He knew that it would come to this. It had been a fleeting thought for the past three years. A look here, a small smile there, and he just felt it in his bones.
He isn't so sure that there was a moment anything changed, much like he isn't sure when he changed. He once thought he would never change more than after the first month spent in 221B. There was no one moment that he could mull over and pull apart and taste and breathe and dream over. One day, they were just John and Sherlock. And then they were John and Sherlock.
When exhausted after a case, after stuffing themselves with take-out and watching telly, they would end up falling asleep on the sofa together. When rushing to get dressed to meet Lestrade at a scene, they'd taken to brushing their teeth hip-to-hip in the small, dimly lit bathroom. Eventually, those rarely occurring moments turned into habit. Kipping together on the sofa morphed into Sherlock climbing into bed beside John and wrapping his arms around him. Waking up was never as awkward as John thought it might be, had he ever thought this might happen. He'd awake slowly, blinking sleep from his eyes in the early light in his room, watching dust motes float in front of the window. Sherlock would wrap his arm around him a bit tighter, press his cold nose into John's neck, and they wouldn't say a word.
John wonders if the moment he'd been trying to identify was actually the one in which he handed his phone over to the then-stranger in Bart's lab. But he was such a different man that he can't even remember that day as if it weren't a page in a novel—someone else's life for him to think upon as he turns the page.
He doesn't even necessarily remember the first time Sherlock's lips met his. One would expect him to have grabbed that moment and held onto it and cataloged every detail in the flowing words of a writer, but he knows he hadn't because they'd been sharing words and breath and life and thoughts for three years and it was just natural, normal.
They hadn't slept together yet. Well, they sleep together each and every night, unless Sherlock deems sleeping unimportant and frivolous that particular day. Which is why John is sitting in his chair, hands clutching the Union Jack pillow so tightly that he can't feel his fingers, and trying to figure out how to make the next obvious step in this relationship-friendship-relationship-friendship come as naturally as everything else had.
He was alone, having woken up to a cold bed and a note on the hazardous kitchen table from Sherlock that just said he was off and to not contact him unless there was an emergency.
John snapped back to reality only to realize that reality was no longer real to him. He was so sure-unsure-sure-unsure about what he has with Sherlock that he was concerned for his mental health. And as a doctor, that meant he was currently trying to diagnose what the bloody hell his problem is today.
He stalked off to the kitchen and set the kettle to boil, pulling out tea bags and checking for milk.
He hadn't once questioned what had been going on, but as the day went onward, the clock ticked, the sun set, and the air chilled, he started to wonder how much of his confidence was really a cover for an insecurity. No words had ever been spoken and besides small touches and small, closed mouth kisses, nothing had progressed any further. sure-unsure-sure-unsure.
He hadn't tried contacting his insane, brilliant flatmate-mate-partner-mate-flatmate after reading the note nearly fifteen hours before.
"I'm going absolutely mad," he whispered to himself. He pulled out his mobile and fumbled with the keys before opening a text to Sherlock.
I don't know what you consider an emergency, but I want you here.
It said everything and nothing all at once. He hit send and took his tea back to his chair. His phone replaced the Union Jack pillow, and he clutched it waiting for words to travel through time and space and enter his heart via the small plastic device clutched in his grasp.
What's wrong? –SH
nothing-everything-nothing-everything
John knew typing his fragmented thoughts would only serve to annoy Sherlock and confuse him further. But John did nothing if not push the boundaries. He'd invaded Afghanistan, after all—pushing literal boundaries.
I want to kiss you and bite at your lips. I want to caress your tongue with mine. I want to rake my fingers through your hair until they catch on a curl, and I want to tug your ear into my mouth until all you think is John-John-John. I want you to speak my name and say you want me and say you love me and say you're sure-sure-sure.
He expects a reply about how his texting speed is improving but his grammar skills are declining.
I will be home in twenty minutes. –SH
"Fuck," John says as he cards his fingers through his already mused hair. He's excited-nervous-excited-nervous and just plain proud of his ability to turn what has been an emotional minefield in his head all day into an "emergency" to Sherlock Holmes.
Again, the clock ticks and time goes by slowly. He's still just sitting in his chair not even trying to find something to occupy his time with and make it seem like he hadn't sat in his chair all day thinking of what he'd texted Sherlock. He'd see right through it after stepping past the threshold, anyways. Such a right prat.
He hears the door downstairs open and close, he hears Sherlock come up taking two steps at a time, and hears when he stops in the doorway to remove his Belstaff and scarf. John turns his head and takes in Sherlock's wind mused curls and pink cheeks. "You're starting to sound like me in your texts. You sound manic."
John does not reply to this. His words have dried up and he's left with a dry mouth and an ache for everything-everything-everything.
Sherlock tilts his head and just whispers, "Sure-sure-sure."
With his usual grace but with an unusually slow speed, Sherlock crosses the sitting room to where John is crouched down in his chair. He sinks to his knees and places his hands on the armrests, effectively trapping John. close-too far-close-too far.
Sherlock lets out a shaky breath that matches the shaking in John's voice, "Why am I so sure-unsure-sure-unsure-?" Before John can continue with his sure-unsure-sure-unsures, Sherlock leans in and steals John's lips and tongue and heart and oh, god, sure-sure-sure. Their tongues are sliding together and their hands are gripping and caressing and they just want to take-give-take-give.
Sherlock broke the kiss, and after gasping in a breath, he murmured, "You're an idiot."
"I know. But you're brilliant and didn't know quite how idiotic I would be over this." Sherlock quirked a smile at this and stood, pulling John up with him.
"I can't always deduce which days your stupidity will make you sit in a chair for fifteen hours and consume nothing but tea and think in horrible sentence fragments."
"Wanker," John said with a hint of amusement. "Where were you all day?"
"Unimportant. What you should be asking me is where I'll be for the next fifteen hours."
"And where's that?" Sherlock answered by pulling John through the kitchen, down the hall, and onto his bed. "Words, Sherlock, I need words."
"You know I don't do sentiment."
"Do it for me. Like you eat for me and hold me so I don't have nightmares and jump in front of criminals with knives and give me your scarf when you know I'm just too cold. Do it for me, please, Sherlock. I need this."
Sherlock's adam's apple bobbed as his throat clearly worked to get out what could be seen behind his blue-grey eyes. "I need you—I need you to be cold and want my scarf. I need you to care for me and force me to eat and sleep even though it's just transport, John. I need you to look at me and whisper 'brilliant'. I need you slide closer to me in the back of the cabs and take my hand in yours, even though I know your heart is beating wildly every time because you think it's a risk. I need you to take risks because I don't know how to do this, and I will fuck up every time you want me to be better than a bit not good. And I want you to know that I am unsure-sure-unsure-sure-sure-sure every second because I don't do sentiment, but I also want you to know that I love you."
"Oh, god, Sherlock. I love you, too."
Sherlock's smile was brilliant and it radiated-glowed-shone like a thousand suns in the dark room. John leaned over and tugged his ear into his mouth, running his tongue along the edge. He reached up and pushed his hands into Sherlock's midnight curls. His lips trailed from his ear to his neck, where he whispered sweet nothings that sounded suspiciously like love-love-love and sure-sure-sure. And Sherlock whispered, "John-John-John."