Oh deary me, a fanfiction. I had another account but I feel it's best if I post this one separately from that one (so many unfinished things). Think I'll leave this account for things that I'm sure I'll actually finish, which should be a joyful escapade I'm sure!

I'll try and make each chapter around this long and I'll attempt to update at least once a week - if not, you can punch me virtually in the face and make sure I update (sometimes it's good to have a little bit of violent motivation!).

Pairing: Johnlock

Disclaimer: Characters from BBC Sherlock don't belong to me (alas).


4th March

Kissogram for John Watson!

Now, I know the title seems stupid but that's partly what it feels like it was now that I've had a bit to go over it. Today, my best friend, Sherlock Holmes, kissed me. I'll just let that sink in before I explain.

We were in the middle of a case and, as usual, Sherlock was looking for leads as we'd hit a bit of a dead end concerning who would or could have done what with the crime (that and I imagine he was just a tad rusty on the whole deduction malarkey considering it'd been about two weeks since we've had so much as a mention of a case). It was then that it hit me, a little push in the back of my head and so...I voiced my thoughts out loud (which is often seen as a generally bad decision on my part).

"What if the woman wasn't actually at the theatre that night?" I queried as I turned to look at Sherlock, one eyebrow rising as I did so, "Then her alibi wouldn't be as sound as it seems to be."

With that, Sherlock grinned and turned to me, both hands pushing firmly against my cheeks as the grin spread wider yet.

"Oh, John!" he exclaimed and I could have sworn his eyes shone as he did so, "John you are a genius!"

And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, Sherlock bent down and pressed his lips full to mine in a firm and resounding kiss that made a slight smacking noise when he pulled back. He then proceeded to pat my cheeks before he bounded off – that stupid coat swaying behind him as he ran – and hopped over a fence. Obviously I followed because I'm John Hamish Watson, loyal 'pet' and companion.

Either way, the whole escapade ended up in me being smacked around the head with a pipe and being rendered with a concussion, which isn't the most pleasant of things, as I've had privy to know from past experiences – oh the things that happen in the army. I'll make sure to write the case up in full by the end of this week but this blog entry isn't about that so I'm not going to post too much about it on here; this blog is for what the blog's original purpose was – not about cases but about personal things. I might not even actually post this as an actual entry but I think it's good to write it down, that's what Emma said to me anyway.

So, I was lying on my bed with a concussion, and I came through to the pleasant sight of Sherlock's face right in front of mine. And by pleasant I hope you all know that I actually mean it was rather horrifying and I was really quite scared. Alas, dear Sherlock – seemingly upon seeing me wake up – retired back to the living room in order to add to the dint he's been making in the sofa ever since we moved in (I'm rather sure that when he says he's thinking, he's actually waiting for me to turn my back so he can sneak a smoke while I'm not looking). He really is quite lazy.

Not too sure if the part where we had sex Mrs Hudson's linen cupboard was part of the concussion or actually real. Sort of hope it was part of the concussion – Mrs H would kill us if we got her linens dirty, honestly. Not sure what I'd do if it were real though. Maybe cry and hide forever. Yes, that seems appropriate.

Okay, that's as far as this blog entry will go. Have a nice day.

17 comments


OMG. John, I'm not sure we really needed to know that last part tmi.

Harry Watson 4th March 11:23


What a freak.

Sally Donovan 4th March 11:24


I always knew you guys would hit it off!

Mike Stamford 4th March 11:25


It's a shame he was merely imagining it then, Mike – I can't possibly imagine how that may affect your ego. As for you John, I can only begin to imagine what possessed you to post this...

Sherlock Holmes 4th March 11:27


you're such a brilliant couple even if john is a bit dim

theimprobableone 4th March 11:30


Oh so it's not real? Shame.

Bill Murray 4th March 11:31


I think I'm too embarrassed to say anything. I'll just blame it on the concussion.

John Watson 4th March 11:34


I always did wonder how Sherlock knew so much about people being gay...

Molly Hooper 4th March 11:36


LOL!

Jacob Sowersby 4th March 11:37


I'm not gay; I'm married to my work.

Sherlock Holmes 4th March 11:39


Your work could be male.

Harry Watson 4th March 11:41


If you're speaking in a metaphorical sense then no, no my work could not be male for it's not a person. My work would be androgynous and my work and I would participate in a sexless marriage as we do now, thank you very much on all of your inputs.

Sherlock Holmes 4th March 11:43


I have absolutely no idea what to say to any of this...

John Watson 4th March 11:45


Oh, dear John. You should stay away from Sherlock Holmes, he's mine, shh. You've rather shown your hand, Doctor, but pets should never get too close to their owners.

Anonymous 4th March 11:50


For goodness sake, I'm not a pet – believe it or not – and I'm not gay, for anyone who actually cares.

John Watson 4th March 11:53


and yet you fantasised about having sex with your male flatmate totally not gay

theimprobableone 4th March 11:55


That's it, comments are closed.

