Holmesexual
Thanks to Brenna the EmoCat for writing most of the JW texts. Also, none of these characters belong to me.
Chapter 1- A Chat
3:43 p.m.
I'm going to the Tesco, and you better be home when I get back. I am not spending another afternoon alone watching Doctor Who. -JW
3:45 p.m.
I'll be home soon, John, I just need to stop by a crime scene quickly, and I promise I'll be home by 6:00. –SH
4:20 p.m.
Get some jam while you're out then. We've run out at the flat. –JW
4:23 p.m.
Is food all you can think about? There are more important things in life. –SH
4:24 p.m.
What? I like jam. –JW
4:28 p.m.
Well, I can't exactly stop for jam right now; I'm a bit… tied up. -SH
4:28 p.m.
Don't tell me you're with Irene. –JW
Because if you are, I don't want to hear about it. –JW
4:30 p.m.
No, I am not with Ms. Adler. Let's just say I ran into someone who looked familiar and things got out of hand. –SH
4:30 p.m.
Oh, good lord, Sherlock, who? –JW
4:31 p.m.
Let's just say he wore a blue suit and had a very loud laugh and Mycroft is doing everything in his power to have me released before dinner. –SH
4:33 p.m.
You know, for a genius, you can be an enormous idiot at times? –JW
4:55 p.m.
What? It was a perfectly reasonable reaction and Mr. Smith should recover within a week. The outcome could have been much worse. –SH
4:56 p.m.
Are you okay? You didn't get hurt, did you? –JW
And how do you have your phone? – JW
4:56 p.m.
Of course not, I'm fine. You really shouldn't worry about me so much, John. The phone, I just snuck past security. –SH
4:58 p.m.
Well the last time I stopped worrying about you, you threw yourself off of a building, so I guess I don't quite believe you. –JW
5:00 p.m.
You know that I'm sorry for that, John, but it was necessary. –SH
5:32 p.m.
If there's anything you'd like to talk about, now would be a good time. I'm a bit bored, so if there's anything you'd like to share… -SH
5:36 p.m.
Yes, well, I guess you should know that I'm in love with you but other than that… Nothing. –JW
5:42 p.m.
Right.
Well, what I really meant was, if there was anything I hadn't already figured out, if you don't mind. –SH
5:45 p.m.
Well, fine, then. –JW
5:45 p.m.
John, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, but you are rather obvious, almost as obvious as Ms. Adler was. –SH
5:47 p.m.
Fine then… how about dinner, tonight? –JW
5:48 p.m.
Yes, just after Mycroft has me released. I think I'm actually due for a meal around now. Italian or Chinese? –SH
5:51 p.m.
Oh! I haven't had Italian in a while. –JW
5:51 p.m.
Splendid.
Oh actually, I might have to cancel for tonight… -SH
5:53 p.m.
Oh lord, what now? –JW
5:55 p.m.
Mycroft thinks I need to learn a lesson, attacking people in the street as I have. He's keeping me here for the night in a cell with a shoplifter. –SH
5:55 p.m.
Oh, God! –JW
5:56 p.m.
The guard's discovered my phone; I'll see you in the morning. And I'll bring the jam.
Oh, and John? Me, too. –SH
5:56 p.m.
What? –JW
5:56 p.m.
I love you, too. –SH
None of these fantastic characters are of my creation, not even the ones from Doctor Who.
Chapter 2- The Morning After
John stared down at the plate of food, knowing he would never finish it. Speedy's served greasy, Americanized food, and not even strong-stomached John could finish an entire meal there. That, combined with the thought of Sherlock in a jail cell with a criminal made eating impossible.
He'd sent the text on a whim, figuring he could brush it off as joke if Sherlock had reacted badly. At first, he hadn't been sure what to expect. Anger? Indignation? Pity? Then, that final text before the guard had taken his phone. He'd read it a million times, and he read it again now. I love you, too. Four simple words that would change his life.
He really didn't know what to expect now. When Sherlock came home, would they kiss? Would they do… other things? The thought of going to bed with Sherlock was both exciting and odd at the same time. Did Sherlock even have sexual desires? Ever?
