Doris Holmes and Donna Watson had been best friends for what felt like 50 years when it had only truly been 1.
When they had first met, they had both been 25 and new mothers... Well, Doris had a surprisingly smart and well behaved two-year-old son named Mycroft and Donna had a baby in her womb that liked to kick her ribs at random points of the day. Donna was expecting in less than a month.
The story of their meeting was a little cheesy and corny but they still loved to tell it years later.
Both of the young ladies and their husbands had been looking for a very large old fashioned house to somewhat fulfill their unrealistic fantasies of living in the past. In Sussex, There was a house, a perfect house. Upon entering, one saw stairs curving upward and inward on both sides. In the middle there was a huge fireplace. This house won both of their hearts immediately. So Doris bought the house. And so did Donna.
Basically, they had been scammed. The house had been sold to both of them. The man who had sold them the house was long gone, having run for the hills after the exchange. Doris and Donna were very calm women and stayed that way as their husbands fought in the front courtyard. They decided to settle things over tea, as any British would.
They both discussed their over fondness of romanticizing the past while Mycroft shoved teacakes in his mouth across the dining table. They laughed and smiled and saw the gleams in each others' eyes. Donna could barely sit down due to her bulbous front and Doris smiled, remembering her pregnancy and her clumsiness.
"I hope you have a boy." Doris had been lost in thought after a long (and very entertaining) conversation that had brought her much closer to this woman.
"Why is that?" Donna seemed startled by Doris's voice after the the long break of silence where the only thing to be heard was Mycroft's little mouth chewing away.
"When I arrange for Mycroft to be married, I want it to be to a decent family."
"Aww, wait... Wouldn't you want it to be a girl then?"
"That'll never do. He wants to marry a boy, he said so." Mycroft nodded his head and smiled with a full mouth.
"That's preposterous! he's only two years old, Doris! I am always one for arranging your child's marriage, I would never have my children going off and choosing someone who will not support their needs and we have always had arranged marriages in my family, but you must wait at least until they are old enough to be sure of what gender they prefer."
Doris smiled "Oh, Donna, I do so like you. I believe strictly in arranged marriage and we have always had them in my family, as well. I will be sure to check up later on his... sexual preference, if that makes you any happier."
Donna just giggled and they went on talking and talking until they came to the unexpected conclusion that they could share the beautiful home and live together, raising their children to be best friends.
When Donna gave birth to a baby girl, they were not truly disappointed. She was a beautiful little child and not worthy of any sad faces, that was sure.
Mycroft Holmes and Harriet Watson did not get along as well as their mothers had expected. They didn't fight or anything harsh like that, it was only that Mycroft enjoyed staying indoors, reading a book or eating while Harriet spent her days running outside in the muddy grass and attempting to catch insects with her butterfly net.
When Mycroft was five years old and Harriet was three, Donna was giving birth to her second child. It turned out to be a small boy and they named him John. Donna shared many hugs and smiles with Doris as they dreamt of future marriages.
"We surely cannot marry John to Mycroft, I would rather that I had another child very soon with an age closer to his." Doris sighed with a contemplative frown. The ladies discussed their plans alone in the nursery while Donna rocked John to sleep slowly.
"That would be perfect, if only." Donna looked up from her newborn to smile at her friend with that smile that was reserved for her.
It took Doris two years to give birth to her second child. When they discovered that it was a boy they were ecstatic and only hoped that the two-year-old John and the newborn Sherlock would grow up inseparable. She and Donna decided that this would be perfect and they selectively ignored the fact that their children still had to decide whether they wanted to marry a man or a woman. This didn't seem to matter anymore to the mothers as they dreamed and dreamed away.
It was Sherlock's first day of school. He was four years old. John, being six and going to his third year of school, was assigned by their mothers to walk Sherlock into his classroom. It was the same classroom that Harriet had walked John into on his first day.
Donna and Doris watched as John reluctantly guided Sherlock towards the double doors. Sherlock, being the stubborn toddler that he always was, refused to move his feet at all. John had a fit and briefly gave up but soon remembered that he was not the type to do so and he persevered. He walked behind Sherlock and put both of his hands on his back and pushed. Sherlock fell over but got up just as quick and punched John in the chest.
