Hooray for bad titles! I want to thank SakuraMoriChan for giving me this prompt. If you like Hetalia, go read her stories!
This was a one-shot that got out of control, so I split it into two long-ass chapters.
Just to be clear, when I use the word "psychic" in this story, it indicates someone who can read thoughts. It doesn't have to do with those people who predict you future with a crystal ball or some shit.
Well, enjoy!~
Psychics are to be feared. That was what every ignorant parent told their child. The majority of the population considered them freaks of nature. When the existence of psychics was discovered hundreds of years ago, they were accused of witchcraft and inevitably stoned to death. Some believed them to be conjuring the power of Satan—the usual irrational religious accusations. As of the mid 20th century, things had gotten more humane, although the hatred of psychics had not really died down. Psychics were allowed to live, but must be away from society and "normal" people in a facility where they were to be studied and cared for. There were doctors to care for any physical ailments, but also psychiatrists to help the psychics cope with their situation. Psychics of the lowest level were allowed to leave the facility occasionally to visit their families. But as for the stronger psychics, they were only allowed to leave for three days for Christmas (with authorized personnel, of course). However, when it came to Sherlock Holmes, the most powerful psychic of them all, he was never allowed to leave.
John Watson had been excited to start working at the facility. He always found the psychics to be interesting, if not a little intimidating. While he was a licensed medical doctor, what he really wanted to do was help the psychics cope. So, after he was discharged from the army with a scar on his shoulder and a limp in his leg, he became a licensed psychiatrist and applied for a job. He started working in the month of July and gained the approval of coworkers and patients alike before the summer ended. The psychics liked John because they could tell that he felt genuine sympathy for them. That could not be said about the majority of the doctors there.
John liked the facility itself, too. It had a warm, welcoming feel and it was obvious that the purpose of the place was to make the psychics feel as normal as possible. There was a library, televisions in every room, a lovely garden, and the food in the cafeteria really wasn't that bad.
Another good thing was that the facility was only twenty minutes away from his flat by car. For John, the job was almost perfect.
Almost.
In late February, John was called to his boss', Gregory Lestrade's, office. John entered the room with a nervous smile.
"Is something wrong, sir?" he asked.
"Not at all, Dr. Watson," the older man with silver hair said warmly. "Take a seat," he pointed to the chair in front of his desk. John sat down. "Now," Lestrade sat up straight in his chair, "I've got a special assignment for you. Normally, I wouldn't let you near this bloke for years, but you seem pretty damn good at your job."
John smiled at the compliment, his nerves disappearing. "Who is it?"
"Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade said. "Probably the most powerful psychic anyone's ever seen. He's only twenty-eight years old and can tell you what you were thinking ten minutes ago from anywhere in the building."
John was immediately intrigued. "The most powerful? How come I've never heard of him before this?"
"Oh, you must have. It's just that no one really calls him by his name."
"What do they call him?"
"A variety of things—freak, psycho—things of that nature," he said uncomfortably.
Well, that was unexpected. Everyone working at the facility had been very tolerant of the psychics so far.
"Why is he called that?" John asked.
Lestrade looked troubled. "He's just very…odd, and intimidating."
"Intimidating? You find him intimidating?"
Lestrade got a little defensive with that. "Well, yeah! The man could tell you your entire life story in a minute!" He took a breath and calmed. "Look, John, he's not easy to work with. It's not just that his power is immense; he's cold and arrogant as well. I've called you here because I think you can handle him. Do you accept?"
And of course, John said, "Yes."
"I can't believe Lestrade is letting you near that thing," Sally Donovan said to John as she and Philip Anderson escorted John to his new patient's room.
"Thing?" John frowned. "You mean Sherlock Holmes?"
"Yep."
"It's a good thing they've got him locked up in here," Anderson piped up beside them. "He's a real psychopath. Ask anyone in this building and they'll agree."
"Even Lestrade?"
Donovan rolled her eyes. "Lestrade doesn't want to admit he feels the same way. He's too nice to directly call the Freak a freak."
John had not really talked to Donovan and Anderson before, and now he was wishing to get out of their presence as quickly as possible.
"You've been around Holmes?"
"Oh, yeah. Sadly, we're stuck with the job of taking care of him—changing his sheets, doing his laundry—being his maids, basically."
"We're warning you, John," said Anderson, "don't let that psychopath get to you."