All John knew was that he was glad to have him. Ever since the fall, he'd felt he'd lost a part of him that could never be replaced. Then, that day, just six months ago, when that tall thin man had showed up back in the flat, as if nothing had happened.
And the first thing the blonde had done was break his nose.
In the past few months, something had been different between them. John rarely left Sherlock's side, and the other man was much the same. In public, he was always within reaching distance of his friend. He had even, one day, felt a soft tug on the elbow of his jumper, soon realizing that it was Sherlock, simply holding on to him.
9:52 a.m.
Where are you? I even remembered the jam? –SH
John was leaving a note too big for his meal before he even finished the text, not bothering to wait for change. Very Sherlock. He didn't really care if he lost a few dollars, because Sherlock was waiting for him upstairs, and there was nothing that wasn't worth seeing his face.
"You really shouldn't leave these shows on, John. I think I've found a program I enjoy even more than Maury."
Sherlock was seated in his favorite chair, still wrapped in his coat and scarf, watching David Tennant fight the Daleks with his sonic-screwdriver.
"Are you watching… Doctor Who?"
"You are a fan, aren't you?" Sherlock said, squinting at his phone screen, "A 'Whovian,' as they're called on the internet. How cute. By the way, I hope you haven't ruined your appetite at Speedy's- I didn't lie. I have all-fruit, strawberry, and peach."
Sherlock produced the respective jars from various coat pockets. John nodded in thanks, taking the peach and heading for the kitchen. Now that he was with Sherlock, he was suddenly ravenous.
"So, how was prison?" he said, trying to make conversation, trying to avoid the texts. "I suppose you and your cellmate didn't get along."
"What makes you think that?" Sherlock called, still watching the television.
"You don't get a long with anyone."
The hearty laugh produced a surge of warmth in John's stomach, and he almost blushed. "I suppose I don't," Sherlock said, more quietly, standing to lean in the kitchen doorway. John slipped two pieces of toast into the toaster, setting the kettle to boil, setting aside a jar of tongues as he did so. The last thing they needed was boiled tongues.
"He was asleep the whole time. I've honestly never seen anyone sleep that much, except when I dosed myself with methamphetamine a few years ago," Sherlock said casually, taking out two mugs, then answered John's questioning look, "Experiment."
"Ah, obviously," John said sarcastically, nodding solemnly. There was so much he still had to learn about Sherlock.
Maybe the "I love you" was just an experiment.
No, it couldn't have been, but still, John couldn't be positive. Waiting for his toast, John watched Sherlock as he examined the jar of tongues carefully. His eyes, so intense, so focused, where green today, with hints of purple along the edges. He had such beautiful eyes, and such lovely cheekbones, and such a lovely pair of li-
Suddenly, Sherlock turned to meet his gaze, and John froze. Busted. The taller man had seen him watching him before, he was sure of it, but this was different. Sherlock knew how he felt.
For a moment, Sherlock's face didn't change- he just watched John, studying him with the same clinical fascination as he had observed his experiment, then something shifted. A glimmer of affection touched his gaze, a smile touching his lips, curving his face into an entirely new form.
"Don't look so concerned, dear," he whispered, "It was only the one time."
John realized that he was staring again, probably looking like a doe-eyed idiot. He cleared his throat, turning back to his burning toast. "Right," he grumbled, fumbling with the top of the jam jar. All of a sudden, opening that jar was the most difficult and fascinating task he could manage. His fingers slipped on the metal and glass, though, and within moments he was getting worked up, trying with all his might to shift the stubborn cap.
With a huff, he dropped it on the counter, turning away and folding his arms.
"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, actual concern touching his face, infuriating John even more.
"No, no it's not alright," John huffed, crossing the kitchen, "The bloody jar is stuck, and my toast is burned, and those curtains are awful, and we still haven't painted over that damn smiley face… and that bloody stubborn jar just won't open up no matter how much time you've spent trying, and how well it knows you, and no matter what you do! It just stays closed up and won't let anything out or in, because that's better than actually feeling something!"
Sherlock raised an interesting eyebrow as John gasped for breath, embarrassed. If you'd listened carefully, which Sherlock always did, you could actually pinpoint the moment when the sentence stopped being about curtains and smiley faces and jam jars.