They both ran to their mothers and whined in unison "I haaaate hiiiiiim." It seemed that up until this moment, Donna and Doris had never noticed the strong mutual dislike in both of their sons. However, they still stowed it away and believed it to be a temporary, childish thing.
When Sherlock was eleven and John was thirteen, Donna had John babysit him while they all went out to plan Mycroft's wedding. Mycroft was to be married to a nice (and quite smart) young gentleman named Gregory. He was going to move away and Sherlock was very excited. He told himself that he would never miss him and it was most likely true.
When Doris and Donna arrived from planning, Donna asked John how things went. John only grunted. "John," she said.
"I don't know. Bad. All he did was complain that he didn't need a babysitter. And also he was growing mould in his bedroom." After that John went on mumbling.
"John, don't mumble, I can't understand a word you say."
John looked his mother right in her eyes. "I hate him."
When John saw the hurt in his mum's eyes, he did not understand it. He got up and went to his room.
A few months before John's eighteenth birthday, Donna worked up the courage to ask her son the question that had burned in her mind since his birth.
"John,"
"Yes?" He was looking through the pile of junk mail on the kitchen counter.
"What-" She stuttered. "What gender would you prefer to marry?" She looked at him with hopeful eyes.
John smirked at his mum. "Jesus. I thought you'd never ask and I'd get stuck with some hermaphrodite. I like men, mum."
The look on Donna's face was so overjoyed that it almost overwhelmed John because he could not understand his mother's obsession with marrying him off to some random family.
Unless...
Unless it wasn't just some random family.
Oh.
Oh.
"Mum... Mum, no. Please, let me have guessed wrong. No, Mum. Not him. Anyone but him. Please. Please."
"John, come on, you must give him a chance."
"What? I have given him a chance, mum! I grew up with him! He's weird and, and, and he can't even marry yet! He's too young! He's like thirteen!"
"John, he's sixteen... I-"
"No, whatever." He left the house.
Donna and Doris didn't know what to do.
John didn't come back to the house until two in the morning. He still wasn't sure what to do so he decided that he would talk to the only person who might feel the same things he was experiencing.
Sherlock's light was on so John tapped the door. The reply came instantly.
"Busy."
"I have something to tell you."
"I already know that your mates hid my shoes in the oak tree, but thanks anyway."
"No, Sherlock-"
"Busy."
"Our parents want you and I to get married."
There was some rustling and within ten seconds the door was literally thrown open and John found himself with a baffled Sherlock less than a foot away from him. He had forgotten how intimidating it was to have a sixteen-year-old be taller than you. It bothered John.
Sherlock's eyes scanned John's face inch by inch. He then stepped away and grabbed his dark brown hair and began to mutter under his breath.
"How did I not deduce this?" He didn't scream it but his voice was so forceful that he may as well have. "All of the signs are there! They have always been there! They've been planning this for years!"
"Jesus, Sherlock, quiet down a little or you'll wake them!"
Sherlock didn't seem to have heard him as he continued to wallow in self pity "I can't marry you!" He said the word 'you' as if speaking of a fresh dog turd.
John was too fed up to care that Sherlock was being particularly rude. "Exactly my point, how do we get out of it?"
"We say that one of us is straight. Obviously. It should work. Albeit it'll break our mothers' hearts."
"Brilliant plan except I don't exactly want to be stuck with a woman for the rest of my life. Do you?"
"Obviously not. But that doesn't matter because it will be you stuck with a woman, not I." With this, Sherlock spun into his room and shut the door on John.
John wanted to scream. He was stuck between a rock and a hard place and he wasn't adapted to it.
At breakfast the next morning everyone sat silent, chewing slowly and not making any eye contact. John glanced at Sherlock and he figured that Sherlock could feel his eyes on him because right then he glanced up at John. Sherlock's eyes were pleading in a very minor and well-hidden fashion but John could see it. He made a minute nod and faced his mother who had been looking down the entire meal.
He figured it would be best just to blurt it out.
"I'm straight."
Everyone simultaneously dropped their silverware except Sherlock who continued to eat, unphased. Doris was the first to speak "Alright, then."
There was a lengthy pause in the conversation.
