Sherlock has never been kissed before, but when he does, realises he is no longer sure about his sexuality.
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock, or the original canon. I wish I did though. That'd be pretty cool.
Sherlock pushed his way through the mass of seething humanity, eyes scanning the crowd in desperation. He caught a glimpse of John also squeezing past gyrating hips, looking immensely uncomfortable. He clearly stood out a mile, wearing his jeans and his favourite cream, cable knit jumper. Sherlock also stood out, not only because of his attire – the crisp purple shirt and tailored suit with the long winter overcoat and a royal blue scarf – but also due to his striking appearance.
His looks were almost alien – wavy raven hair contrasting with his ghostly pale skin, brushing gently against his cheekbones, which were almost as razor sharp as his wit. He wasn't just handsome, he was beautiful, and had often used these looks to his advantage, as both men and women seemed to find him strangely attractive. Though the attention from women was more frequent, it was the attention from the men that interested him more. He had always instinctively felt more attracted to men, ever since he could remember, although had never acted upon these instincts. Part of it was purely due to being a social outsider for most of his teen years; part of it was due to him having hit puberty very late. It wasn't until he was around 17 that he suddenly had a growth spurt, lost all his 'puppy fat' and his voice deepened to a seductive rumble.
Despite all these entrancing qualities, Sherlock Holmes remained a virgin, and without a first kiss, even at the age of 32.
He prowled the circumfurence of the dance floor like a jaguar on the hunt for its prey – the prey being a Langdale Pike, a young journalist under investigation for phone tapping and selling confidential information about MP's to the newspaper and gossip magazines. Sherlock and John had been put on the case after details of Mycroft's relationship with his mysterious PA (whom John knew as Anthea, though was currently using the pseudonym Rebecca)
As he completed the circuit of the room and came to rest near the bar, John came over to meet him. "No sign of him" The Army Doctor shook his head, exasperated. Sherlock sniffed. "It was a long shot. Worth a try." He turned to the bar and signalled the barman over, ordering three Vodka shots. He knocked them back in quick succession, wincing at the sting at the back of his throat.
"Sherlock? Is it a good idea to be drinking on a case?"
"Oh god - you sound like my brother. And besides, I'm not drinking. Not properly. Drinking would be putting myself into the drunken stupors that got me through my early twenties. I have had three shots because I am sick of not getting anywhere with this case! He's like a fucking ghost – as soon as I think I know where he'll be he's not there and-." Sherlock took a sharp intake of breath as John took his jumper off, his shirting lifting a little to expose a toned stomach.
Concentrate Sherlock, the consulting detective thought to himself, don't let your mind wander. But it was too late. Maybe he was more of a lightweight than he used to be, as the vodka shots seems to have heightened his senses in terms of noticing how bloody gorgeous John was. Feeling suddenly uncomfortable, he suddenly swept away, squeezing once again through the thronging crown.
Christ on a bike, thought John, what's gotten into him now? He had noticed his friend and flatmate becoming more and more distant lately. At times he would go out of his way to avoid John, and when he was with him would suddenly snap. Determined, John started pushing through gangs of giggling girls after Sherlock, ignoring the bums sashaying against him and hands grabbing at his crotch. Sherlock stormed ahead, before his usually agile frame was sent sprawling as he slipped on a patch of split drink. John stooped to help him up, and Sherlock found himself gazing into John's eyes.
As he stood up and steadied himself, staring at John's face, he suddenly felt a rush of confidence and adrenaline. Out of the blue, John found himself being pushed against the wall of the DJ booth, as Sherlock pressed his lips gently against John's. For a few seconds they stayed touching, before Sherlock drew back, a bewildered expression growing on his face. He leaned back in again, and this time the kiss was a little more tender – John opened his mouth a little more, as did Sherlock. It only lasted a few seconds this time, before Sherlock pulled back again. He stammered something about needing the toilet before rushing away once more, towards the exit. John followed, but by the time he reached the street, there was no sign of his flatmate. Sherlock had disappeared into the night air, leaving a very confused John behind.