For a moment, they just stood there, listening to the kettle screech. Then, after a moment, Sherlock sprang into action, opening the jam jar and spreading some on each piece of bread, pouring two cups of tea, and readying breakfast for John. He even threw some of his notes from the table to the floor, clearing a space for his flat mate to eat. Within two minutes, John was staring down at the tables, place setting with a cup of tea, a plate of toast and jam, a knife, and a napkin on one side and a cup of tea and a newspaper on the other, Sherlock seated across from him.
"To give you credit, you did loosen the jar a bit."
John sat down slowly, staring at the spread, hating Sherlock even more by the moment. Why did he just have to be so perfect? Whenever something went wrong, Sherlock always knew what to do. He'd gone and faked his own death just to save John, and now he was setting his place for breakfast.
He'd changed a lot since John had first met him.
Taking a bite of toast, John tried to remember how Sherlock had been when he'd first met him. Closed off, foreign, lonely. Now, he was so much more.
Or maybe it had just taken John some time to see it.
"You know, John, emotions are not my strong point," Sherlock began, not looking up from his paper, "Before I met you, I didn't really even have them. Now, I do care about you John, but I'm just not very good at it. And, to be fair, neither are you."
"Excuse me?" John snapped, "Who was it that actually considered you a friend? And shot a murderer for you? And waiting for three years for you to come back from the dead?"
Sherlock was silent, staring blankly at his paper.
"Who said 'I love you' last night?"
Sherlock stiffened, then sighed, pushing his mussed curls out of his eyes, leaning back in his chair. Suddenly, he looked rather old, lines of worry and concern carved into his face with time's cruel knife. He had changed a lot in the time that he was away from John, and his companion could see it every once and a while- the sad, almost shocked look of someone who had sent an enormous amount of hurt that they where not prepared for.
"It's not a competition, John, it's a fact," Sherlock whispered simply, "You had to have a row with a jam jar to tell me that you where upset about not speaking of what we both said last night. It was almost, though, right before then, that you didn't want to talk about it."
His voice softened when he saw the look of pain on John's face. "I know it's been hard for you, dealing with this, the truth. You have been insistent from the beginning that you were 'not gay.'"
"And I'm not," John said quickly, then, more gently, "I just… it's just… you're the first man…"
"I know," Sherlock said quietly, "Mycroft likes to joke about it. He calls you 'Holmesexual.'"
John stiffened, staring up at the other man. "Mycroft knows?" he asked, but he knew there was no point. Of course Mycroft knew. Mycroft knew everything.
Mycroft was a nasty little shit.
"But what about you?" John asked, looking up at his friend, more than a friends now, "Are you… That is, has there ever been anyone…"
"I was honest with you the first time we met," Sherlock said, "I considered myself married to my work until we met. There was some experimenting in high school, but it was it was only that- experiments."
John nodded. He had personally never had that stage of experimentation, never really tried anything out. He'd just dated women, unsuccessfully, for years on end, one failed relationship after another. Sherlock was John first- and probably last- real love. It had only taken him a few years to realize that.
"So…" John said, not really sure how to continue. He shouldn't have said anything- Sherlock was looking at him expectantly, probably figuring I had something profound and heartfelt to say. Instead, I cleared my throat, turning back to my toast, "'Holmesexual?'"
Sherlock's laughter filled the flat and John's heart lifted.
He was home, for the first time in over three years.
Chapter 3- Sibling Rivalries
"Well, look at that, you've gotten my brother to eat something for once… or is he experimenting with it?"
"Good to see you too, Mycroft," John grumbled, letting Sherlock's elder brother into the flat. He always felt like a midget when he was with the both of them- a stupid, belligerent midget.
"Well, how was your stay in jail, then?" Mycroft continued, ignoring his brother's partner. This suited John just fine, who sat back down on the couch next the pizza box. Sherlock was seating on the floor, examining his slice like it was some sort of foreign creature.
"You know, Mycroft, I've never eaten pizza," Sherlock said, the last word curdling on his tongue, sounding foreign and strange coming out of his mouth. John stifled his laughter as Sherlock sniffed the pizza and watched it as if he was waiting for it to move.