Donna looked sad but tried to hide it. "If, er, if you insist."
"I want to marry a woman." Sherlock better be happy right now, John thought. This was the best acting he could ever remember doing and he wanted it to be appreciated.
"I got it, sweetheart." Donna managed a candy sweet smile for her son and the rest of breakfast was excruciatingly slow-paced and quiet.
The weeks and months passed by as usual and John barely had time to think as he prepared for graduation. He wanted to be a doctor and he wanted to go to a decent college so he filled out college applications and spent the majority of each day stressing himself out. Before he knew it, it was the night before his wedding. He was to be married to a nice girl from Edinburgh named Mary.
It was a tradition in the family for the groom not to meet the bride until they exchanged vows. John grew up with a family that very strictly believed in this and he never thought to question it. He was the type to simply go with the flow and refrain from asking any questions.
On this night he could not sleep. The sandman refused to pay him a visit. He pushed himself from under his duvet and crept down the stairs to boil a pot of tea. He figured that that would soothe his mind for one night of sleep.
Little did John know, Mary was sitting on their beige loveseat with his mother. He caught a glimpse of them and knew that this was his cue to scurry on back up to his warm and inviting bed sheets. He knew that it was cheating to sneak peeks at his future lover but something in John could not stop. He found now that he liked the feeling of doing something that he was not supposed to be doing. These thoughts made him remind himself of Sherlock so he pushed them away.
Mary was petite and had silky blonde hair that brought out her elfish face. She was a stereotypical beauty. John wasn't thick and he could tell these kinds of things. He could see that she was pretty, but in his eyes she looked like every other fair maiden he had seen in his days and every time he tried to love her more he could only love her less.
He strained his ears to listen in to their conversation. He caught enough of it to get the gist. Donna was rambling nervously to little Mary about her concerns with John's 'sexual confusion'. John had heard enough and when he arrived in his bedroom he promptly threw himself on the bed and groaned.
When the next morning rolled around and John was called downstairs to breakfast, he was shaking. His mother and Doris had planned a pre-party for the whole Watson family this morning. They did this because when Harriet was married, she wouldn't put up with anything big or fancy and they were only able to have a private wedding. They were making up for that with this.
Basically, the whole family was here in their dining room and he was as jittery as he could possibly be. He tried to hug everyone and he tried to smile at everyone as they wished him congratulations on his future marriage. People would flash him an odd look every once in awhile but mostly, no one noticed his distress. That is to say, all but Sherlock.
Every single time that John saw Sherlock, he was staring right at him, analyzing his body language intently. It was the weirdest thing and John really did not like it. He felt exposed and guilty and he couldn't push it away, no matter how much effort he put into it.
Soon, they all moved out to the courtyard and people began dancing. There was an orchestra and they soon were picking at their strings, pizzicato. They played a lively and upbeat hymn and John tried to drift away with it. He sat down on a garden bench on the sidelines and watched as everyone moved on with their perfectly moulded lives and it made him sick. He didn't want to live like this, by someone elses rules and ideas. He had the sudden urge to run away and find the perfect beau or maybe just stay single forever. His mother would hate him though and he knew in his heart that he could never do anything to hurt her.
Among the sea of faces, he searched for his mother's. He spotted her across the crowd. When the dancers parted he could see her face and it looked sad. It wasn't the sort of sadness that you see when someone cries, it was the sort of sadness that you see when someone has expected too much and not received what they had hoped for.
John could look no longer and he turned his face to his left, only to find that Sherlock had seated himself there.
John practically jumped out of the bench.
"Sherlock... Jesus."
Sherlock was looking towards his mother, who was standing next to John's. His face was blank and it frustrated John immensely that he could not read it's emotions. He thought that maybe Sherlock never had any emotion. That maybe he felt like a blank paper that did not know the feeling of ink or maybe he felt like a factory machine, twisting and turning and constantly creating.
It came to John's attention that he did not know what sort of things Sherlock did in his bedroom with his microscope and his mould and his dead animals and John all of the sudden needed to know. If the only thing he could get out of this day was an unwanted wife, then he would be extremely disappointed.
"Sherlock?"
"Mm?" Sherlock's gaze was still petrified and John had the feeling that Sherlock wasn't even listening but he could not bring himself to care.