John smiled tightly. "I think I can handle it."
John was led to a room on the top floor of the building at the very end of the hallway. Donovan opened the door and called, "Oi, try not to scare this one away, will you? We like him." She turned to John, "Good luck." She left with Anderson.
John entered the room and saw a young man sitting Indian-style on a bed with his fingers in a steeple under his chin like a praying-mantis, his eyes closed. If he heard John come in, he didn't show any signs of it. His dark, curly hair was a little messy and his white T-shirt clung to his thin chest. John turned his eyes away from his new patient and noticed how incredibly dull the room was. The walls, floor, and ceiling were gray, the white sheets a sharp contrast to the rest of the room. There was no television. There was a small wooden chair in the middle of the room intended for John. There was a small beside table. The blinds to the window were shut.
John quietly shut the door behind him and cleared his throat.
Still no acknowledgement.
"Mr. Holmes?"
After a beat of silence, his patient spoke, "You're new."
"Yes."
"You've not even been here for a year."
"Yes."
"What brings an ex-soldier with a psychosomatic limp, alcoholic sister, dead parents, and an incompetent therapist to me?"
John took a second to process that. Lestrade wasn't kidding about his abilities, then. Most psychics could only hear a person's immediate thoughts, not dig into memories. He should have been angry. He should have been offended. He was impressed.
"I like to help people. I started working here and Lestrade assigned me to you. There's your answer."
He saw the young man's lip twitch. "Just sit down. Your leg is bothering you, isn't it?"
John sat down without responding, resting his cane on the side of the chair. "Now, Mr. Holmes-"
"Sherlock."
"Okay, Sherlock, you obviously know why I'm here-"
"Yes, you feel the need to help people after going through traumatic experiences during your military service in Afghanistan. Boring."
John clenched his left hand, then forced it to relax. Okay, that was rude.
"Boring? You find my traumatic experiences boring?"
"Predictable. Typical."
John breathed through his nose deeply. Now he was starting to understand-
"You now understand why I'm hated, yes?"
That caught John off guard. "I-"
"Don't try to lie to me because it won't work. I can hear the gears of your brain grinding and struggling to form a coherent thought."
Now John was angry. "I'm just trying to help you!"
"And you're failing."
John seriously considered punching the arsehole in the face. He felt his blood boil and his hands shake.
"Before you pop a blood vessel, I suggest you leave," the cold baritone cut through the air.
Before he was about to assault his patient and lose his job, John stomped out of the room, limp and cane forgotten. During that whole exchange, Sherlock had not opened his eyes once. Not even worth his time, John thought bitterly.
John was in no mood for Donovan and Anderson's I-told-you-so's the next day. In fact, he wanted to punch them. He wanted to punch everyone. He hadn't really cooled down at all since the day before.
"John," Lestrade called after him as he was about to leave the cafeteria.
"Yes?"
His boss looked guilty. "I tried to warn you how Sherlock is. He can be…"
"An insufferable sod?"
"Yes."
John sighed. "Listen, I appreciate you seeing worth in me and assigning me to him, but I don't think I could help him. I don't think anyone could help him."
"Are you positive?"
"He didn't even look at me, Lestrade!" John let his anger show.
"Oh, that's not uncommon. He says there isn't any point in looking at the person when he can hear their, and I quote, 'nauseatingly dull thoughts.'"
"Charming," John muttered.
"Give him one more try, John. The other patients tell me how much they like you; maybe you could break Sherlock's shell."
John sighed deeply. "I doubt that, but fine."
When John made it to the top floor, he heard shouting coming from Sherlock's room. He quickened his pace and peeked inside of the room.
"You're just being insensitive, Holmes!" Anderson shouted.
Sherlock's eyes were open in a fierce glower. "Insensitive? You act like what you're doing is right!"
"It's none of your business!"
"Excuse me," John said loudly, grabbing both of their attentions. "What's going on here?"
"Nothing," Anderson said angrily. "Thank god you're here. Lestrade told me to watch over him until you came. I'm out," he left the room and slammed the door behind him.
John looked to Sherlock for an explanation.
"I asked him why he's cheating on his wife with Donovan when his wife is the best woman he is ever going to get," Sherlock said with disgust.
"Anderson and Donovan?" John gaped. "Really?"
"Yes, really," Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Does Donovan know he has a wife?"