"I wouldn't start now, Sherlock, I don't think you'd like it," Mycroft said dryly, taking a seat beside them, then taking notice of the television, "Have you been watching Doctor Who?"
"It's Sherlock's new favorite show," John explained, "He likes to try to figure out if some of the things on it would ever be possible."
"I am this close to creating a wireless lock-pick. A bit different from the sonic-screwdriver, but the same concept," Sherlock said, a smile touching his lips.
Mycroft nodded absently, scanning his phone. "That's very good, Sherlock, very good…" he trailed off, finishing a text and dropping his phone into his pocket, "Listen, the reason I stopped by is there's been an… incident involving the internet. Some people have been speculating that you two are a couple, and I thought you might like to know."
John froze, sudden terror gripping his body. They where two days post-confession, and things had been… odd. Nothing had really changed, each had just known for the past few days that the other loved him, and that was enough, but John was anxious. Anxious to cash in on some of his new boyfriend-perks, like kissing and cuddling and… other things. What he hadn't thought about, though, was coming out, as most people called it. Would they make their relationship public? Did Sherlock want that? Did John want that?
"Let them speculate," Sherlock said simply, deftly taking John's hand, then turned to him abruptly, "Unless, of course, you would like to keep up appearances, which is fine, if you wish."
"Oh, uh, no," he said, stumbling over his words, "Speculation, yeah, that's, uh, that's cool."
How eloquent. Neither of the brothers seemed to notice his awkwardness, though, because they where staring intently into each other's eyes, a challenge in Sherlock's, pity in Mycroft's.
"Are you sure about this, Sherlock? You know you're track record isn't very good."
"Absolutely," Sherlock said curtly, and John's eyebrows knit. What track record?
"Very well then," Mycroft sighed, then sighed and continued, more brightly, "While I'm here may I have a slice?"
"Sure," Sherlock said, then deadpanned, "Speaking of pizza, that diet seems to be working rather well."
"What the fuck was that, Sherlock? I thought Mycroft knew about all these… feelings, or whatever. And what fucking track record?"
John watched as his boyfriend or lover or partner or whatever he was cleaned up the flat, clearing away the pizza. He was scraping the glob of cheese he had spat out in disgust off of the coffee table when he answered.
"Mycroft knows, but that doesn't mean he likes it. And the track record's name is Anthony," Sherlock said, his voice barely audible, "One of my experiments."
John's stomach dropped and he tugged at the sleeves of his jumper, nervous. "And what happened?" he snapped, and immediately regretted it. Sherlock froze, a look of obvious pain crossing his porcelain face.
"He… He jumped off of the roof of our dorm at boarding school," Sherlock said quietly, "Right after I broke things off. He was the last one. After that, I decided playing with people's emotions was a bit too risky for my taste."
John was shocked, and leaned back against the counter, his head spinning.
Sherlock really hadn't had feelings, had he?
"You… you caused a boy… to commit suicide?"
"There were other factors, of course," Sherlock said casually, "But yes, I tipped Anthony over the edge. I visit his grave every year on his birthday and I will never forgive myself for hurting him."
John was frozen, too many jumbled thoughts rummaging in his mind.
"I need… I need to go to bed," John said, and he was down the hall before Sherlock could answer.
He needed space.
"Martha! Martha, come back!"
John was shaken awake and jumped out of bed, fear gripping his heart. He had stumbled into the kitchen in his boxers before he realized it was just the T.V. Sherlock was passed out on the kitchen counter, wearing nothing but his sheet-cape, his head resting on the remote, turning up the volume. John removed the device carefully, turning the volume down, flipping to the news, and shutting it off in three quick movements.
Then, he looked down at the man before him. He could see the band of Sherlock's boxer-briefs, since the sheet had been thrown half off, revealing his alabaster chest. John could see every one of his love's ribs, and worried silently for his health. This was what worked for Sherlock, though, and he had learned long ago not to question it.
He still worried.
"John…"
The man froze, surprised. The voice was so sweet, so tender, so warm. So un-Sherlock. He thought maybe this was his groggy voice, and he'd woken up, but he realized in a moment that Sherlock was still asleep, but dreaming. A smile touched his lips, and his face looked young, even childish now, the lines of worry slackened, and the usual look of scrutiny lost.