"What do you do?"
Now, Sherlock looked at him. He furrowed his brow at him and regarded him dubiously. He looked as if no one had ever shown any interest in his personal affairs before and John was almost sure that no one had.
"I experiment."
"What kinds of experiments? What for? How do you know so much? You're only sixteen."
"I hardly think that age has anything to do with knowledge, John. For your information, I run experiments on whatever is necessary. I do it to solve questions, problems, cases. I like challenges."
"You solve cases?" John was shocked to say the least. He had never involved himself in anything involving the government. All he knew was that was all that Mycroft would talk about when he was around and John didn't want to be anything like him. He could see now that the interest was truly a Holmes thing and he was suddenly intrigued. It was a surprise to find anything that Sherlock and Mycroft had in common, considering that they always hated each other.
"Mm, yes. It's a little boring, I must admit. They never publish the interesting information in the newspapers and they are, unfortunately, my only resource."
"Who do you tell the solved cases to?"
"... No one. Why would I?" John noticed, for the first time, that Sherlock could be amazingly thick.
"If you are truly and really solving these cases, you could save lives!"
"I don't do it to save lives, John, I do it because it is an acceptable way to practise my science of deduction."
"Excuse my stupidity." The right side of Sherlock's mouth curled up at this and his cheek wrinkled. "But I'm not familiar with the 'science of deduction'. Should I be?"
"You wouldn't. I do believe that I invented it myself. You see, I scan my surroundings, make the important observations and compile them into conclusions. It's simple, really. All I do is add two and two together and come up with four. Anyone could do it if they only tried." He sighed with what seemed like disappointment for the human race.
There was silence that swam thickly between them. The song ended with a crescendo and everybody clapped.
"Deduce me." Sherlock's eyes had drifted away and been resting on his mother again but John's voice and those two words drew them back.
"No one... No one has ever asked me before, I-"
John insisted "What do you see?"
John had never seen Sherlock look this nervous before in his entire life.
"I see... sweaty forehead, nervous, yet your heart rate is not accelerated, therefore the event that's causing the nerves is in the back of your mind... of course, that was, until I mentioned it." The fact that his wedding was to happen in a few hours came looming over and crashed right on John.
"Yeah, thanks for that. Anyway, none of that counted because you already knew it."
"Is that a challenge to see if I can go deeper?" Sherlock smirked.
"I should believe so." John smirked right back.
"Your eyes, they show desires that you don't even know you have yet. The way you walk, I can tell that you are missing something vital in your life- and," Sherlock glanced in the direction of their mothers.
"And what?"
"You need to dance with me. Now."
"-What? Why? No, Jesus, Sherlock!" Sherlock had already grabbed John by the wrist and dragged him to the centre of the courtyard.
"Sherlock, you are aware that this is a slow song-"
"I'll lead."
"Sher-"
"Don't pretend that your mother never taught you how to dance, John. Donna Watson believes that every real gentleman knows. You see, I cannot stand here and watch my mother in this saddened state. If I have calculated correctly, a small dance between the two of us will please our mothers immensely. Then you can move away and start a new life and you'll never have to see me again after the wedding. Okay?"
John looked over at their mothers, sighed, and gave in, "Okay." He braced his hands incredibly awkwardly and not at all intimately on Sherlock's shoulders and Sherlock's hands were gripping a little too tight onto John's hips. John felt stiff and closed off which was the exact opposite of how you were supposed feel while you danced. According to his mother, you should always feel open and loose and let the music take you away into lands that you could never even dream of.
Sherlock was the poster image of this. His eyes were softly closed and he stepped smoothly and right on beat. Watching Sherlock's calm face slowly drew John into this trance. He used his mother's advice and allowed himself to drift from all of his worries.
Eventually, their stances became more and more relaxed. They unconsciously moved toward each other until their chests were pressed against each other and their heart beats aligned. John's arms wrapped themselves around Sherlock's long neck and Sherlock's moved to encircle John's back. John's eyes fell closed and he rested his forehead in the crook of Sherlock's neck. For once, he was appreciating the height of the man in front of him.
