Chapter One: Please

The first time Sherlock noticed it, he did something completely uncharacteristic: he doubted his own judgment. It was simply too absurd. John Watson was quite securely straight, something John had stated quite a few times to the numerous people who had gotten the wrong idea about the flatmates. Thus, Sherlock could not be the recipient of the strange expressions that kept flickering across John's face. The first few times it happened, Sherlock actually looked around as though expecting to find an attractive woman hiding somewhere in their flat, or at least a lingerie commercial on the telly or a porn mag on the table. He cannot find any such women, however, and Sherlock is forced to come to the only conclusion he has left.

Before he truly believed it, however, Sherlock first ran a few small experiments. One evening he stretched languorously, his tight shirt drifting up to reveal several inches of his abdomen. Sure enough, there's the look. The next morning, he bent slowly at the waist to retrieve a container of kidney stones from the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. When he straightened, he caught the look before John hurriedly returned his eyes to his newspaper. Sometime later, he exited the bathroom, still damp, with naught but a smallish towel around his waist. There was most definitely a look.

With his unlikely theory proven, there was one more thing Sherlock had to do. He retreated into his mind palace, lingering there for almost two days while he self-analyzed. He was vaguely aware that John was worried and confused, unused to Sherlock withdrawing in this fashion when there was no case to contemplate, but he knew he could not face his flatmate while burdened with this new knowledge until he understood exactly how this information made him feel.

He had already known he was attracted to John – he had known that almost as long as he had known his flatmate – and the idea of a relationship with him was intriguing. But Sherlock had never really been in anything the average person was likely to describe as a relationship before, and he doubted he would be very good at it. Besides, Sherlock did like the status quo in their flat. He enjoyed having John as his close friend and, as he was uncertain how much of John's obvious attraction was apparent to John himself, he did not want to risk upsetting the balance of their friendship. If John approached him, he would agree to attempt a relationship, but John would have to be the instigator.

With the decision made, he returned to the present, much to John's relief, and continued as though nothing had changed. John still looked longingly at Sherlock when he thought Sherlock wouldn't notice, and perhaps Sherlock went out of his way occasionally to attract the look, but otherwise, life in 221B went on like normal. It may have done so ad infinitum if it hadn't been for one thing.

Sherlock got kidnapped.

It didn't take Sherlock long to conclude that being kidnapped was horribly boring. His captors were thorough, if a bit dull, and Sherlock was quite securely tied to a chair in some dreary basement. Even the cause of his current predicament was boring. He had connected a recent murder to a local politician, one Henry Beauregard. Beauregard had found him investigating his house and had seized him in an attempt to convince Sherlock not only to hide his role in the crime, but also to frame a rival politician in his place. It was all very boring. Beauregard's lackeys had roughed him up occasionally in an effort to convince him to cooperate, but luckily they weren't very creative about their methods of persuasion.

While he sat stiff and aching in his wooden chair, Sherlock also realized that he needed to improve his communication habits, if not with Lestrade, then at least with John. He hadn't even told anyone who his main suspect had been before he had gone haring off to find hard evidence, too impatient to wait until John got done with his shift at the hospital. After witnessing the consequences of the last time he had died, Sherlock really wished to avoid putting John through that kind of anguish again. He told himself he would stop rushing into things with no backup. It struck him as strange that he felt the need to be more careful about his own life as a result of someone else caring for him, but it was clearly true. Especially now that he better understood exactly how important his life was to John.

He tried to remember how long he'd been in the basement. Had it been three days yet? Beauregard had informed Sherlock soon after his capture that if he didn't agree to his terms by the end of the third day, the politician would get rid of the only thing that could tie him to the murder: Sherlock.

There was suddenly a racket upstairs, which drew Sherlock's head inexorably upwards. The man guarding him was on his feet with his weapon drawn, looking nervously towards the stairs. Then the door burst open, flooding the dim room with light, and the man at the foot of the stairs went down at almost the same moment. A small smile twitched Sherlock's lips. No one in the Yard could shoot like that.

And then John was in front of him, his blue eyes telling Sherlock exactly how worried John had been for him.

"Sherlock!" he gasped, gently cupping Sherlock's bruised face in his hands. "How badly are you hurt?"

"John," Sherlock murmured, low and soothing as John scrabbled at the ropes. "I'm fine, John. All of my injuries are superficial." The doctor flung his hands away with a curse before pulling a knife out of his back pocket and parting the bindings with a precise downward movement.

John slipped an arm around Sherlock's back and helped him to stand. He steadied Sherlock as the detective swayed on his feet and opened his mouth as if to say something, but then Lestrade was there, along with half the Yard, and they were herding Sherlock toward the medics.

