Hey everyone. It's been a really long time. And I hate to disappoint anyone who's got me on alert for my Zutara stories, but this is something completely new. (No worries, you guys. I have NOT given up on Zutara, life just got in the way and everything's so confusing.) Anyway, this is my first Sherlock story ever! Wow, that's strange to type out... Hm. Anyway, I'm a pretty new fan of Sherlock and it's basically taken over my life. I'm not complaining though, I couldn't be more thankful. This one shot is my entry for fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic's contest on tumblr. The prompt was a first kiss and it had to be between 1000 and 2000 words. I sent it in just barely in time, but I'm still freaking out a bit over it.
I hope you all enjoy it and give me some good feedback. I wrote it while I was really rushed and I'm still not sure how I feel about it. (I didn't even look for mistakes, I just sent it in cause there was no time left! D:) Just let me know what you all think and please don't hate me for not updating Zutara! I promise you all there will be a lot to look forward to in the future! Loves!
If there was one thing that Sherlock Holmes could say he hated most in the world, he would have caught most people off guard. It was not incompetence or boredom or mere stupidity that bothered Sherlock the most. It was something much more basic than any of that. It was being sick.
He always prided himself in being in control of every situation, especially the physical ones. Even though he rarely ate or slept, Sherlock was in good condition, convinced that it could all be attributed to mind over matter. But when he had been much younger, sickness wasn't the same.
As a small child, Sherlock didn't have much control over anything. He had very vague, mostly deleted memories about being a young boy cuddled under blankets and calling for Mummy. He had been such a small child and his minuscule body had an immune system to match. He couldn't remember how those sicknesses all turned out, there had been no need for him to keep the memories cluttering up his hard drive, but he somewhat remembered how he had felt. In a way, it was the foggy quality of these memories that gave him the aversion to sickness. Being unable to remember how he got through it might have helped him some years down the road.
When he got older, the only times Sherlock was ever sick in any form was when he wanted to be. He often longed for drugs in his system, needing them to take away all consciousness the universe had cursed him with. There was an initial stabbing pain that melted away into a calm, quiet, and floating bliss. His surroundings would become dull and colorless on those nights and he reveled in it.
But of course, he had gotten control over the drugs. The few people Sherlock kept in his life had helped him through it and he no longer had to worry about those horrible types of sickness again. And after the drugs had completely been cut out of his life, the work had entered it. Lestrade had taken Sherlock in as help on cases and it soon became common that the only bad thing to interfere with Sherlock's life was the boredom that he so often had to deal with somehow. He had considered going back to the drugs on more than one occasion as well, even if it were only to combat the tediousness, but the thoughts of falling into that condition again repulsed Sherlock. He dutifully refrained from anything that wasn't a nicotine patch and was soon as unbothered by illness as he had always been.
But something very odd and new had been aching in his mind, causing Sherlock to get sick. Ever since John and Sherlock had their almost chance encounter so many months ago, something close to the inescapable infections of his past was stirring in the back of Sherlock's brain. A dull and ever present ache had appeared and never left since the day John moved into the flat.
Some days, it was almost nothing. He and John would simply live as normal flatmates would in good-natured silence. But after some time, those days got to be farther and farther apart. More often than not, Sherlock would feel a strange pang of something whenever he looked at his friend. His thoughts would twinge with foreign and unnamable feelings. All day marathons of crap telly, takeaway on late nights after chasing criminals, a slight brush of fingers as cups of tea changed hands, hearty laughter and genuine smiles. Every day, the small and ordinary events that filled Sherlock's life with John would make something deep inside himself stir.
He had never felt this way about anything before and it was painfully obvious what had caused the sudden change. It was like something out of one of the many clichéd and terrible romantic films that depressed, single women loved so much. Sherlock was losing his grip on the control in his life that he enjoyed so much and all because of the wonderful and enigmatic man who had walked into it.
The odd pain Sherlock felt in his brain when he was near John could not be attributed to any sort of ailment of the mind, but rather of the heart. Sentiment. Yes, the new sickness was something else entirely.
Today though, everything was different. Sherlock's head was pounding with pressure. Everything around him was causing him pain. Sound, light, even the slightest touch made him wish to shrink inside himself and never come out. Thankfully, his vision was faltering, making it almost impossible to see any type of daylight. But the small, illuminating beams that did make it past his clouding eyelids were excruciating. At this moment, Sherlock honestly felt like he would enjoy nothing more than to die.