"Yes."
John suddenly felt a lot lesser for the coworkers he already disliked. Sherlock smirked, "I see your leg is cured, Doctor."
John had no idea what he was talking about. "What?"
"Your leg. Your limp. Have you even noticed you left your cane here?' To prove his point, Sherlock reached under his bed and held it out to John.
John took it and stared at it dumbly in his hands. He then realized that his leg felt fine. Well shit. "I hadn't noticed," he whispered to himself.
"I know."
"My leg doesn't hurt."
"Right."
"My limp was psychosomatic."
"Evidently."
"It's gone because I had gotten so angry with you."
Sherlock seemed pleased with himself. "Yep."
John stared at him with a dazed expression for a few moments, and then broke down into giggles. Sherlock looked surprised, his light eyes blinking. "What's so funny?" he demanded.
"Nothing," John chuckled. "Just. My limp was cured because of you being an arse. Wow."
Sherlock's lip twitched into somewhat of a grin. "I suppose so."
Now that the dick finally had his eyes open, John found them to be quite lovely, in a strange sort of way. Were they blue? Gray? Green? "I suppose I should thank you."
"There's no need. Sit, Doctor Watson. And before you ask, yes, I know your name."
"How?" he sat down.
"I read your name-tag."
Well, John felt like an idiot. "Oh."
Sherlock perched himself on the edge of his bed. "So, what will you ask me? About my childhood? How people found out I'm a psychic? How I feel?" the words fell harshly from his lips.
"No, no, and no."
Sherlock seemed a little surprised. "Well, what are you going to ask?"
John pondered for a moment. "Why is your room so dreary?"
Sherlock's eyes scanned his room and he shrugged. "It's always been like this. Are other rooms not like this?"
Something was off about that. "Have you not been to other rooms?"
"Only the lavatory and showers. I went to the library a few times, but that was years ago."
"What?" That seemed a little hard to believe. "Why?"
Sherlock pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. "That isn't your concern."
"Well, since knowing things about you is a part of my bloody job, I think it is."
Sherlock huffed and stared at the wall.
"You do realize that we have," John checked his watch, "fifty-two more minutes together. It would go a lot quicker if you just told me."
"Or," Sherlock's lips curled into a grin that reminded John of the Grinch, "I could just sit here and say nothing while you hopelessly try to talk to me."
"And why would you do that?"
Sherlock was silent.
John rolled his eyes. "Are you serious?"
Silence.
"This is childish."
Silence.
"Oh, you're a right piece of work, aren't you?"
Silence followed by the Grinch-like grin widening.
John scowled and, after eighteen minutes of silence, left the room for the day, groaning at the fact that Sherlock won. At least for now.
"That's the most he's ever told anyone," John's coworker, Mary, said.
John liked Mary. She was easy to talk to, kind, and, if he were being honest with himself, pretty.
"It's not like he told me much. He just implied that he doesn't leave his room except for necessity."
"Still!" she insisted. "He never says anything about himself."
John didn't find that hard to believe. "How long has Sherlock been here?"
"Oh, I don't know. He's been here since I started working here. I don't think anyone really knows, to be honest. He is sort of mysterious."
"What about Lestrade? Doesn't he have Sherlock's file or something?"
"I haven't really thought about asking. I don't think Lestrade would tell me, either. He almost seems protective of him."
"I got that vibe from him."
"You know, I like him."
"Who, Lestrade?"
"No, Sherlock," she laughed.
John stared at her in amazement. "You like Sherlock? Have you ever interacted with him?"
"Oh, yeah. I have to give him his yearly vaccinations. Viruses come from outside—us—and they still need to be protected, you know."
"Yeah, I know," John nodded. "I can't imagine he enjoys that."
"He does, actually. He likes to watch the needle go into his skin."
John grimaced. It always freaked him out when patients did that.
"I think," Mary continued, "that's why he tolerates my presence; I give him something interesting to watch."
John thought about this. "He must be bored up there."
"Wouldn't you be?"
"You've got quite a reputation," John said to Sherlock. "It's like you're a legend within this place. Everyone knows your name and has at least one experience with you."
"I've noticed." Sherlock was in the same position as the day before, smiling smugly.
"People warned me to stay away from you."
"I know." Sherlock opened his eyes and turned his head to stare intensely at John. "You should listen to them."
"You think so?"
