A/N: Hello! First ever fic here. Would love some constructive feedback to get an idea of what people think. Thanks!
Disc: I own NOTHING that you may recognise. Not getting anything out of this except a smile.
THE MOMENT OF TRUTH
John was tense and jittery. His palms were sweaty and his heartbeat irregular.
It was almost the dreaded day of romance, love, flowers and hearts. Chocolates, candles, rose petals and bubble baths. Hallmark cards and passionate announcements of undying love. It was almost Valentine's Day.
In the past John had never bothered with the day, unless it provided a promising opportunity to end up in bed with a pretty lady. However these last few years had been anything other than normal.
Since meeting Sherlock and subsequently developing an unusual friendship John had found himself confused on countless occasions at the feelings the other man provoked.
John would find himself gazing at Sherlock from the corner of his eye, studying the man's movements, his facial features, his mannerisms. He would feel his heart skip a beat at the sight of Sherlock's long elegant fingers caressing his beloved violin.
Having always been completely heterosexual, John was heavily in denial about his burgeoning feelings for Sherlock. When he could no longer deny them, he tried to find excuses. Stress, lack of sleep, midlife crisis. Just a passing phase.
Finally it became too hard to fight or argue any more. After all, what had Sherlock himself so often said? Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. And the truth was that John Watson had fallen terribly in love with Sherlock Holmes, against both his will and better judgement.
And so, here he was on the eve of Valentine's Day, attempting to find a way to put his feelings into words.
John sighed, running his hands through his short sandy hair and kicked the end of his bed, swearing as his toe connected harder than expected.
"Are you alright in there, John?" came the tentative voice of Mrs Hudson, knocking softly at his door.
"Fine, Mrs Hudson," he sighed again, swinging open the door to reveal the kindly landlady holding a tray with tea and a biscuit. "Thank you; I need this!"
"I thought as much," she smiled knowingly. "I also thought this might come in handy."
She pulled a small book from the waistband of her floral apron, handing it to the nervous man. John took it reluctantly, peering at the cover.
"The Romantic Heart? What…"
"Enjoy your biscuit, dear."
Mrs Hudson shut the door with a smile, leaving John to stare dubiously at the book. Flicking it open he discovered with mild horror that it was filled with romantic poems and quotes. Sickening actually, with photographs of roses, cherubs and lace all over the pages.
However… Perhaps Mrs Hudson was right. It might come in handy…
Several hours later John had found two quotes that were… reasonable. He sipped at his fifth cup of tea (God bless Mrs Hudson) and pondered the words.
"You will find, as you look back upon your life,
that the moments that stand out,
the moments when you have really lived,
are the moments when you have done things in the spirit of Love."
Henry Drummond.
"But true love is a durable fire,
In the mind ever burning,
Never sick, never old, never dead,
From itself never turning."
Sir Walter Raleigh
But how the bloody hell was he supposed to use these to get the point across? Sherlock was an incredibly intelligent and perceptive man, except when it came to moments like this. Undoubtedly he would completely miss the point.
Perhaps a nice love song? John snorted. There was no way in hell he would sing a love song to Sherlock Bloody Holmes for Valentine's Bloody Day, but he was at his wit's end.
With a final gulp of tea John began scribbling down some lyrics.
"Never gonna give you up,
Never gonna let you down,
Never gonna run around and desert you…"
Laughing softly to himself John scrunched up that piece of paper and started again, serious this time.
"Because maybe
You're gonna be the one that saves me
And after all, you're my wonderwall…"
John sighed, closing his eyes. It was just so hard sometimes. Loving a bloke was bad enough, but one who was so infuriating, arrogant, stubborn, selfish, clever, stupid, incredible, unbelievable…
Finally, at almost one in the morning and having listened to countless songs for inspiration, John Watson fell asleep. He slept deeply, content in the knowledge that he had found a single song lyric that said everything he wanted to say and more, in a single concise sentence.
February the 14th arrived in a rather unspectacular fashion. The morning was overcast, cool and with a light drizzle. The air within 221B Baker Street seemed foreboding and tense, as though waiting for a storm.