"John," he grumbled, pressing a hand sharply against his own forehead in the hopes of dulling the ache. "You're a doctor."
Sherlock heard the man chuckle lightly from the other side of the room. He kept his eyes shut, but heard John walking towards him. Each footfall was like an explosion to his overly sensitive brain.
"I think that's the type of observation you usually insult people for making," John replied. His tone was far too cheery for this.
"My head feels close to implosion," Sherlock muttered testily. "Now is not the time for your humor."
John gave a short and quiet laugh once more and Sherlock could easily picture his expression. "Sure," he said. "Yet somehow you still find the capacity to complain like a child while dealing with a migraine."
Sherlock somehow resisted the urge to argue. It couldn't be a migraine. He didn't get migraines, just like he didn't get sick. Well, he thought in a daze, you do get sick. Every day you look at your flatmate, it makes you sicker and sicker.
"Here," John said. A small clatter echoed in Sherlock's ears and suddenly two pills were being pressed into his hand. "Take these, they'll make you feel better."
Sherlock opened his eyes a fraction and sat up slightly. John was holding out a glass of water for him. He took the water and swallowed the pills, lying back down and shutting his eyes again as soon as he could. "Will these really make a difference?" he asked. "It feels like I'm dying."
A small shift in the room and tug at his feet alerted Sherlock to John's movements. His friend was soon seated on the other end of the couch, holding Sherlock's feet in his lap. "I can assure you that you're not dying. Try and get some sleep. I promise you'll feel better when you wake up."
Everything hurt so powerfully, though, that even John's attempts at comfort were somewhat ineffective. Without thinking, Sherlock reached for John's hand and tightly gripped at his fingertips. If his brain wasn't so addled, he never would have done something so foolish and risky, but John didn't seem to mind at all. He thankfully returned the pressure on his hand and slowly laced their fingers together. Sherlock's heart was pounding in his ears and he was completely clueless at what to make of this sudden and inexplicable gesture. But his head hurt too much and the pills he had taken were slipping him away into unconsciousness.
He awoke sometime later with a slight jolt. His feet were still in John's lap and their fingers were still loosely entwined in a lazy hold. John had been watching something on the telly at a low volume so as not to wake Sherlock.
Sherlock glanced at him and hastily pulled his hand away, unsure of why John had left it there. He sat up a bit and readjusted himself, slowly pulling his feet off of John in embarrassment. "Feeling any better?" John asked, getting to his feet and crossing to the other end of the couch.
Sherlock nodded somewhat, his eyesight still fairly hazy from having just woken up. "A lot," he muttered quietly.
John was standing over him, his head upside down from Sherlock's vantage point. "I'm glad," he said. He placed a tentative hand on either side of Sherlock's head, his fingers brushing the curls lightly. "I promised you that they'd make you feel better with some sleep."
Sherlock nodded and felt a bit strange doing so while his head was being cradled in John's hands. "You did," he said in a low voice. "And you were right."
John smiled at him. "It's nice for a change," he said contentedly, watching his friend with careful eyes. Even though he had just woken up and the migraine was only just wearing away, it was clear to Sherlock what John was asking with that look. Is this okay?
Sherlock smiled up at him. "Better than nice," he responded. In one fluid motion, Sherlock had raised his arm to grip and John's back and John leaned forward to press their lips together.
In his chest, Sherlock's heart was thudding violently. The sensation of their contact was strange given the fact that they were facing opposite directions, but the effect was wonderful. All the thoughts in Sherlock's mind that created the dull ache he felt when looking at John had burst, creating tiny fireworks in his head and behind his eyes. This was better than anything he had ever experienced. This simple and innocent warm pressure of skin against skin was more perfect than anything Sherlock could have wished for.
He never would have ended it if such a thing were possible. Sherlock would have suspended that short moment in time forever if it meant that John's lips would never leave his. But, of course, the infernal need to breathe got in the way of his infinite enjoyment. John pulled back slightly and took a breath but Sherlock refused to let go of his hold on the man's shirt.
"You should get sick more often," John said, unable to contain his grin.
Sherlock grinned back, his mind briefly flashing with thoughts of all the sickness in the past. This was so different. It wasn't unbearable or painful or alienating. And it didn't hurt like watching and wanting John for so long in the past had either. This gave him a high that surely no drug could ever replicate. This was perfection.
If being sick always felt this way, then he never wanted to be cured.
"You have no idea," Sherlock replied, arcing his neck up for another kiss.