John Watson 4th March 11:57


John runs his hands down his face before snapping his laptop shut and promising himself that he'll learn how to delete posts on his blog before the day is out in order to stop any embarrassment like he'd just endured in the future. Sitting up from his bed and rubbing his eyes as he waits for himself to get a grasp on the real world, he pushes his laptop to one side and wonders if he'd be able to gather the strength to face Sherlock after their little online domestic. Obviously he didn't have sex with Sherlock, oh he was such an idiot, he'll never have sex with Sherlock – not that he particularly wants to anyway – and he'd very much like to know how his own mind came up with such a scenario in its bamboozled condition.

He sucks in a breath and hopes like he's never hoped before that the Consulting Detective isn't in the kitchen because dear God, he needs a cup of tea. Pushing himself to his feet, he waits a few seconds for the world to stop spinning around him as he gives a little wince towards the new spout of pain that has just blossomed throughout his head. A sigh pushes itself past his lips and he heads down the stairs, peeking into the kitchen to check his flatmate isn't there and, in turn, thanking God when it is, in fact, empty (save for a few experiments scattered across the kitchen countertops).

Shoving two slices of bread into the toaster and flicking the kettle on, John leans against the kitchen countertop and eyes up the experiments placed on the table in the centre of the room. This causes him to think about what the hell actually went through Sherlock's mind when he thought up his so called 'experiments' – which he's sure isn't the right name for them; maybe 'death traps' would be more fitting. The kettle finishes boiling and the toaster flicks up slightly burnt bread shortly afterwards while he is pouring water over a teabag that he'd put in a mug. He spreads jam over each of the slices and heads over to his desk, placing the plate and the mug down on it before scampering upstairs to retrieve his laptop – might as well get the case typed up now.

As he hops down the stairs, laptop in hand, he almost chokes upon entering the room because Sherlock's there drinking his tea.

Evidently, Sherlock is also shocked because he practically spit takes, spluttering out the tea before he swallows it and places it down on the table like he hadn't just been drinking from John's mug. John pushes a breath out from his lungs and shakes his head as he strolls across to the table and places the laptop on the desk with a dull thud.

"Go make me another one if you're so adamant on drinking mine," John says, his tone joking even though he's stupidly nervous considering it was only a hallucination.

Sherlock makes a disgruntled and non-committal noise as he stalks into the kitchen, all long limps and mysterious cheek bones, while John pushes the lid of his laptop open and logs into his account with slow clacking of the keyboard keys. He would snort at the new wallpaper that Sherlock has deem suitable to assign him with if it wasn't so...pink. He changes his password for at least the fortieth time that week alone (he's starting to learn that there's no point in changing it but he cherishes those little moments of privacy he has when Sherlock is stumped for a few days when he happens to think up an especially good one). There's the soft clink as the mug of tea is placed next to his laptop.

"I read your latest blog update," Sherlock begins but John cuts him off before he can go much further than that.

"Don't. Just...don't," the blogger says, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes as he draws in a shaky breath, "I had a concussion; didn't know what I was thinking. Sorry."

He is, he will admit, rather taken aback when Sherlock lets out a noise not dissimilar to a snort. Looking up, he's met with the sight of Sherlock cupping his ex-mug of tea in his hands in a way that seems gentle, a soft smirk lining his lips as he sips. His flatmate parts his lips away from the mug and speaks.

"There's no need to apologise; in case you've not noticed, I'm not all too embarrassed," a soft baritone chuckle leaves his mouth before he sips the tea again, "Believe it or not, John, when one gets used to being called names one learns to be distant towards things that they may possibly get embarrassed or mocked over."

John catches himself before he ends up grinning at his best friend (though Sherlock may not think him the same, he'd like to at least try to believe the man thought of him as some form of 'friend'). He leans back into his chair, briefly sipping his own tea before he starts to work on typing up the case which ends in him silently cursing his inability to understand how the stupid QWERTY layout of the keyboard actually works – John can't understand why the letters aren't in order no matter how many times Sherlock explains it to him and has, because of that reasoning, been deemed a lost cause in regards to technological appliances such as laptops, phones and the like.

"'Meticulous' has a 'u' in it, John," Sherlock says and John sighs because he's wondering if it's going to be one of those days that Sherlock spends annoying him about his grammar and spelling because he doesn't have a case.

As much as he hates it, it is one of those days. Sherlock stays leant and reading over John's shoulder for a while until it hits the hour mark – then he pulls up a chair. John pulls a breath in through his nose and soldiers on, albeit tapping up words slowly but, nevertheless, he gets it done. By the time he's finished the rather short account of the case (parts being deleted here and there) the whole thing has taken around three hours to type up and John is starting to get just a tad worried because he'd missed an opportunity to put in a semi-colon in the last paragraph and his flatmate hasn't even tensed because of it.

Then he becomes aware of the slight weight pressed against the back of his shoulder and gathers that Sherlock has probably fallen asleep against him. He also gathers that the consulting detective probably needs it more than he looks like he does most of the time. With a little wriggle, he moves so that he's facing Sherlock a little more.

"Sherlock, wake up, I need to go make tea," he says they words softly, parts drawn out and other parts cooed. When Sherlock doesn't shift, he tries again and adds a soft roll of his shoulder to the mix, "Sherlock, come on, wake up."