Gregory Lestrade was woken from his sleep at thirty-three minutes past four the morning. Wiping sleep from his eyes, he padded downstairs, not entirely committing himself to each step through sheer exhaustion, and opened the front door. What confronted him was a sobering sight – Sherlock Holmes, the most confident man Lestrade had ever known, stood on the doorstep, soaked through by the rain, his face blotchy and eye swollen from crying. Sherlock was clearly trying to keep some composure, though there was still a tell-tale tremble in his chin
"What happened, Sherlock?" Lestrade gently placed a hand on his shoulder. Immediately, Sherlock's face crumpled and he burst into tears once more, a fist clenched to his mouth in a feeble attempt to stifle the sobs. Lestrade took Sherlock by the arm and led him through to the living room. This was going to take a while.
Sherlock was curled up on the sofa, clutching a large mug of coffee, black with two sugars, between his pale hands. He had calmed down considerably, though his face still glistened with the occasional silent tear.
"I just – I thought I'd at least feel….something. It was just…I don't even know what came over me. One minute we were just standing there and then it just happened."
Lestrade looked contemplative as he ran this finger round the edge of his own coffee mug, deep in thought.
"I thought you liked him Sherlock? Surely this was what you wanted?"
"It was," Sherlock sniffed. "That's why I don't understand." He took a deep intake of breath. "It was my first kiss, Greg."
Lestrade was taken aback. "Your first kiss?" He laughed from shock.
"Thanks for understanding." Sherlock scowled.
"Sorry – I didn't mean…sorry." The pair sat in silence for a moment before Greg spoke again, choosing his words carefully. "Do you think maybe, it was because you were kissing a man?"
Sherlock shook his head vigorously. "No – I know I like men…I mean, I thought I liked men. I mean – oh god I don't know. I can't think straight. And god knows – maybe I am straight and not had the fucking common sense or balls to actually go and find out" The tears were back, fresh salty tears spilling down Sherlock's pale cheeks despite him screwing his eyes shut as tight as he could.
Lestrade pushed himself up from his armchair and went to sit next to Sherlock on the sofa, putting an arm protectively round his shoulder.
"Look Sherlock. It was your first kiss. You didn't know what to expect. I know I didn't-"
"Yes and how old were you? Fifteen? Sixteen?" Sherlock snapped.
"Thirteen actually." Greg murmured awkwardly.
"Well then I rest my case" Sherlock spat.
"But maybe you needed this, Sherlock." The consulting detective met Lestrade's eyes, wanting to know what he was getting at.
"Maybe," Lestrade said carefully, "you needed this to find out about yourself. Maybe it is guys you like but John just wasn't the right one. Maybe it's not guys and you need to explore the possibility that you might like girls. Maybe you like both. Maybe you like neither."
"Neither?" The idea had occurred to Sherlock many years ago, but only in a sexual sense, he had at least assumed he had a romantic orientation.
"I think, if it's always been men you've admired, but now you've been given the chance, feel no romantic or sexual attraction towards – maybe you're asexual, Sherlock."
"Asexual." Sherlock turned the idea over in his head. He knew about asexuality. He'd done plenty of research through AVEN in the past. "You could be right. I mean…I think it was the kissing itself rather than who it was with. IT just made me fell, a bit nauseous. I didn't get the point. It's just all wet and…urgh." He shuddered. Greg smirked despite himself – just for a moment the great Sherlock Holmes had resembled a young boy, pulling a face at the merest mention of romance. "You know Sherlock – whatever you are, it doesn't matter. It's 2011 for crying out loud. Anyone can be anything they want these days. It's fine Sherlock. It's all fine. People won't judge you for it. Besides, since when have you given a fuck about people judging you anyway huh?" He looked over to Sherlock, to find the detective had his eyes gently closed, his blotchy face calm in the embrace of sleep, and the tears which had been rolling down his face were dried. At least as he slumbered, Sherlock could for a while forget his problems, a short reprieve from the angst and heartache.
Meanwhile in 221B Baker Street, John sat on the windowsill, watching the rain beat down on the pavement outside, the same thought reverberating round his head on repeat. "It's fine. It's all fine."
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