Dear Sherlockians, with The Fall only hours away (is anyone actually prepared?) I would like to share a piece (two, actually) with you. Some fluff. Some OOC-ness. I apologize. This wanted to be written pretty badly. Please, do feel free to leave me a few lines.
Be strong tonight,
sukie
It hurts, John.
'I'm not gay.'
Mrs Hudson looked a him with a knowing smile.
'Of course, my dear. Whatever you say.'
John huffed. He really liked their landlady. She was certainly one of a kind.
'Sherlock doesn't seem to feel too well today, does he? He looked sick when I came upstairs earlier.'
'Ah, but you know him, Mrs Hudson. He can be a true diva at times. I'm sure he is exxagerating things.' He felt bad saying something like this about his best friend. But it was true - Sherlock could be such a drama queen. He had spent the last five hours complaining about a headache and refused to move from the couch into his bed.
The old lady sighed. 'But you will look after him a little anyway, won't you, John?'
He nodded. Yes, of course he would. What else should he do?
'It hurts, John. IT HURTS.'
'Okay, I get it, but screaming will not make it any better, really. If you would just go to bed and try to get some sleep...'
Sherlock shook his head violently. No, he wouldn't do such a thing. And he would never tell John the true reason behind his stubbornness. He would leave him immediately.
'Oh, Sherlock. Come on. Your bed is very comfortable.'
Sherlock's eyes followed John to the small kitchen. John might not believe him, but he really did have an awful headache and he just wanted it to go away. Finally, he closed his eyes and let
darkness surround him.
He heard John leaving the kitchen and setting a cup on the small table besides him.
'There you go. Keep your eyes closed, that will help.'
John's voice was soothing, easy to concentrate on. His eyes flew open when he felt something cold on his forehead. 'Close them.', John whispered with a tiny smile. He put a cold, damp cloth to Sherlock's forehead. 'You are a little hot, I think you might have a little fever. That will help. Try to sleep.'
He felt himself drift away into unconsciusness and the last thing he remembered was a warm, soft hand in his.
I am not gay. I am not gay. I am not gay.
John repeated these words to himself over and over again while he watched Sherlock's relaxed features. And yet he found himself sitting on the floor holding his friend's hand in his and stroking carefully through his soft curls. There was something special to their friendship, something he couldn't quite explain. It had been different all along. He admired his best friend. He was an idiot, of course. Awfully arrogant. And oh so lazy. But he still managed to amaze John every day. The way he saw things, how his mind worked. It was really amazing. And he had to admit that he loved his smile. It was so precious and made the young doctor feel so special whenever it was directed at him.
I am not gay.
Sherlock turned his head and mumbled incoherently in his sleep. John smiled at the sleeping figure and buried his fingers deeper in these perfect curls. He began to gently massage Sherlock's forehead and noticed how he began to relax soon after. 'That's it,' he whispered.
The sleeping manturned his head again, this time in John's direction. 'Ouch', he breathed. John laughed softly. 'Sherlock, be patient, please. It will be better in a minute.'
'Ouch', he whispered again.
Without thinking about it too much, John leaned over and pressed tiny, gently kisses to Sherlock's forehead. 'There, there. Calm down.' He continued to kiss his face: his eyes, his cheeks, his ears, his chin.
Suddenly, he stared into his eyes. He froze and tried to move back. 'I'm...I'm so sorry. I didn't...'
'Stop talking.' Clear instruction, as always. 'Stop thinking.'
Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his lips on John's. They were soft and sweet and everything he had imagined they would be. And he was beautifully responsive. He took John's face in his hands and let his thumbs stroke his cheeks. When breathing became rather difficult, John broke the kiss and moved a few inches back. 'Sherlock?' His voice quivered a little. Their eyes met and a shy smile passed between them.
'My headache is all gone.'
'What was that, Sherlock?'
He knew exactly what John was asking but he wasn't sure if he could answer his question yet.
Instead he looked straight into his eyes and searched for something there.
'Tell me that you are not gay.'
The doctor blinked at him in confusion. 'Pardon?'
'Say it, please. Say it.'
'I am… But… I am not… sure.'
A wide grin broke over Sherlock's lips.
Yes yes yes yes yes.
'Well, I am sure. I am sure that I am utterly in love with you and your beautiful, confused face, and your voice, and the fact that you are so short.'
John stared at him as if he had lost all his common sense. His eyes seemed to search for something – maybe a proof, or insecurity. Finally he said: 'Say that again, or I won't believe it.'
Sherlock cradled that beautiful face in his hands again and smiled gently down at him. 'I am in love with you. You make me blush. I want to wake up next to you. I want your hand in mine when we walk down the street. I want to make you breakfast.'
John laughed. 'Oh Sherlock Holmes, you are incredible.'
'Does that mean I get to kiss you whenever I want?'