Title: Remembrances (1/2)
Author: Semiprecious17
Rating: Pg-13 for this chapter; NC-17 for the next
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Spoilers: All of series one
Warnings: Some cursing. Eventual explicit sex =) One line stolen unabashedly from Glee (I'm not sorry)
Word Count: 3000+
A/N: Whew! First thing I've written in ages! I've truly missed it. This has had no beta or brit-prick so I apologize in advance for any typos, inconsistencies, or glaringly obvious Americanisms, I tried my best to edit. The second part (with the sexin'!) will be up within a day or two after some final editing.

This is being REPOSTED. I repeat, REPOSTED

Summary:

"So I guess I'll have to go back, search through the memories and try to pin down when exactly it happened; the precise moment I fell in love with Sherlock fucking Holmes."

PROLOUGE

I have a damn good memory.

I suppose as a doctor it's kind of a given (people usually expect you to be able to remember the name of the ailment you're diagnosing them with after all). But even before I got into the medical field and honed the skill I was pretty snappy at remembering details.

There are small inconsequential things forever preserved in my mind. There are childhood memories, nightmares, first dates, birthday parties, and one night stands that I can recall with perfect clarity.

Important things; my first love, my favorite aunt's funereal, the day I graduated from university, the day I was deployed to Afghanistan, every time someone I knew, respected, liked, died in front me. They're all there, swirling eternally in my mind whether I want them or not.

I can remember the first time I lost a tooth (I was six and I thought all my teeth were going to fall out at the same time and I'd have to wear false ones like my granddad. It was terrifying), the first time I got a haircut (Harry still has the album with the picture of me red faced and crying in horror at the woman trying to shave my head), the first bee sting I'd ever gotten (I turned out to be allergic and had to go to the A&E). I can recall my first dance in secondary school (my suit was a horrible brown color, a hand-me-down from my father), and my first kiss (it was, strangely enough, behind a post office, and when I tried to use tongue she bit me and called me a pervert).

There are the things I wish I didn't remember; my parents dying (a car crash caused by a bit of black ice), my first real breakup (she cheated on me with some overly muscled git. She told me I wasn't what she was looking for in a man. I told her to fuck off. (It wasn't my finest hour)), when I first realized Harry had a drinking problem (Clara told me. I still feel like the most terrible brother in the world for not noticing sooner. Harry and I don't talk much anymore).

Then, of course, is the time I went and got myself shot in Afghanistan. Everything was in sharp relief and tinged red around the edges. But when I crumpled to the ground, the sky was endlessly blue and the sand beneath me felt soft as a down cushion. Blue and red and gray. Then blessed darkness.

So yes, looking back some would probably say my life is a series of disasters ranging from mildly traumatizing to seriously fucked up. And I have the privilege of remembering them all.

But there's one thing I can't remember. It's a strange, singular thing and I should be able to bring to mind the exact moment it happened, the exact moment the emotion sprang into being. But I can't, and that is, needless to say, ridiculously frustrating.

So I guess I'll have to go back, search through the memories and try to pin down when exactly it happened; the precise moment I fell in love with Sherlock fucking Holmes.

CHAPTER ONE

I know it wasn't "love at first sight" because, honestly, that's a load of bollocks (lust at first sight? Sure, definitely, without a doubt. I've experienced plenty of that in my time). And really, I was in no mood for love anyway. I'm man enough to admit to myself that I was depressed, a dash broken, and couldn't get an erection if Keira Knightley herself came to my bedsit and gave me a blowjob.

Mike obviously felt some affection for the man, judging by the quirk of lips and the indulgent tilt of his head. He was apparently used to the demands and no longer really bothered about them (something I got used to strangely fast as well if the amount of tea I've made for him is any indication).

But I mostly felt irritation, confusion, and slight violation the first time I met him. Sherlock was just a somewhat anemic looking, odd, irritatingly tall bloke. No more, no less. He seemed entitled and maybe even a tad childish, looking to dazzle with his deductions ("Afghanistan or Iraq?") before he'd even properly introduced himself. Then he proceeded to flounce out of the door with a wink and an address.

Definitely no spontaneous love connection there.

So moving on.

I suppose the next time the git really stuck in my memory was when we went to our first crime scene (well, my first crime scene anyway). You know the one, "A Study in Pink," my first blog and a successful one if I do say so myself (and Sherlock can go fuck himself, I'm not Shakespeare but I'm no James Patterson either!)

Sherlock was at his best, and obviously trying to impress the new guy. Rattling off fact after obscure fact and making the police look like uncomprehending dolts. Pair that with the swirling coat and air of complete disdain and who could blame me for my sense of veneration? He was scarily intelligent (Brilliant! Fantastic!) and he knew it.

There was something about him, some pull that made you sit up and take notice when he spoke. He was mesmerizing, magnetic. A performer in a base, fundamental way that I don't even think hewas aware of. I was in awe of him. It was probably glaringly apparent to both Sherlock and Lestrade ("You know you do that out loud, right?"), but I had to give credit where credit was due, and it was certainly due in spades to Sherlock.