He looked like a baby otter.
John would have laughed is it hadn't been for the sudden wave of emotion that came over him. This man, this beautiful, tormented man, was the one he was destined to spend the rest of his life with. He knew it. There was no way he could ever live without Sherlock. There was no way.
There was quote, wasn't there, that was something along those lines? "Life without love is hardly worth living," he thought it was. This he knew to be true. Life without his love, Sherlock, would never be worth it.
And no boy that died for him was going to change that.
John went back to bed with a glass of water, but not before spreading Sherlock's robe over his bare chest, just so he wouldn't get cold, and kissing him gently on the forehead.
"I love you, Sherlock Holmes, you git."
This chapter partially inspired by this brilliant fanfiction s/7961680/1/Domesticity_is_Bliss I could not resist making my own Johnlock fort of happiness. Read that fic, it's fantastic.
Chapter 4- A New Palace
"John! John, come here!"
"Just a minute, Sherlock," John called in answer, shutting off the water. The morning after their little revelation, he had been in desperate need of a shower. He stepped out of the steam, feeling his head and body much clearer than they'd been before, wondering what Sherlock wanted now. He'd been asleep when John had stepped into the shower- now he was having epiphanies all over the flat.
"Come on, John! It doesn't take that long to wash your hair! Even Anderson would know that."
"You know, it was a lot more peaceful around here when you where dead?!" he countered, running his fingers through his hair. It was Sunday- they never did much on Sundays (even high-functioning sociopaths needed their rest) and he had no plan of combing his hair or even getting properly dressed today. He had done enough in the last few days- he deserved a day off.
"John, honestly-"
"Jesus, Sherlock!"
Sherlock did not answer, but simply stared as John stood, barely covering himself with a towel in time. Sherlock himself was hardly dressed, wearing only his boxer briefs and robe, and a smile played on his lips as he took the doctor in.
"Was there something you wanted?" John asked, jolting the man out of his reveling.
"Yes," he said, shaking his head, obviously shaken by the risk-ay view. John himself was struggling not stare at Sherlock's smooth chest and abdomen and not so smooth… other… parts.
"Come to living room as soon as possible," the taller man said, then added, almost as a bribe, "I have tea and toast."
John nodded, and watched as Sherlock disappeared down the hall, his blue silk robe fanning out behind him like a cape, sometimes giving him a lovely view when it billowed high enough.
He only half dressed in his boxers and a t-shirt- he'd put on some weight recently and did not want to be entirely shirtless- figuring that if Sherlock was going to be barely dressed, he wasn't going to bother with even a jumped.
"Alright, Holmes, let's see what you've go-"
John broke off mid-sentence, confronted with a massive wall of fluff. Two walls of pillows and cushions filled the room, topped with a roof of white sheets. He stumbled toward the television, finding the front mostly open, with a perfect view of the screen. Sherlock was in the back, curled against a wall of pillows, fingers pressed palm to palm against his lips, watching the screen intensely.
"No, stop that, you idiot! There both dreams, don't you see? You already died in the other, and stars don't burn cold! Stop that!"
"Getting upset with the Doctor, are you?" John asked folding myself next to him. His flat mate had laid out several blankets against the floor and he was comfortable leaning back on his elbows, turning back to the television.
"He wouldn't be the first one," Sherlock grumbled, "First you can't sleep, then you take a half-hour long shower, and then you proceed to take far too long to dress and come see the beautiful fort I've built. Honestly, my dear, I'm hurt."
He didn't bother asking the detective how he had deduced that her hadn't been able to sleep- probably the T.V. and the robe- and he could have made a joke about him grasping the social concept of sarcasm, but he was too busy enjoying the sound of Sherlock calling him dear.
"Well, I'm not sorry, if that's what you're waiting for," he confirmed, "Now, where is this tea and toast I was promised?"
Sherlock motioned towards the table John hadn't noticed in the far corner of the fort, just near the opening. Sitting on top was a plate of toast with jam, a still-steaming cup of tea beside it.
Nothing for Sherlock, of course.