Any amount of time could have passed while they swayed together and they would not have known. As soon as the song drew to an end, John flinched. He had just realized what he was doing. He quickly stepped back to remove himself from Sherlock's proximity. He spared a glance to his mother and Doris, they looked so pleased that it was almost worth it. In the corner of his eye he could see Sherlock looking just as confused by his actions as John was. Sherlock then started running his palms down his suit, as if to remove wrinkles. This set John on edge. He started feeling more and more uneasy and suddenly he felt completely overwhelmed and claustrophobic.
He suddenly needed to get away from all of these happy, boring people. He had a craving for something that he could not name. He bolted to his bedroom, up the stairs, one left and two rights. He did not know if anyone watched him go or not, he did not care.
Upon arriving in his room, he sat on the edge of his bed against the left wall and he calmed himself with a few deep breaths. He told himself that he was being completely outrageous. So, he had enjoyed a dance with someone that he previously hated. That was fine, right? It didn't matter anyway because he would never see Sherlock again after tonight. Something about this was uncomfortable. Sherlock had always been a constant in John's life. While everyone else went out to do various activities, Sherlock stayed home. John could always rely on him being up in his bedroom or in the backyard, killing small creatures.
Soon, John would have a new house with Mary. He would have boring things that would make his mother proud, things like assorted rose gardens and multiple cats. Eventually this new house would feel like home. Or would it? He wasn't even sure if he felt at home in this house. He wasn't sure of much.
He started a bath. John Watson loved baths, they were a perfect place to let your mind wander without having to berate it. He let the water flow warmer than he usually preferred. He wanted the bite of it. He removed his suit with care, he had no idea how much his mother had spent on it but he could be certain that it was a lot. He then dipped himself inch by inch into the scalding heat of the bathwater.
While he laid there, he thought about Sherlock. He thought about his teel eyes that had practical nebulas exploding in them. He thought about those eyes focused on his own. He thought about the little smirk that Sherlock had copywritten. He wanted to know what it took to put that smirk there other that insults to your own intelligence. He thought about the deep look on Sherlock's face while he soaked in the notes that the orchestra played.
He knew that Sherlock had taught himself to play the violin. He had memories of pretending to be annoyed by the music flowing from Sherlock's bedroom. He would only act that way when his mates were over. His mates hated Sherlock, thought he was a freak. They always called him just that, a freak. John had said some pretty terrible things about Sherlock over the years. The worst thing about it was that he had never meant it. All of John's life he had tried to be just like everybody else. That was what his parents wanted of him, so he gave it to them.
Thinking of this brought back many more memories of letting his friends pull horrible and cruel pranks on Sherlock. They would trip him almost everyday at lunch while Sherlock was carrying his tray. It got to the point where Sherlock trained himself to keep balance even when unexpected feet came into the equation. They were always stealing his things and hiding them. If John got the chance he would tell Sherlock where they had been hidden. This, obviously was not enough.
There was one time, when Sherlock was starting his first year of secondary school, when John's best mate, Devon, picked up Sherlock, and dragged him into the forest behind the school. Devon punched Sherlock in the eye and in the gut. Sherlock had been heaving and there had been blood dripping from his right cheekbone.
John thought for a second that he might be crying but he told himself that he must have splashed himself.
There was a very soft knock on the loo door and John glanced up.
"I'm in the bath." John's voice was quiet, subconsciously mimicking the knock that had been left on his door.
"I just wanted to say thank you." It was Sherlock's voice behind the maple.
"Sherlock? What for?"
"Making my mother smile."
John did not want to know what Sherlock would do without a mother figure in his life.
"It... wasn't a problem."
Then there was silence so he figured that Sherlock had left after he had told John what he wanted to. He started to smooth the body soap over his body.
"Do you mind if I sit here?" Sherlock's muffled voice startled him.
"Whatever."
There was a sliding of fabric against the back of the door and then a light thump.
John continued to wash himself. If he tried, he could hear Sherlock breathing slowly. So close. When he finished, he wrapped himself in his warm and soft bathrobe.
He opened the door slowly because he knew that Sherlock was resting his head against the other side of it. Sherlock stood up when he saw him and John walked past to take a seat on the edge of his bed again. Sherlock sat on the edge too, but at a very safe distance.
