A/N: I was trying to sleep and the first line of this fic kept floating around in my brain, and I had to turn it into something. This is only my third foray into the world of Johnlock, and my beta had nothing to do with this one, so I hope it turns out all right. It's just a quick little one-shot that I enjoyed writing. Thank you for taking the time to read, and I hope you enjoy. :)
The first time John kisses Sherlock he receives no reaction. It's almost nothing – an accidental collision of chapped lips against cheekbone and John is not sure it even qualifies as a kiss. Sherlock's expression is unreadable, and he unbuttons his coat and walks up the stairs, perhaps a little quicker than necessary.
John makes a cup of tea and sits on the sofa, his tongue darting out to dampen his lips every so often. His tea grows cold and Sherlock doesn't come down for the rest of the night. John can't help but wonder what would happen if he walked up to Sherlock's room and kissed the top of his head, the pale stretch of his neck, the blue veins on the inside of his wrist. He wonders if Sherlock would let him touch, taste, bite, and John wonders why he had to fall for the most unattainable man in London.
He falls asleep on the sofa and wakes up to a fresh cup of tea and an empty flat.
The second time John kisses Sherlock is at three in the morning, after they have stumbled into the flat, shivering, John with several tears in his favorite coat and Sherlock covered in blood. They are both silent as they collapse onto the sofa, and John peels off his coat and jumper, tossing them unceremoniously to the ground. John allows himself a few moments of rest before heading to the kitchen to fetch his medical supplies.
He wrestles Sherlock's coat off, followed by his pale blue dress shirt; it's going in the bin, covered in Sherlock's blood. The room smells of rust, sweat, and alcohol swabs, and John doesn't bat an eye as he cleans the gash in Sherlock's chest. It looks worse than it is; much more blood than the shallow cut should have let free but it will still need stitches. Sherlock doesn't make a sound as John sews his skin together, and stays put on the sofa when John returns his medical equipment to the kitchen.
When he returns to the sofa, Sherlock is staring blankly ahead, shirtless and pale; there are spots of dried blood on his chest, just below the cut, and John kneels before him. His hands are on Sherlock's knees, and he leans in, pressing his forehead to Sherlock's sternum. His lips find their way to the stitches, and he lingers for several moments before shakily pulling away. He looks up to see Sherlock's brow furrowed, realizing that his brain is going into overdrive, and he brings himself to his feet, giving his flatmate time to think, analyze, understand.
Sherlock rises slowly, lifting an arm. His fingers stretch, reaching toward John, and John desperately hopes Sherlock cannot hear the thudding of his heart.
Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.
He closes his eyes and when he opens them a few moments later, Sherlock's arm has fallen to his side. John is certain his disappointment is palpable, and Sherlock tilts his head to the side, a question in his eyes. John will gladly provide an answer, but Sherlock's eyes suddenly widen and he turns on his heel and hurries up the stairs.
John sleeps on the sofa and wakes up to an empty flat.
The third time John kisses Sherlock it is an experiment, and John is not sure what to make of the results.
They haven't had a case in three days, and Sherlock has thrown himself fully into sulk mode. He has been curled up on the sofa for two days now, moving only to go to the bathroom and to retrieve his cell phone from across the room where he has tossed it in annoyance.
John approaches the sofa silently and sits down next to his flatmate. He is not nervous; he knows what he is doing, he has planned this out meticulously. Sherlock is so beautiful it hurts John, an ache he feels deep in his chest, and he wonders once more what he has gotten himself into.
He knows Sherlock is aware of his presence, and when he presses a hand to the small of his back, Sherlock shoots into a sitting position. They lock eyes; Sherlock's are filled with the same question, and this time John is going to give him an answer whether he likes it or not. Sherlock closes his eyes, and John leans in, lips ghosting over collarbone. He inhales deeply, tucking the scent into the back of his mind to name later; it's dark, spicy, sexy, Sherlock, and he wants to taste.
Tongue darting out, skin smoother than he had imagined, Sherlock's breath hitches, and what if John sank teeth in, ripped skin open, devoured, destroyed, crawled in and never came out? Lips pressed against collarbone now, and his breath is coming out in short gasps. Sherlock has not moved, and John distantly wonders if he'd be able to feel Sherlock pull away, watch him leave, and live through it.
Teeth nipping, kissing softly along jawline, up to pull his earlobe between teeth, skin soft, delicious, and if he doesn't touch him soon he might just fall apart. Hands coming up now, burying deep in thick, dark curls, and it's all over now, this is not an experiment any longer, he's looking into Sherlock's eyes, looking down at those heart-shaped lips,
"Mine," He whispers. Sherlock closes his eyes, nods, and John, John cannot wait any longer, and this qualifies as a kiss.
Hands are coming to wrap around John's neck - lips, teeth, tongue, bite, lick, suck, taste, beautiful, Sherlock.
"Mine," He growls, and he might be getting carried away but it doesn't matter because Sherlock is kissing him back, just as greedily, and when his hands slide down the back of John's jumper, John thinks he might burst into flames –
And then Sherlock is gone, ripped from him, going up the stairs, and John is left on the sofa, lips burning, chest aching, and wondering just who he is more furious with.
A month goes by normally. No kisses, just endless cases and nothing has changed between the detective and his doctor, but they both know that nothing is the same.
John has not gone anywhere near the sofa.
John does not kiss Sherlock again.
John is sitting on his bed reading when he hears a soft knock on the door.
"Come in," He calls, closing his book and setting it on his bedside table. He looks up to see Sherlock standing in the doorway, brow furrowed and eyes darting around. John waits patiently for him to speak; he is familiar with this pose. Sherlock is trying to figure out how to relay his feelings to John, and it will be well worth the wait.
"John." His voice is shaking slightly, and John suppresses a grin.
"Sherlock."
"You, er… the – the incident on the sofa."
John raises his eyebrows and Sherlock takes three steps into the room. Hands clasped behind his back, shirt buttons straining against his chest, and John thinks he is the most beautiful creature on the face of the earth.
"Yes. The sofa incident."
"I…wanted to…apologize. For my behavior. It was very rude." Stiff and uncomfortable, and John wishes he knew how to make this easier for him.
"Forgiven and forgotten," He says warmly, "Nothing to worry about at all."
He is surprised by the sudden look of anger on his flatmate's face, and wonders how that could have possibly been the wrong thing to say.
"Forgotten?" Voice dangerously low, and John feels a grin creeping up when he realizes just why Sherlock is so uncharacteristically nervous.
"Unless you'd rather it wasn't?"
Sherlock takes three more steps into the room, and John gets up from his bed, standing about a foot away from him.
"Yes, I believe I would much prefer…that."
John rarely gets the satisfaction of striking Sherlock speechless, and he is hardly able to enjoy it because the detective looks so painfully uncomfortable that John can't help but feel sorry for him.
"Not forgotten. I remember it clearly. Like it was yesterday. You might say – "
The first time Sherlock kisses John it's to shut him up. The second time is shortly after the first, and Sherlock decides quite immediately that the rest of his kisses belong solely to John Watson.