Sherlock was draped across furniture, long limbs cascading here and there, like an unusual decorative throw rug. His dramatic sighs of boredom punctuated the silence regularly, not helping to soothe John's already strained nerves.
Mrs Hudson kept poking her head into the room, using offers of tea as an excuse to shoot meaningful glares in John's direction. Honestly, the woman was a veritable cupid.
At last John could take it no longer. Muttering something about the loo he shuffled off to his room, closing the door behind him. It took several deep breaths before he picked up the envelope, caressing the paper lightly. This was it… now or never! The moment of truth.
Summoning all his courage (quite frankly, Afghanistan was never this scary. Nor was having an explosive vest strapped to his chest) John left the room, heading back to see Sherlock still draped in the exact same position, still bemoaning his boredom.
"Um," John cleared his throat before speaking gruffly. "This is for you."
He tossed the envelope to Sherlock, who caught it without even looking. Impressive reflexes.
Sherlock sat up, opening the envelope with precision, stroking it with his long fingers. John looked away, blushing.
The sharp blue eyes scanned the page within, brow furrowed, mind ticking actively. After what seemed like an eternity he folded it back up and placed it onto the cushion beside him.
"Well," he began in his baritone voice, causing John's knees to tremble. "Standard white envelope, very cheap, presumably bought in bulk and stashed away in a drawer to be used whenever the occasion calls for it. Standard white paper for printing documents. Also cheap, bought in bulk. Standard blue ink; an ordinary ballpoint pen that was most likely the nearest to hand. This implies a lack of concern or regard for the recipient."
John opened his mouth to argue but Sherlock was not done yet.
"However, the handwriting is clearly yours. I've seen your writing many times, John, and it is often a messy scrawl as you take notes in a hurry. This… This is deliberate. Careful. When you wrote this, you wrote it neatly. Meticulously in fact. This suggests there was a level of sentiment involved; either for the recipient, the words themselves, or both."
There was a moment of uncertainty in Sherlock's eyes but it was gone so quickly that John may have imagined it.
"Furthermore, the paper smells of your aftershave. You're not wearing any now, nor were you last night. I've no idea when you wrote this but, if we assume you wrote it in the past twenty-four hours, you must have sprinkled the subtlest amount of aftershave onto the paper deliberately. You wanted the recipient to have full sensory awareness that this missive was penned by none other than yourself."
John took a deep shaky breath before sinking onto the cushions beside Sherlock.
"And… the words?" he prompted, daring to look the detective in the eye. "What do you suspect that the words mean?"
Sherlock dropped his gaze too quickly. "Oh, they could mean anything," he said airily, waving a hand in a dismissive manner.
"Read them to me," John said firmly, sounding braver than he felt. (Honestly, when did he become such a coward?)
The detective swallowed, straightening the piece of paper in his hand. When he spoke, the sultry voice was deeper than usual and somewhat gravelly.
"Let's stop the clock together and know that the timing was right."
"And what, Sherlock Holmes, do you think that means?" John asked, voice barely more than a whisper. "The great Mr Holmes… deduce that for me."
John hadn't meant for his voice to sound so seductive but, judging from the way Sherlock's pupils dilated and his breath hitched, it wasn't a bad thing.
"I…" It seemed the great detective was lost for words. A rare occurrence.
Sherlock turned, his piercing blue eyes locked onto John's, his lips parted slightly. And suddenly, without quite meaning to do it, John had leaned forward and kissed him. It was just a soft brush of lips, but it was enough to awaken a fire in both of them.
Their lips crashed together, their hands tangled in each other's hair, the fire leapt and raged in their chests. They clung to one another desperately, as though they would be ripped apart at any moment.
After what seemed like hours, days, weeks, they parted reluctantly, their breathing ragged and harsh. John leaned his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder, revelling in the heat of the man's body.
"Well," John said once he could breathe normally, "if I'd known there'd be such an enthusiastic reaction I would have done that sooner."
"Liar. You're too sentimental," Sherlock retorted. "Despite the factual inaccuracies surrounding today's date you're still a sentimental fool. You would always have waited for a date of significance."
John rolled his eyes.
"Stop deducing me and just kiss me again."
Sherlock complied without further argument.