"What time is it?" John asked after a moment of utter silence.
Sherlock didn't even look at a watch or a clock or anything before saying "2:14."
John rubbed his hands down his face in a very exasperated fashion and sighed. "I better get ready for the ceremony."
Sherlock jumped up quickly "-No!"
"What?"
"You- I- You..."
"I'd rather just get this over with, Sherlock." He opened the top drawer of his dresser and grabbed a pair of underpants.
Then Sherlock was kissing him.
He didn't have time to think before he was responding, kissing that tall teenager back. The kiss was surprisingly gentle and John knew that he wasn't being forced into anything, that he could pull away at any moment. Surprisingly, that still didn't feel like an option.
Their lips were together, sliding into a beautiful, warm, blissful abyss. Sherlock brought his hands up and they cupped John's face. John thought that they would be cold, like the tone of his skin, but they were pleasantly hot and John loved it. John had no idea what to do with his hands. One of them was still holding a pair of red undies while the other one was just dying to wrap Sherlock up and pull him impossibly close. He dropped the underwear and did just that with both arms.
Sherlock began to walk John backwards, back to the bed. He pushed John down, straddled his hips and slipped his hands into John's robe. He began to feel his chest, which was heaving very quickly. John felt like this situation was quite unfair, considering the fact that he was already practically naked with his partner being fully clothed.
John remembered something that he wanted to say so he turned his head away from the invading kisses. This only provided a large area of John's neck for Sherlock to lick and gently bite at. John was moaning softly in the back of his throat and he almost forgot that he was going to say something.
"Sher- Sherlocccck" It was supposed to be a protest but it came out too breathy and low for that. Sherlock had just sucked at a particularly sensitive area of John's throat. Sherlock chuckled into his neck and rolled his hips. John would save whatever it was that he was going to say for later, he decided as he brought Sherlock's mouth back to his own.
Their kisses had become a lot more than just kisses and soon, they were quite properly snogging the minutes away. Their tongues made love and it was wet and perfect and just right but still not enough.
John did not ask for any type of permission before pulling Sherlock's bright white dress shirt out of his pants, unbuttoning it and pushing it off of his shoulders. He then set to work on his belt, which took a little longer but he got through it. Sherlock was humming happily all the while and John loved the feeling of it vibrating on his skin.
John was taking his time and admiring the beautiful, practically hairless chest before him when Sherlock grew painfully impatient and reached his hand down to cup John's erection through his bathrobe. This was the last straw. John undid Sherlock's fly and stuck his fingers under the waist of his trousers and as quick as was humanly possible, pulled them down to his knees. Sherlock helped by kicking them off the rest of the way.
John could now do nothing more than stare at Sherlock's black boxers. And stare. And stare. Sherlock lowered his beautiful mouth to John's ear. He kissed the lobe. And then he let out a deep breath and it was so loud, bouncing around in John's ear drum.
"Take them off, John."
John loved the way that Sherlock's lust induced voice pronounced his name. He also loved being commanded, apparently. He obediently did as he was told.
Sherlock was naked before him. He had always seemed so innocent and young and now, here he was. Here he was, letting John see him like this. John thought of what his mates would think of him right now, losing his virginity to "The Fucking-creepy-ass-freak-that-lived-in-John's-house" and he found that he despised all of his mates who cared about nothing other than football and alcohol and beating people up. John very much enjoyed the feeling of doing something that others would never dare to do. As he looked up at Sherlock, he saw many scars and many bruises scattered here and there. He decided that he would kill anyone who hurt Sherlock again and that was his final thought on that matter.
Sherlock gave John time to look, but before long, those slim, bony fingers were untying the knot on John's bathrobe. Sherlock pushed away the barrier and stared fondly down at John and John forgot how to breathe. Sherlock lifted John's back so that he could get the robe completely off.
Now they were naked together. Body against body. Cock against cock. They were thrusting and holding each other as close as they could. John could barely think, neither could Sherlock, which was even more impressive. Throughout their whole childhood, John had always found some way to make himself the superior to Sherlock, but this was not the case in reality. As he sweated with Sherlock and moaned and growled and shared his most intimate of places with Sherlock, he could only feel like Sherlock's equal, if even that.
