As an apology for taking so long to update my Sherlolly fanfic (I shall have news by tomorrow), here is a very small Johnlock fic. Set on the very first episode (the image of the cover triggered the fic), it takes place right after Sherlock and John get to 221B Baker Street to find Lestrade, Agent Donovan and Anderson searching his apartment for drugs. A "what if it had happened this way" kind of story. Hope you like it.
Sherlock held John's neck with a hand, bringing him closer. He could feel John's pulse underneath his palm, getting faster now. As he approached John's lips his eyes closed, anticipating the moment. Finally, Sherlock shortened the small distance that was left and kissed him gently. As John responded to the kiss, grabbing Sherlock by his neck, diving his fingers on Sherlock's black curls, the time and the world around them ceased to exist. There was only the two of them, kissing and savouring each other's warmth.
Lestrade got up with a jump, storming out of the apartment, followed by Agent Donovan, who was still carrying the human eyes she had removed from the microwave. She did come back, pulling Anderson, who had stopped and was walking out of the door slowly, watching the two men making out in front of him with a look of concern on his face. Donovan closed the door behind her and all of them took off in the police car that was waiting outside.
As soon as Sherlock heard the car driving into the night he stepped away from John, letting go at once.
"Thank you." Sherlock said, approaching the bookshelf and removing a few books from there, searching for something.
John cleared his throat, trying to find the strength he needed to say anything at all.
"What for?" He inquired.
Sherlock turned around, a flask with a solution in his hand.
"Cocaine." He explained to John. "A solution. For desperate times. I should probably get rid of this."
And he left down the stairs at fast pace, leaving John staring at the point in the stairs where he had disappeared. The thoughts were twirling in his head. Sherlock had kissed him to avoid being caught. It had been only that, nothing else. John felt as if a big whole had been left inside his chest and he did not understand it. He was not gay. He wasn't. He sat down on the chair, grabbing the Union Jack pillow, his legs still shaking, and the taste of Sherlock's full lips still in his. 'I am not gay,' he repeated to himself. Then why was he having trouble believing his own words?
As Sherlock didn't come back, he got out of the house, he needed to get some air. And he also needed to kill the urge to kiss those lips again and again and again. Sherlock had said his worst traits were being silent for days and playing the violin. He hadn't mentioned anything about making John fall in love with him. That idiot.