But then he went and abandoned me in an unknown part of town, with strangers and a psychosomatic limp. Only to be kidnapped by his equallydramatic, arsehole brother in a three piece suit that same night. So yes, git.

This couldn't be the moment. There was awe, a burgeoning sense of loyalty, but no love.

Not yet.

You probably think The Moment is when I shot that crazy cabbie (hmmm, maybe I should have called it The Case of the Crazy Cabbie...No? A bit too much alliteration?). But that, much like being shot in Afghanistan, was more a blur of vivid color and spikes of adrenaline than it was distinct emotion. It was me choosing the lesser of two evils. I couldn't let Sherlock swallow that pill and I couldn't allow the cab driver to continue killing innocent people, not if it was in my power to stop him. I'm no murder but I have an unfailingly straight moral compass. I know what's right and saving Sherlock may not have been lawful, ethical, or legal but it was right.I've never regretted it.

And afterwards, there was a palpable feel of camaraderie, fuelled by literally getting away with murder and by amazingChinese food (and by God! Sherlock really could predict the fortune in the cookies). I felt closer to him, felt like maybe he was human, more than the man made of marble driven by the need to understand and deduce. I felt like maybe, just maybe, we might become friends.

A blooming friendship? Yes. Just a seed, but there all the same, growing, feeding on our mutual need for danger.

But love? Most definitely not.

Alright, so maybe I should just skip over the whole Sarah debacle? That would probably be kinder to all of us. But let me just say, Sherlock butting in my date was noton. Sarah and I might have gotten on famously!

We might have continued dating, become something more. Perhaps I wouldn't have to had to kip on the sofa, perhaps whatever was there wouldn't have petered out and ended in the dreaded 'Friend Zone'. Maybe I wouldn't be playing this damnable memory game, trying to figure out when I fell in love with a self proclaimed sociopath (and, most importantly, maybe I would be getting laid on a regular goddamn basis).

And yes, okay, I probably could have made more of an effort; more dates (or not running out on the few we had to chase down some criminal or other), little tokens of affection every now and again, less calling off work to nurse injuries from the night before.

But even then, before the whole falling in love occurred, when I should have been enjoying my time with a perfectly kind, intelligent women, I couldn't get Sherlock out of my head. He was nested there, strange and impenetrable and utterly maddening. Even when he treated me like a second class citizen, an acceptable fill in for his skull, I couldn't help but be simply gratefulthat he allowed me his time at all. That he didn't 'delete' me with the rest of the things he found boring or unnecessary.

I wanted him to consult me, to need me. I was beginning to be happy to do the grunt work if he would only flash me that quirky half-smile or look at me with something akin to affection in those sharp almond eyes. It made all the frustration of his personality bearable if he'd speak my name in that low fond, smooth as a baby's bottom, baritone (sorry, this alliteration thing is rather catchy).

This was when the obsession, the need to please began, this much I know at least. But obsession is not love.

And perhaps I shouldn't place all the blame on Sherlock, the lanky, lovely bastard, but then again maybe he shouldn't make it so easy to do so...

But that's neither here nor there.

While I might not know the moment I fell in love with Sherlock, I doin fact know the exact moment I fell in lust (is that a thing? Falling into lust? Does it just spring on you like a wild thing in unexpected moments?).

It was just after what I've come to refer to as 'The Pool Debacle' (future blog title: The Curious Incident of the Pool in the Night Time...I'm still working on it...) and we were in hospital. Well, Sherlock was, at least. He had sustained a shallow gun shot wound to his right side, luckily missing any major organs, and a nasty laceration to the back of his head. I'd gotten out with less serious injuries, a twisted ankle and a couple of bruised ribs. I'd been discharged the next morning but Sherlock had to stay for a few days at least, I knew he'd be furious when he awoke.

I'd snuck to his room the night after I was let go, wanting to see if he was doing alright. I expected to see him awake, hands pressed together under his chin, already plotting how best to get at Moriarty (and then I could yell at him for going to that pool to meet the arsehole (who was even more mad than he was) abloodylone). But when I stood, wobbly on my new crutches and trying hard not to think of my cane, staring down at closed eyes and a relaxed brow, I realized that I'd never actually seen Sherlock sleeping before (eyes clamped shut in a huff or pretending to be asleep so that I wouldn't ask him to help put away the grocery, sure). It was strange and a little discomfiting to see him looking so utterly vulnerable.

His skin was completely alabaster, almost translucent with blood loss and exhaustion, the harsh light coming in through the windows making the angles of his cheekbones flare up even higher, looking sharp enough to cut. The dark splash of his lashes was delicate and threw off strange spiky shadows, dipping into the faint lines etched around his eyes.