He felt unbelievably lucky to have such a beautiful man in his arms, sharing this moment with him and he was so close, so very close and he knew that Sherlock was too. He started moving quicker and harder and harder.
Sherlock bit down on John's shoulder as he came. John could (and still can) very truthfully say that Sherlock's face as he orgasmed was the most captivating and truly beautiful thing ever. And it brought John over the edge as well. Their eyelids fluttered as they emptied their semen onto each other's abdomens.
Sherlock rolled over onto his back next to John. They were breathing like they had just ran a marathon but their lungs were gradually slowing themselves. They were so comfortable, just lying there in each other's presence. John felt like he could fall asleep and he probably would have. But then Sherlock started talking and he was very awake.
"When I deduced you, I came to a conclusion, like I always do."
"I was actually going to ask you about that, but ya know, things happened."
"John, you're missing thrill."
"What?"
"When's the last time, not including just now, that you did something thrilling?"
John thought hard, he really did.
"I don't..."
"John, you need something exciting, something to do on slow days. You need to have adventures. You need your own version of a battlefield. All of your life, you have stayed in this little neighborhood. You need a city. You need someone... like me... or I don't know. The need for it all is burned into your facial features."
John stared at the side of Sherlock's head and was much too quiet for a long time. Sherlock figured John was mad at him for trying to tell him what he needed. People didn't like that, did they?
"Sherlock, please get out of my bedroom. Leave."
Sherlock could have cried, he could have, but he was not weak like that.
"...Okay. I will. I will forget that this ever happened. I'm sorry, I am. I- just... sorry. I'll never talk about it again."
"Good, okay."
Sherlock wordlessly retrieved his clothing articles from around John's bedroom and retreated across the hall to his own room. Once there, he got in the shower to rinse away all the last traces of John, his semen, his sweat, his affection.
The wedding was too crowded, in John's opinion. It filled up the whole church. Mary had a very large extensive family who were all very happy to enjoy free refreshments. His suit felt very tight and his mother had tried to make his hair perfect about 100 times and had only succeeded by using half a jar of grease.
He was now standing in front of the crowd and he had a priest to his right. His mate, Andrew, was there too, as his best man but John didn't want to think about him and how rude he always was to Sherlock. Speaking of Sherlock, John could not see him in the crowd. That was just like Sherlock, to not show up.
He had to wait a surprisingly long time for his fiance to ride up in limousine looking "beautiful." Everyone was always saying that Mary looked "sooooo beautiful" in her wedding dress. He knew that whatever beauty she possessed wearing that gown could never compare to Sherlock wearing nothing.
They played the cliche song and everyone was so fake happy looking and it wasn't until Mary was halfway down the aisle that John felt like he had made the biggest mistake of his life. He started to feel all panicky inside and he kind of felt like puking.
Mary arrived in front of him and she placed herself on the other side of the priest. This was their first meeting so they shook each other's hands, as was tradition. She was smiling at him and he felt really blank. There was a lot of talking but he didn't listen. Then the priest asked him the question. John knew that he was supposed to say 'I do', that was his line.
"I..." John looked down and wanted to hide himself. "... can't. I can't." He wished he were not the centre of attention.
Everyone was silent and John could not bring himself to look at anyone's faces. Then there came a voice, a very deep, welcome voice that made John look up towards it.
"I object!"
John almost wanted to laugh but he didn't. Sherlock was just a little late. He had obviously just ran from the house all the way to the church. His shirt buttons were in the wrong holes, his hair was wonderfully disheveled and he was panting.
"On what reasoning?"
Someone from the front row had said that, probably Mary's mum.
"I'm in love with the groom."
He looked right into John's eyes as he said this and his breath was still lost from running a mile and he looked so perfect and John felt horrible for kicking him out of his room earlier.
"What is going on here?" Doris tried to sound angry but only sounded confused, which was understandable.
John grabbed the microphone from the priest's podium and took a deep breath.
