All John could think about as he walked home from the store – where he had picked up another carton of 2% milk, along with a jar of fresh strawberry jam (the heaviness of the grocery bag weighing down his arm) – was how Sherlock never seemed to help out around the flat. John cooked. John cleaned. John did the laundry. John even scrubbed Sherlock's lab equipment when his experiments went sour. As well as being the only one to hold down a steady job, he was the one who always made trips to the shops and, no matter how busy John was, he always made time to help Sherlock with his cases. But what did Sherlock do? Complain about… well, everything. Nothing was ever good enough for the man. John was beginning to wonder why he made it so easy for him, why he let Sherlock get away with it. Why he didn't call him on it and ask him to be more positive or, at least, help out more. Or help out at all, for that matter.
It was Valentine's Day, and everywhere he went, John saw couples holding hands, cuddling, kissing, and the odd pair indulging in a steamy making out session. He knew it was a hallmark holiday, but it still would've felt nice to have someone to hold, someone to call his own.
John had, of course, been on many dates and had a few relationships since he had come back from Afghanistan. A few had seemed serious, but the women had become upset about the amount of time John had been spending with Sherlock, thinking that it turning into a competition. Even though he cared a lot for these women, he thought it best to comply with their wishes and break up. After each ended relationship, Sherlock would make John a cup of tea –although it was usually cold and ill-prepared. Nevertheless, John would placate Sherlock and drink the tea – every last drop – simply to please the man.
Suddenly, John realized why he was so placid towards Sherlock's complaining and reluctance to participate in chores and duties. He loved him. Even if he could never admit it out loud, John loved Sherlock. As a friend, as a brother, as much, much more, John could not tell. All he knew was that he had stronger feelings towards his flatmate than he had felt for any woman he had been in a relationship with. The two men were also much closer.
The chill February air nipped at John's rosy cheeks as he walked back to 221B. The air smelled of grass (from the freshly mown green space), exhaust fumes (from the hundreds of men and women swiftly travelling back home to ready themselves for a night out with their significant other), and rose petals (from the hundreds of thousands of bouquets that sentimental peoples gave to their partners). As John walked, he heard the loud clack of his shoes against the damp concrete, the wind through the rooftops, and the sound of speeding motors a few streets off.
The sun was setting, casting the sky in a magnificent array of orange and pink hues in soft, subtle tones highlighted with streaks of azure and small, white clouds, silhouetted in darkness by the setting sun.
"Where are you? –SH" It was already 6:15pm when John got the text from Sherlock on the second-hand, beaten up, old cellphone that his sister had given John after breaking up the girlfriend who had given her the device. John was only a block away, and saw no need to text back considering he was so close. Also, John did not want to let on about his newly-discovered feelings for Sherlock. He wanted to keep his feelings hidden for fear of rejection. John was also not oblivious that, if Sherlock did, through some miracle, have the same feelings for John, they would be labelled with certain nasty and inappropriate slang terms which are used to demean those given the label. They would, probably, lose some amount of respect within the police force. Not to mention that their names would, most likely, be slandered in the presses. It was all the more reason to keep his feelings a secret.
Five minutes later John received another text.
He was just mounting the front steps of the flat when the third message came two minutes later.
Each message was from Sherlock, and each message seemed increasingly in want of attention. John ignored them, seeing as he would be in the flat in mere moments, and Sherlock could talk to John then.
When John entered the flat, he noticed three things. The first was that the flat was nearly spotless. No books scattered around the tables and floor. No dirty dishes. No visible dust. There was not much to suggest that the flat actually in use. The second thing that John noticed was the faint smell of smoke. He would have said it was from the seemingly new candles that were scattered around the flat in various, discreet locations, if they had been lit. But they were not, and John decided to ignore it for now, assuming that Sherlock had been attempting an experiment. The third thing that John saw was Sherlock. He was obviously well dressed. Pressed purple shirt. Shined shoes. Combed hair. The crease in his pants showed that they had been recently ironed.
John walked into the flat and put the grocery bag down on the empty kitchen table – stained from dozens of botched experiments.
Sherlock silently took an envelope from the mantelpiece and walked towards John.
John noticed that Sherlock was visibly nervous. Hard swallowing. Shaky hands. The gleam of sweat on his brow. Sherlock's shaky and shallow breaths were, also, a dead giveaway to his nervousness.
Sherlock raised the envelope and held it out for John. John tentatively reached out his hand, extended his fingers, and grasped the paper. He caught the faint smell of cologne coming off of his flatmate as he took the envelope. He looked down at it. His name was scrawled in a very decorative style of handwriting, rather uncharacteristic of Sherlock and his quick, but neat, printing. Apparently he had put a lot of thought into whatever was inside of the envelope. He looked up to meet the eyes of this flatmate. His colleague. His friend.
"What's this?" he asked in an anxious, uneasy voice. John secretly hoped that it was a wild, exaggerated declaration of love. John's heart was beating a mile a minute.
"It's Valentine's Day." remarked Sherlock in a very cool, matter-of-fact tone.
"I know, but…." John trailed off, unsure of himself. He didn't know what was happening. Surely such a robotic, unemotional man as Sherlock would never partake in such a trivial holiday, created solely for the purpose of selling cards.
