray just a bit more, so that his tone is snappish and edged with acid. "Could you maybe stop doing that all the time? One of these days, you'll give me an actual heart attack."

He expects Sherlock to reply the way he always does when John uses that phrase—something about exaggeration and hyperbole that ends in Sherlock rattling off statistics about cardiac arrest.

He does not expect Sherlock's laptop-free hand to land on John's shoulder. He does not expect to be tugged forward, or for Sherlock himself to lean down and in. He doesn't expect to think Oh, god, now? Couldn't we do this later? Or tomorrow? in the moment just before momentum takes over and his mouth is crashing against Sherlock's.

But that's what happens. And it is like a crash. A spectacular car crash. A pile-up, really. With buses and maybe a lorry or two.

Because to be entirely honest, it's terrible. Noses mash and teeth scrape and there's not enough lip or tongue and John's laptop is digging into his stomach and—and it's just... It's not a very good kiss at all. Sherlock is inexperienced and definitely over-thinking each move he makes and it shows, and John feels himself flashing back to his awkward adolescence, before Rose Colfer gave an exasperated sigh and taught him what a proper snog was like.

Moments later, Sherlock draws back, his face flushed and his eyes searching. They are both breathless.

"What," John pants, "the hell was—"

"Experiment."

"Experi—"

"Yes." Sherlock glances down. "You've spilled your coffee."

John blinks and looks from his flatmate to the mug in his hand, then up again, at which point his eyes catch on the wet patch spreading across Sherlock's T-shirt. It's steaming as it clings to his skin.

John swears.

The next ten minutes go by in a blur. Somewhere along the line, John puts down his coffee and Sherlock puts down John's laptop. The detective ends up sitting at the table while the doctor searches for the elusive first aid kit that couldn't have moved very far between yesterday evening and today. And if John looks mortified when he realises what his absent, "Take your shirt off, you idiot," actually sounds like in the context of the past few minutes, Sherlock doesn't mention it. It's only fair; after all, John doesn't mention the oddly uncomfortable look lurking in Sherlock's eyes just before he shrugs off his dressing gown and pulls the shirt up and over his head.

Aside from that, they are too used to this situation—Sherlock injured, John tending to the injury—for it to be awkward, even after... whatever just happened between them. If anything, it almost dissolves the tension. John examines the reddened patch of skin over Sherlock's ribs with a clinical eye and an impersonal touch, reassuring himself that it's nothing to run to A&E for. Sherlock squirms and hisses at the first application of a cold compress.

It feels like any other normal morning. Or afternoon. Or evening.

At least until Sherlock looks up at the ceiling and says, "All right. Ask."

"Ask what?" John replies, desperately hoping against hope that this isn't going where he thinks it is.

Naturally, it is. His flatmate just gives him a Look, and John throws up the hand that's not holding a compress against Sherlock's side in an unsatisfyingly under-dramatic gesture.

"Fine. Fine!" He takes a deep breath. "Sherlock, what the hell kind of experiment—"

"There wasn't one."

"—Seriously, could you at least let me finish the—Sorry? What?"

"It wasn't an experiment."

"But you said—"

"I lied. Though I could make one up, if it makes you feel better."

"If it—Sherlock, you—Then what was that? Why would you—"

John's incoherent sputtering dies off under Sherlock's shrewd gaze.

"You twat. Is this the experiment? Right now? Is my reaction to you telling me it's not—"

"Wrong!" Except there's something guilty in the corner of Sherlock's mouth, and when John narrows his eyes, his flatmate allows, "Fine, it had crossed my mind. But that wasn't the actual point."

"Then what was the actual point?" John asks, in a voice that he hopes adequately expresses just how close he is to committing physical violence against Sherlock's person.

Clearly not, if Sherlock's response is to roll his eyes.

"Really, John? In this case, I would have believed your lack of imagination to be an advantage. What is the usual motive behind a kiss?"

John loses a few seconds as his brain puts it all together and then promptly shuts down.

"Sorry, what?" John demands (his voice a bit breathless—how did that happen?) once he regains motor function. "Are you—Sherlock, are you actually implying—"

"I am implying nothing," the detective retorts primly. "I am stating a fact. An obvious fact. A fact which I am appalled you missed."

"No... No, I'm pretty sure you're just implying. Stating a fact would involve saying something like, 'I just kissed John Watson in our kitchen because I'm attracted to him.'"

(They both ignore the way John's breath catches on the third and eleventh words. Mostly. The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitches suspiciously.)

"The kiss was the statement."

"It was implication."

"Statement."

"Implication."

"Statement," Sherlock insists. "And I can prove it."

"Think so, do you?" replies John, almost dizzily. He is suddenly all-too-conscious of the way Sherlock is slouched toward him, of the way he seems to be leaning up, of the way his fingers—without his noticing—have stretched over the edges of the now-lukewarm compress to stroke minutely at the undamaged skin over his flatmate's ribs.

"I know so," says Sherlock (who can't stand not having the last word, even at times like these), just before he closes the distance between them and presses his lips to John's for the second time in half an hour.

The second kiss is less of an auto wreck than the first, but there's still slightly too much tooth and nose, mostly because Sherlock seems determined to lead despite his inexperience. John just smiles into Sherlock's lips and adjusts the position of his head and does what he does best: he follows.

Because he doesn't mind, really, if this is not the best snog he's ever had.

He gets the feeling they'll have time for plenty of practice in the future.

Notes: This was inspired by e.e. cummings' "since feeling is first", which is also where the title comes from.

Not my best, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway. Thanks for reading!