"You really should eat something," he sighed toward the taller man, leaning back into the blankets and biting into the toast. For someone who never ate, Sherlock always prepared food in a wonderful manner. Once, he'd made lasagna that he felt nearly high off of.
That also could have been the fact that Sherlock had replaced the oregano with marijuana, but still, it was very good.
As he chewed and the episode of Doctor Who came to a close, followed by a re-run of Graham Norton, John felt Sherlock's eyes on him, watching his every move. Once, he reached over and brushed a crumb off of John's cheek, another time to wipe off a bit of jam. The sincere concern and concentration on his face as he tried to rid him of the smudge made John's heart melt into his chest.
"Has anyone ever told you that you look like a hedgehog, John?"
He would have thought that the man was joking, had he not known him so well. Sherlock's face was completely serious as he watched him, speculation brimming in his eyes.
"I do not look like a hedgehog," he said calmly, taking his last bite of toast.
"Yes you do."
"No, I do not, thank you very much."
"But you really do, John."
"Well, you look like an otter, so," John side, putting his plate aside, "I guess we're just a pair of ugly woodland creatures."
For a moment, Sherlock maintained his composure, but soon relaxed into the deep chuckle that John had grown to love so much. He laughed as well, letting himself slip closer to Sherlock.
"So, Sherlock," John said casually, and waited for Sherlock to raise an eyebrow in response before he continued, "We are… boyfriends? Correct?"
"I was under the impression we were a bit more… permanent than that," Sherlock mused, "But I do suppose that works for now."
"Right, well, I was wondering what that implies, exactly," he finished, watching Sherlock's eyes dart about as he thought.
"What is it that you mean?" he said after a pause, his brow furrowing but his eyes not straying from the television.
"I don't know, don't we do… boy-friend-y… things?"
He almost expected Sherlock to laugh, but he just raised an eyebrow. "Boy-friend-y things?" he enunciated, pulling a face, "Like what?"
"I don't know," John muttered, then joked, "Drinking margaritas and having butt sex?"
Sherlock just furrowed his brow and shook his head tersely. "No, I'm not really one for alcohol, myself, and you're probably hardly prepared to be on the receiving end of any… 'butt sex,' as you so eloquently put it."
John's jaw dropped, just that sentence giving him far too much to think about. He'd always assumed that, if things were to happen with Sherlock, he'd be on top. Sure, he was shorter, but he was in the army. He killed people. Did he want to be on top, though? Did he even want to have sex right away?
"Don't look so surprised, John, it doesn't suit you," Sherlock responded, practically reading his mind with his response, "I've always known that when we truly got down to business, I'd be on top. You just aren't aggressive nor experience enough to be in that sort of position."
John was speechless. Apparently, Sherlock didn't live up to his reputation as "The Virgin."
"I mean, Sherlock, I'm flattered," he began, "But you haven't even bought me dinner yet."
They made eye-contact, and a moment later collapsed into laughter, clutching each other tightly, as they l did.
"I believe that could be arranged," Sherlock whispered flirtatiously, something he'd never thought he'd hear in his friend-boyfriend-lover-whatever's voice.
Suddenly, John was very aware of just how close they were, and how little clothes they were wearing. Slowly, without breaking eye-contact, Sherlock raised himself off of the floor, kneeling with his knees on either side of John's knees, hovering over him softly. Carefully, Sherlock's fingers brushed his face, pushing stray blonde hairs out of the way, then moving quickly to softly cup his face and neck.
"Sherlock…" he sighed, pressing himself up off of his elbows, onto his hands. The other man backed up slightly, but kept his hand where it was. John was barely seeing him now, but was staring into his softly curved lips, waiting. He'd known this was going to happen, but was suddenly incredibly nervous.
"John," Sherlock's voice was more steady, and he was ever-so-slowly leaning in, reaching for his lips with the same worried hesitation that John felt. Then, suddenly, he felt Sherlock's lips pressed to his own, strong and firm and sweet and warm and full of energy.
Sherlock buckled above him, catching himself on his palms, both of them reclining into the fort as the kiss deepened. Letting the other man's tongue brush between his lips, John couldn't help but gasp into his mouth, his fingers tangling in the soft black curls he loved, clutching on to every inch of Sherlock he could reach, wanting him as close as possible.