"Isn't this what people do? Get cards for the most important people in their lives?" Sherlock's voice shook and he looked both cautious and curious at the same time. He was unsure of how John would take this. How he would react to what Sherlock just said.
What was happening? It made John's heart skip a beat, and start again.
"Yes, but it's usually because they love the person. You know, in a romantic way." John hoped that Sherlock would understand what he was trying to say. Other than grade school students, no one gets Valentine's Day cards for everyone they know. It's usually couples who get each other cards and chocolates and flowers and all of those other rather meaningless and overly sentimental mementos.
Sherlock looked down at the floor for a moment, and then his eyes flashed back at John and fixated on his face, his deep, dark, dreamy eyes. Sherlock was looking at John from under his eyelids, full with long lashes. Sherlock slowly walked forwards until their noses were almost touching. John could feel Sherlock's hot breath on his skin. John's heart was pumping wildly, he felt as if he may, at any time, pass out.
"I know." exclaimed Sherlock, coolly.
Suddenly, Sherlock cradled the back of John's head with one hand, the other pulling their waists closer together, and kissed him passionately. Firm. Tender. Powerful. Both of their hearts were beating rapidly. They both knew that they were putting their current relationship on the line. But, at the same time, they also knew that this was exactly what they wanted.
John let the card fall from his hand. He felt as if he were about to faint. He could hardly breathe. Was this a dream? If so, he never wanted to wake up, never wanted it to end. Strange thoughts and bizarre emotions slurred through John's mind. He could barely tell the difference between what was actually happening and what he wished for most.
Sherlock slowly pulled away from John, leaving his lips tingling from their contact. Sherlock didn't pull away very far, just far enough to see John's face again. He kept one hand at John's waist and moved the other to the back of John's left shoulder – muscular from years spent in working at the front.
"I know that I don't say thank you for everything that you do. I know that I don't seem appreciative. But I am. I just wanted you to know that. I notice everything you do for me. I notice everything you do. I notice you. I… I…" proclaimed Sherlock. He knew how he wanted to finish his sentence, but he didn't know what people usually did in circumstances such as these. He had never, really, been a participant in the human condition. He had never known how to properly express his emotions, especially ones so sincere and heartfelt.
"I love you." blurted John. He almost regretted it in the moments after, when his cheeks flushed red. He was instantly embarrassed, but unable to look away from Sherlock, as just as unable to retract his statement. Usually, John would have felt scared and vulnerable. In this case, he was at ease. He had gotten his feelings off of his chest, they were no longer a burden to him alone but, instead, a shared experience between his colleague and himself. Sherlock did not look unnerved, angry, or dismayed. He almost looked happy, with a half-smile creeping up his face and his eyes glistening. He was, in fact, pleased.
"I love you, too, John." whispered Sherlock, meaningfully, as he eased into another, more loving kiss. It was less urgent than the first, but, certainly, no less romantic.
Sherlock's hands were at John's waist and neck, pulling him closer into the kiss. John's were both at Sherlock's upper back, pulling him down to John's level. They were kissing so intensely, and with such heat, that it felt as if their lips would fuse together. Neither of them seemed to be breathing, they were entirely consumed in the moment.
John's mind was a blur of more questions and the answers were all seemed lost to him. Could this really be happening? Was this actually Sherlock, or was this an imposter hired by Moriarty to trick him? Had he died and gone to heaven? If so, what had he done to deserve such overwhelming pleasures? All of these questions, and more, rambled and rattled through John's mind.
Sherlock's hot, shallow breaths were caressing John's neck. Just as John's hands were doing the same to Sherlock's chest, sliding his hand down the length of his friend's body, feeling every muscle as he did so. Then, John's hand was at the back of Sherlock's neck, pulling him closer. Sherlock slowly moved his hand down John's back until he was gripping him firm buttock. Sherlock pulled John even closer. Their pelvises were so close, they were aching. Not only from the force exerted on each other, but from the need to be closer.
Sherlock scooped the short army doctor up into his shapely arms, lips still locked, and carried man into his room. He laid John down on his bed and sat to the left of him, propped up on his elbow, his hand still gripping John's waist.
John's fingers searched for, found, and undid, the buttons on Sherlock's purple shirt. The buttons seemed eager to be removed. After John had undone the last button, he let his hands grab hold of Sherlock's belt and pulled his flatmate towards him. John couldn't help but marvel at Sherlock's chiselled physique as he held his colleague in place. The fair, even skin tone. The smooth, yet rigid curves. The clear and defined muscles.
Sherlock re-positioned himself so that he was sitting splay-legged over John. He let his hands slide down John's chest, feeling the rise and fall of his gentle breathing. As Sherlock grabbed the bottom of John's cardigan, John positioned himself so that he was sitting up, placing his hands behind him for balance. Sherlock slowly peeled John's tan, woollen jumper off of his muscular frame. Sherlock's longing eyes lingered on John's chest, making their way up to his expecting face.
Sherlock leaned his face closer to John's and kissed his tender lips with passion and force. John gently bit Sherlock's lower lip.
The two of them panted heavily as Sherlock grabbed hold of the thin, light blue, cotton sheet they both lay on, and covered John and himself in its billowy folds.
After that night, the two of them were more than flatmates, colleagues, or friends. More than best friends. More than lovers. More than in love.
They were Johnlock.