"Okay. First of all, I'm not straight. I'm gay. You see, I said that I was straight so that I would not be forced to marry Sherlock. I made a mistake, a mistake that could have lasted a lifetime. I let myself hate someone without knowing anything about them. All I knew was that Sherlock had done nothing but annoy me throughout my entire childhood and I could not imagine having to spend the rest of my life with him. Because of my 'straight' lie, this whole wedding got arranged and I was mildly okay in the beginning because I would tell myself that it did not matter what gender I married, I could learn to care for my significant other. But only earlier today, I let myself get to know Sherlock. And, let me tell you something, we were made for each other. I need him, I do. We bonded the whole day and everything was absolutely perfect, but in the end, I told him to leave. I told him to leave because everyone had worked so hard to get all of this set up. My mother worked so hard to find Mary and all of the planning for Mary and for me and I didn't want anything to go to waste. And I knew that Mary had to be a sweet and beautiful girl but I just... don't think that I can marry her. I'm sorry for everything." It was silent and everyone was staring.
"You can all go home now!" Doris shouted and people looked around a few times before awkwardly standing up and leaving. Mary stayed.
The whole matter was quite embarrassing and everybody looked angry and whatnot. Mary gave John a kiss on the cheek, he supposed it was to show that she was okay with everything. She really was a very sweet girl.
As she left, John approached Sherlock tentatively. He then cupped his face and started kissing him with all of the passion he could muster. Sherlock reciprocated and gripped John's arse to pull their bodies flush against each other. Donna coughed. When the boys looked up they saw their mothers beaming at them but then they started whispering to each other so John and Sherlock went back to kissing.
"Donna, Sherlock's never even told me that he loves me. I'm utterly amazed."
Donna smiled. "So what do you think, Doris? Red roses or white?"
EPILOGUE
"Sherlock, what's this?"
"What? Oh, blood. Obviously."
"Alright, yeah. Care to tell me what it's doing all over the carpet?"
"Drying, I should think."
"Sherlock" John's tone was threatening.
"Okay, I spilt a cup of blood. Sorry."
"What the bloody hell were you doing with a cup of blood?"
"Drinking it."
"What?"
"Joking, obviously."
John coughed out a dry laugh, "Ha ha. Well, I am not your personal little slave to walk behind you and wash dried blood out of your (literally) bloody carpet." And so John threw himself on his chair across from Sherlock's.
After the two years of waiting for Sherlock to come of age and the wedding that felt hours long (every one of them special), Sherlock had dragged John out of the countryside and into the new territory of London. Sherlock had managed to find them a cozy flat right in the middle of the city.
John tried and tried to persuade Sherlock to make connections with someone from Scotland Yard so that he could put his skills to work and save lives. Soon, they found out that they didn't need to. Mycroft's husband, Gregory Lestrade worked as a Detective Inspector there and grudgingly allowed Sherlock on his crime scenes, seeing how they were brothers-in-law and everything.
After that, they spent their days sprinting through the alleyways of inner London, chasing murderers and such. John had to work as a nurse at a nearby hospital but his boss, who reminded him quite a lot of Mary, would always understand and allow him to get his daily dose of adventure.
A fond memory for John was the day that he met up with his old secondary school mates and introduced them to his husband. John didn't have many mates after that. John and Sherlock then rode home in a cab, laughing the whole way there.
John loved his new life because it was constantly changing but always remaining utterly perfect. He would enjoy, or not enjoy, a violin concert around midnight some nights. He would meet fascinating people. He would get front row seats to all of Sherlock's experiments and Sherlock was absolutely beautiful when he thought hard or concentrated. There was also the shagging, which was very nice. Very nice indeed.
But sometimes after a trip to Scotland Yard, where people tended to be especially rude to Sherlock, John would notice that people never even gave Sherlock a chance. His face would sadden when he remembered that he was the only one who would thoroughly enjoy the wonderful man's company.
Sherlock could tell when thoughts like these were troubling him and he would run up, throw his legs around John's waist and snog him senseless before muttering into his ear,
"You're the only one I need, John. All others are useless."
And then John's heart would swell up (and as a doctor he knew that this was bad but he did not care) and his back and legs would hurt (because Sherlock was not a light man) and his mouth would feel very minty (because Sherlock had just brushed his teeth) and he would say
"I love you."
and then Sherlock would say
"I love you."
And John would smile fondly when he woke up on the living room floor with a Sherlock on his right and a cup of dried blood on his left.