"John…" the change in his voice was incredible, the name now coming out in a strangled gasp, trailing off into nothing. They stayed like that for a while, becoming familiar with each others lips, letting their hands roam where they pleased for the first time, and basking in the warmth of the love they couldn't hide any longer.
Chapter 5- Nothing Else
No one woke John that Sunday, not even the traffic outside, but he felt as if he'd been shoved into consciousness. Just a dream. One of those awful dreams, the kind where he was running, running toward a ledge, but he couldn't get there fast enough, and when he finally caught the hand of the falling man, it was too late and he slipped away, and John went with him, falling forever, with nothing but a blue scarf and dark curly hair and a scream that may have been his surrounding him.
He sat up in bed, rolling his neck slowly, then pulled back the blind beside the bed. A shaft of sunlight hit the sleeping figure still wrapped in his sheets. Sherlock didn't sleep often, but he stayed in John's bed at night, even if he was working, just to be near him sometimes. Last night, though, he had needed his rest, which John was reminded by when the man rolled over in his sleep, the sheet slipping dangerously low on his bare abdomen.
A smile touched his lips and he turned from the bed, watching London pass by. It really was a wonderful city. They had a case this week, which always got Sherlock worked up. He'd be up in minutes, making tea and deductions and new insults for Anderson, and John would follow, as usual, getting caught up in the whirl-wind of it all, probably almost getting blown up in the process, but somehow it would all be rather fun.
John tried for a moment, as he sometimes did in his few moments when he was truly alone, about the life he might have had if it weren't for Sherlock Holmes. He would have stayed in his little room all day, seen his pushy therapist, and say at home some more. Maybe he'd have ended it by now, just out of boredom. Maybe he would have just rotted forever.
Either way, there was nothing about it that could have beaten this. Waking up every morning to this beautiful man, taking part in these incredibly adventures, never knowing what was going to happen next. He wouldn't have traded this life for anything.
Sherlock stirred again in his sleep and John turned to him, watching him. Seeing him now, it wasn't hard to remember that first day. The day they sat in that stupid little fort, kissing sometimes, but mostly just holding each other, curled into each other's bodies, fingers tangled into each other's hair. The day that they didn't leave the flat, watched almost three seasons of Doctor Who, and even Sherlock had some of the Chinese food John ordered for lunch, pinching at the rice interestedly. Apparently, he'd never had sticky rice before, big surprise.
Then, there was that night. The night that John convinced Sherlock to have a little wine and they had ended up finishing the bottle. The night that John pulled Sherlock into his bedroom –theirs, now- and somehow ended up in bed with him. He basked in the memory of the fear and the excitement and the sheer happiness of the beginning, of all of the things they had in store for them
I am so lucky.
Really, he was. As he turned to closet and pulled out a jumper and a pair of jeans, he couldn't help but smile. He could have lost so much, almost lost so much, and now Sherlock would never be leaving again.
Once he'd dressed, John went out to put on a kettle, letting himself zone out a bit as he did so, sitting down at the table. Suddenly, who knows how long later, a mass of white sheets was turning off the screeching kettle, and John was slumped in his seat.
"I asked you to pass me your mug," Sherlock grumbled from the center of the sheet.
"When?" John asked, partially joking, and passed the warn mug over. He'd learned recently just why Sherlock didn't like to sleep- he was incredibly groggy and incredibly cranky when he did.
"Thirteen minutes ago," he answered solemnly, pouring the water, and John couldn't help but laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of the sight. Sherlock smiled just a bit and passed him his tea, turning back to prepare the toaster, as was his custom- much to John's protest. He was grown man; he could make his own breakfast.
Still, it really was rather nice of him.
John thought now, as was his custom, when he was finished reminiscing, about the future, and knew that it involved Sherlock, unquestionably. Could John ever even love someone else- man or woman? Well, women he'd never had much luck with, and men, well, was he even gay?
"So I believe I've figured out who killed Carver Lee, it's just a matter of proving it…"
John settled in to his toast, listening to Sherlock talk about the case, and knew that he was right. There would never be anyone else, and he was definitely not gay.
He was, as Mycroft would put it, Holmesexual.