Six Months
Before John, there were several things Sherlock considered pleasurable. This list included nicotine patches, documenting the purification of various animals' flesh over the course of a week, retreating to his mind palace, delving into an unsolved murder, picking loose threads from his coat (old habit from primary school days), and taking baths in nearly scalding water while reciting the first two-hundred and thirty numbers of pi. Now, the activities comprising this list were no more than remains of a bitter past, when Sherlock's greatest joys had been disgusting, tedious, or experienced in complete isolation.
This morning, Sherlock awoke to one of his most coveted new pleasures; John kissing him vigorously, fisting the lapels of Sherlock's pyjamas and mumbling something about the number six. On occasion, this annoyed Sherlock—John snogging him before he had a chance to record the previous night's dreams in his moleskin notebook. But, at the moment, Sherlock would not have cared to write down his dreams if they involved a ride atop of a fire-breathing dragon and a trip to Middle Earth.
He returned the gesture with equal enthusiasm.
John moaned into Sherlock's mouth and there were a few tense moment of sexually charged thrashing and pillows sent flying and hands in hair and—"Damn," said John, as his mobile burst into a truly atrocious rendition of "Thrift Shop." The good doctor detangled himself from the blankets as Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"John, I would literally rather your ringtone be a recording of Lestrade saying, "It's a drugs bust!" a half-dozen times in a row," Sherlock remarked, as John snatched his jacket off the floor and began digging through the pockets.
"It was a free download," John retorted, "and need I remind you that I have to sit through the first eight bars of Beethoven's Ninth every time Mycroft fancies a chat?" He discovered his phone in the left pocket and drew it out, ignoring Sherlock's exaggerated display of relief.
"Oh, hi, Harry," said John, shooting Sherlock a look of frank surprise and wandering out of the bedroom.
Sherlock slid out of bed and slipped into his second-best dressing gown.
"No, you didn't," John was protesting loudly from the kitchen. Sherlock abandoned his search for his cherished slippers, and stepped barefoot into the hall.
"Harry, we're not—we weren't—absolutely not," John concluded, sounding both horrified and sternly parental. Curiosity piqued, Sherlock ventured a bit farther from the bedroom and leaned against the wall to listen.
"Just because we're together," spluttered John, "does not mean we do that. God, Harry. I'm your brother! Why the hell d'you find it entertaining to imagine doing something effing pornographic?"
A slight smirk worked its way onto Sherlock's face.
There was a pause, and then John spoke again. "It's brilliant. Yeah. I know. He's outrageously stubborn and petulant and frankly Lestrade—yeah, the DI—frankly he has a point about him being childish at times, but Sherlock's just…"
Sherlock peered around the doorframe into the kitchen and gazed intently at the back of John's head.
"Fucking tremendous," said John.
Harry must have said something amusing because suddenly John was laughing and the moment was gone, blown away like dandelion seeds in a gust of wind. But Sherlock was still reeling, lost in a tumult of lust and admiration and shock, because this was the first time something had taken his breath away. And how strange and lovely a feeling that was.
"Right, yeah," John was saying, when Sherlock had pulled himself together enough to follow the remainder of the conversation. "Oh, and Harry, today's our six month anniversary."
Sherlock smiled, thinking of the days when they had just got together and how utterly important anniversaries had been to them. Their first twenty-four hours were celebrated with champagne and a scavenger hunt for cryptic love letters written from Sherlock to John. An aside: the sitting room sofa was never the same since. Their first week was celebrated with a nocturnal stroll along the Thames and a game of endorphin-drunk charades, in which John was Lestrade and Sherlock, playing Mycroft, laughed so hard he fell into the river and had to be hauled out by two individuals from the homeless network and an old man who offered them all a really astounding deal on cocaine. Their first month was celebrated with dinner at Angelo's—free of charge—and a trip to the cinema to see The Hobbit. Wherein Sherlock became so desperately turned on by Bilbo Baggins—who bore a truly incredible likeness to John Watson—he had to slip out of the theatre and sprint to the loo where he ran cold water over his hands to stop them from trembling.
After that, though, anniversaries had become somewhat neglected, no more special than any other time John and Sherlock spent together. Therefore, Sherlock was quite pleased that John had remembered this one, though he did hope it would conclude itself more successfully than the last.
He pulled away from the doorway as John bid Harry goodbye and was halfway back to the bedroom when John shouted, "Happy sixth month anniversary, you gorgeous, incredible bugger!"
"I washed the goat urine out of the fridge," Sherlock rumbled in reply.
John appeared at the doorway, smiling. "My anniversary gifts always did pale in comparison." And he tossed Sherlock his slippers.
A/N: Hi. :) To those of you who read Undeniably Johnlocked, you may me recall mentioning a sequel. I would have liked to have written and posted it long before this, but I had a horrid lack of ideas and motivation-so I'm thrilled that I finally have a 2 thousand word outline and some inspiration. I just couldn't stay away from Johnlock, it's too wonderful. You can think of this as the UJ sequel, but it can also stand on its own...I did change the timing of things a bit, because come on, Sherlock and John at The Hobbit has got to be in there somewhere. Right? :D
Love to hear what you think. Stay tuned!
-Spark Writer-