Sherlock sat patiently while the medics taped him up and John hovered at his shoulder like an anxious sentinel. Something about the doctor still seemed a little unstable and Sherlock wished to avoid setting him off, at least until they got home. After what seemed like an eternity, they were finally entering 221B, Sherlock walking just fine on his own now that he had worked out most of the stiffness from being held immobile for so long.

The door swung shut with an ominous click and Sherlock prepared himself for the inevitable explosion. He looked at his flatmate, waiting for a rant or a lecture of some kind. What he wasn't expecting was for John to pounce on him, pushing him towards the sofa. Confused, Sherlock allowed himself to be shoved onto the cushions. The doctor's fingers ran over his face, checking the work of the medics, then through his hair, searching his scalp for additional injuries. When none made themselves known, the fingers traveled back down, under Sherlock's chin and across his neck.

"John, really, I'm fine, you don't have to…" Sherlock began, before trailing off as some part of his brain told him to be quiet and let John do what he needed to. John's fingers continued as if he didn't hear the words. When his explorations were interrupted by the collar of Sherlock's shirt, John wasted no time in removing it. Sherlock winced as a button went flying, but the shirt was already ruined beyond salvaging. The deft hands ran over his shoulders, across his chest, then down his stomach. The fingers had curled in the waistband of Sherlock's trousers when they suddenly froze.

John's startled blue gaze drifted slowly up from the fingers clenched around his flatmate's clothing and up his naked upper body until they were blinking into Sherlock's eyes, clearly wondering how they had ended up in this position. Then they traveled back down, as if they didn't quite believe what they were seeing. He seemed about to repeat the sequence when his eyes noticed the obvious tenting in Sherlock's trousers and flew back to Sherlock's face.

That was quite enough of that, Sherlock decided. It was time they did something about this. "John," he rasped, surprised by the harshness of his own voice. "Don't stop. Please."

John's head was spinning. He was pretty sure he should be embarrassed that he had just practically stripped his flatmate, but his brain was confused by numerous conflicting emotions. There were the fading dredges of worry from the three long days that Sherlock had been missing, the extreme relief of having him safely home and relatively unharmed, and the absolute shock at what he had just been doing, not to mention the amazement caused by the bulge looming right in front of his nose. He might have just run away and buried his head in the sand for a few days while he tried to work through it all, except then Sherlock said something completely out of character.

He said please.

Taking a deep breath, John wrenched his gaze up from Sherlock's groin and took a moment to really look at his friend. He knew what he was seeing in that familiar face, although the expression seemed almost alien on his aloof flatmate. Sherlock had taught him how to read the signs of desire in someone, and they were all there. There was also anxiety. In a flash of clarity, John knew it wasn't what they were doing that was worrying Sherlock, but the idea that John might somehow reject him. Still, John needed to hear his consent out loud.

"Are you sure, Sherlock?" he asked. "Everything will change if we do this."

The detective snorted a little, making John smile. Of course he was sure. Sherlock never said anything he didn't mean. He removed his hands from Sherlock's waistband, but before Sherlock could doubt his intentions, he moved closer. Bracing himself on the back of the sofa, John straddled Sherlock's lap, bringing his clothed chest flush against his friend's bare one. It was a rush just being so close to this usually untouchable man. He ran his fingers through Sherlock's dark curls again, this time just for the sake of feeling their softness, and he clung there for a moment, so very glad that Sherlock was all right. Sherlock's arms came around John's back and held him firmly. For several long minutes the two remained completely still, simply breathing in each other's presence.

Then John leaned back just a fraction and, minding the bruises, cupped that refined face in his hands. His lowered his head, ignoring the small part of his brain that was screaming that the moment his lips touched Sherlock's, he could no longer call himself straight. Then their mouths connected and that voice went blissfully silent, along with all of John's other thoughts. Sherlock's hands slid from John's back to his hips, grasping them tightly. Sherlock's mouth was warm against John's, his tongue doing wicked things to the inside of his mouth, and John's hands moved to clutch at Sherlock's shoulders. One long-fingered hand drifted around and a palm pressed firmly into John's own burgeoning bulge, forcing John to break the kiss long enough to gasp raggedly.

He took the moment to admire how beautiful Sherlock looked like this, his cheeks flushed and his eyes dark with pleasure. Then John pulled away and got shakily to his feet. Concern flickered across Sherlock's face before John reached out to seize his hand and pull him up as well.

"Come along, Holmes," he told his friend. "If we're going to do this, we're going to do it properly, not rutting on the couch like a couple of teenagers." Then he dragged the taller man towards his bedroom, his mind flooded with delightful possibilities.

Maybe he would even be able to make him say please again.