The genius who has, apparently, chosen his shoulder as the perfect pillow makes a soft murmuring sound before proceeding to press his face closer against the fabric of John's shirt. John sighs and wonders if he's been doing it a bit too much lately. After a moment of contemplation, he moves so that the arm of the shoulder that Sherlock is resting against slips under him before he stands. He pulls Sherlock's arm over both of his shoulders as he bends down and then straightens up again slightly, the other emitting small protests that sound a little like disgruntled squeaks coming from a harassed kitten. Sherlock's body is dumped against the plush fabric of the sofa.

"Coat," a quiet mumble comes from the body.

"Come again?" John raises an eyebrow at the remark.

"Coat, it's cold and there are no blankets," Sherlock says and doesn't even shift to look up at John, just burying his face more into the sofa cushion beneath him.

"You want to use your coat instead of a blanket?" comes the question.

"Warmer," comes the explanation.

John merely rolls his eyes and moves over to the door to grab his flatmate's coat, draping it over the worryingly slim frame curled up on the sofa. He turns the collar up so that it just barely brushes against Sherlock's cheeks and accepts a quietly mumbled 'thank you' in return for his deeds, an equally quiet 'no problem' parting ways from his mouth in return. A breath catches in his throat and he's able to act like it didn't happen as he pushes away the thought that he might possibly want to run his fingers through his flat mate's hair because he's not gay.

It ends in him calling Sarah up and asking her out for a drink – just to remind his sexuality that it likes boobs, not cock – but she doesn't accept his offer (which he suspects is down to a certain concussion) and he has to settle for calling up several people to replace her because he needs to get out. Eventually, Lestrade accepts his offer (fifth time lucky) which completely contradicts his original intentions but at least it's something. They meet at the usual dingy pub and sit across from each other in a booth. Greg looks tired, John feels it.

"Read your latest blog entry," the Detective Inspector smirks in a way that shows he's joking and leaves John feeling a little patronised.

"Had a concussion, you know that part then," John says, lips curling upwards a little as he sips his pint.

"You know what they say about hallucinations?" Greg asks and then continues when John raises an eyebrow in question, "They say it's something like – you know, the subconscious reaching out or something; all that emotions into dreams kind of thing."

John manages to catch himself before he snorts lager out of his nose, "I'm not gay, Greg."

"Never sad you were, John," a grin passes over Lestrade's lips and he takes a gulp from the glass, "But you know what they call saying 'I'm not gay' nearly every time it gets implied?"

"Don't – Greg, don't," John manages to force out because he knows what's going to be said, "Don't go all psychology on me because that stuff is pretty much witchcraft."

"They call it denial," is the sing song melody of words that makes John bury his face in his arms on the table.

"I knew I should have begged," he groans and manages to lift his face up again, "Can I just get piss drunk and forget I ever had a blog?"

Lestrade laughs and leans back in his chair, "I hope you do realise that most of the station have read that entry. They all think you're pretty much together now – not that a lot of them didn't think that before but, you know. You seem pretty...smitten with him, John."

And it's at that moment that John realises he should have learnt how to delete entries a lot sooner than he planned to. The only word that leaves his mouth is a soft 'fuck' that gets drawn out as his face makes its way back to the comforting embrace of his arms upon the table. Greg leans over and pats his head in a way that makes him feel like a dog; he's vaguely surprised when the Detective Inspector doesn't scratch behind his ears.

They drop the conversation of his sexuality and end up, by John's suggestion, getting absolutely smashed in a way that they're definitely too old for. Greg pushes John into a taxi before catching his own and, by the time John gets back to Baker Street, he's about ready to pass out. He throws too much money at the cabbie and fumbles in his pockets for his house key until he finds it and begins a war with the door lock. It takes him about twenty minutes to actually enter the flat and when he does he forgets Sherlock's on the couch and collapses on top of him.

His face collides with the floor a brief few seconds later when the Consulting Detective shoves the Blogger out of his nest (and off his far too pricey coat).

"Your drunk," comes the sharp, baritone statement of the obvious as Sherlock sits up and nudges John with his foot, to which he barely gets a soft groan in return, "Honestly John; if I have to baby you then I'm going to be very unimpressed. I highly doubt you're even supposed to get drunk when you have a concussion as it can't be very healthy."

Alas, John is too busy rubbing his cheek against the rug to listen to Sherlock's little lecture. He is, however, surprised when lanky arms reach around him and pull him upwards onto the sofa.

"You need to sleep it off though there's no question in the matter that you're going to have a rather bad headache come morning," Sherlock says, words quick and low and John can barely understand what has been said before a coat is draped over him and his eyes are closing, "Now get to sleep and, when you wake up, you'll hopefully feel very honoured for what I just did."

So John does as he's told and falls asleep under the warm embrace of thick and not too heavy fabric. And, as promised, he wakes up in the morning with a pounding headache that makes him groan as soon as he opens his eyes, along with a text from Lestrade telling him that they're not going out drinking together for a least a month. He lays back into the couch with a soft chuckle as he pulls Sherlock's coat tighter around himself and tries to fall back asleep with the persisting pounding in his head.