It was startling how absolutely red his lips were, almost obscene against the backdrop of palest white. They were full as always but slightly chapped now. I had the sudden urge to lean over and swipe my tongue over them until they were smooth and glistening with my saliva. I wanted to know what they tasted like, if they were as sweet as they looked or if they were firmer than I thought they'd be. I bet they'd be soft though, plush between my teeth. I'd nip at them until they were a swollen, blood red slash across his long boned face.

I entertained the thoughts without even really realizing I was having them. But once I did, I'm sure my face was comically shocked. Since when did I have those sort thoughts about my prat of a flatmate? Sherlock and I were just friends (despitewhat half of Scotland Yard, Mrs. Hudson, and my sister might believe) and I was certainly crossing a line thinking of him in that way.

I stared down at him for long moments, willing the pit of my stomach to stop the slow simmer it'd begun and telling myself that it was most likely just a late reaction to a near fatal experience (I was never very good at lying to myself). Trying not to stare too hard at that vibrant mouth or imagine my hands tugging at those Cimmerian curls. I should be more concerned with his state of health, I should not be imagining what it'd be like to climb into that narrow bed and taste him, to have him taste me.

When I left his bedside I hobbled a fourth of the way home before giving into the fact that, one: I definitely had an inappropriate attraction to my most likely asexual flatmate, and two: I really should call a cab and get off my now ridiculously inflamed ankle.

Once home I lay in bed for a long while, trying to shove this new facet of emotion into the, admittedly overflowing, box in my mind labeled SHERLOCK in big, bold, capital letters. It fit in surprisingly well with the anger, affection, irritation, acceptance, friendship, obsessionthat was already there.

I fell asleep to the simmer creeping lower, between my pelvis. It was a pleasant burn.

Then there are the moments with Sherlock that maybe aren't so big or haven't seemed as pivotal to our relationship (or maybe just my imagined relationship with him?). But who's to say these are any less important? Perhaps it was during one of those small seemingly inconsequential blips in a long day that I fell so hard for him.

Maybe it was that time that the rain turned icy and slicked the front steps into something treacherous for an old women with a trick hip? Sherlock was out before I was, taking the heavy bag of salt from the small cellar and scattering it over the frozen pavement. Mrs. Hudson had kissed him on the cheek and pressed a a cup of tea in his hand. Sherlock had smiled when she called him, "a lovely boy."

It could have been when Lestrade needed someone to watch his little girl, Alice, and Sherlock had groaned and complained but offered our home all the same. She spent the whole four hours bunching up her plump hands in Sherlock's curls and getting under foot when he was busy. I thought Sherlock would get bored or irritated and snap at the girl but he had born it all with a good natured grumpiness that still makes me feel a fierce rush of affection to this day.

Or perchance it was when we were called to a particularly gruesome crime scene. The victims thirteen year old son had dissolved into tears at the news of his mother's death and wrapped gangly limbs around Sherlockof all people in a bid for comfort. The whole force had gone quiet, staring, expecting Sherlock to snap something cold and hurtful and shove the boy away. There was a collective dropping of jaws when he'd held the boy close instead and rubbed slow circles between his protuberant shoulder blades, whispering something low and soothing.

I'm man enough to admit that my own eyes got a bit misty. But only until Sherlock realised that everyone was watching and proceeded to send a death glare over the grieving boy's head until people scurried back to work. He stroked the boy's back until his relatives got there. I was so proud of him.

There are a thousand moments with Sherlock, a million, an infinite amount. I can't go through them all, and even if I did I'm still not sure I'd come up with the answer to my question. So maybe for once my memory has failed me.

Or maybe there was no one moment.

No fireworks that announced it or a singular instant that defined it.

I hear it happens that way sometimes; one day you just wake up and there's this knowledge that you've always had but that you're just now realising or understanding. A slow build up that gradually fills you, not something that overwhelms you. Something that makes you perk up and say, "Oh, there you are. I've been looking for you forever."

And, I know, it's ridiculous and sappy and I should be stoned for entertaining the thoughts of a pre-teen girl. But I can't help it (and believe me, I've tried). Sherlock makes me feel alive and unbroken and like I'm fully and wholly meagain. He gives me something to blog about, someone to take care of, someone to complain about, and someone to rely on.

Thoughts of him keep me up a night. And I won't always say they're all pure thoughts of romance and courtship; some of them leave me hard and aching in the soft cotton of my pajamas bottoms, the only relief the tight channel of my fist.

He's outspoken and arrogant and harsh and absolutely not a sociopath (no matter what he says to Anderson). But there's something about him that makes me want to push the curls back from his brow and tell him, "I seeyou, Sherlock. You don't have to pretend. You've already got me."

I've never met a man like him and I expect I shall never again meet his equal.

And now, because I've never been a man to let things go unspoken (Sherlock and I have thatin common at least), I'm going to go tell him exactly how I feel. Hopefully it will end in a marathon snogging session and not with a laugh in my face and a boot in my arse.

So if you've stuck with me this far, wish me luck. I'm going to need it.