"Yes, because, John Watson, no matter how much you may think otherwise," his voice lowered dangerously, "you will not get close to me. You will not 'break my shell.' You will fail."
John wasn't very intimidated. "Whatever you say, Sherlock."
That only irritated him.
The next week was a tedious hell. Sherlock was just as unpleasant as the day they met. But now John was interested in Sherlock, not just because he was a challenge, but because, well, he was interesting.
"Why are you still here?" Sherlock demanded about six days after they met. "I insulted you on the first day, so much so that you left angrily."
"I remember that, yes."
"I refused to speak on the second day and you left angrily again."
"Yep."
"I'm an arse to you."
"Correct."
"So, I'll ask you again: why are you still here?" There was legitimate confusion beneath Sherlock's anger and annoyance, John observed.
"Can't you tell?" John smirked.
Sherlock glared. "You're interested in me, yes, but why?"
John shrugged. "You're interesting."
Sherlock eyed him suspiciously and decided not to talk for the rest of the day.
While Sherlock stopped demanding why John was still trying to work with him, he remained difficult and unapproachable for the next few days. Sherlock would briefly talk to John, make some snarky comment about how John was wasting his time, and then shut himself off for the rest of their session. Some days he looked at John, some days he didn't. It depended on the level of darkness in his mood. It was entirely childish. Sherlock would usually smirk during his silent spells, reveling in his temporary victory.
On the twelfth day after their first meeting, Sherlock growled, "Stop coming here."
John was getting sick of this. "Why?"
"You won't get anything out of me because I don't want or need your help," Sherlock's eyes shot daggers into John. "Yes, I spend all of my time in this room. No, I am not bothered by it. Yes, everyone here hates me. No, I do not care about what those dunces think of me. Stop. Coming. Here."
He very much reminded John of a 6 year-old. "You do realize that your efforts to scare me off aren't working, right? You can stop acting like a child and cooperate anytime."
"Idiot," Sherlock muttered and rolled over in the bed so John was facing his back. "You should really be attending to your alcoholic sister instead of me."
"Trying to get me angry again, are we? That's original."
Sherlock flipped over and leaned forward on the edge of the bed, his face a few inches away from John's, and John certainly did not gulp. "You. Repel. Me."
When John walked into the room the next day, Sherlock's first words were, "You really should decline your sister's invitation to dinner. She'll only get drunk on wine and the night will end up with you two arguing, a usual, with nothing solved." He looked proud of himself.
"Are you trying to tell me something I don't know?" John smiled tightly. "Also, nice try, but you haven't offended me enough to stop working with you."
Sherlock grumbled and refused to speak another word.
John was exasperated not deterred. He was determined to crack the mystery that was Sherlock Holmes. He knew that Sherlock could not have started out such an insufferable twat. Or, maybe he did, but he was definitely lying when he said that his situation didn't bother him at all. John knew that much, (also, the arrogant man held a charm that John couldn't quite explain and kept beckoning him back, but he wouldn't admit that).
"I have an idea," John announced two weeks after his and Sherlock's first meeting.
"Oh?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow, his eyes closed that day.
"There are things about me that you don't know, but can't figure out on your own, right? Things that even you can't read because it's far from my mind."
"Yes?" he drawled in a bored tone.
"Then I'll make you a deal: I tell you something about myself, you tell me something about yourself."
"Why would I want to know anything about you?"
"Because you're bored and this is the most excitement you're going to get."
Sherlock scowled. He opened his odd eyes and sat up in the bed. "Is it like quid pro quo?"
"Precisely."
"Isn't that a reference from The Silence of the Lambs?"
"Do you like The Silence of the Lambs?"
Sherlock nodded. "I like a good murder."
"Did you watch the movie or read the book?"
He stared at John with an I-can't-believe-you-just-asked-that look. "How many movies do you think I see?"
"My mistake, so you've read the book."
"I'm allowed to have books sometimes. Usually Lestrade gives them to me." He clapped his hands together. "All right, my turn."
"Wait, I haven't even asked you anything!"
"You asked if I like The Silence of the Lambs. That was a question."
John's lip twitched. "That didn't count!"
"I say it does. Now tell me, John," he made sure to emphasize the use of his first name, "Do you like the violin?"
John looked at him blankly. "What?"
"The violin. Do you like it?"
"Uh, yeah, I guess. Why?"
"I like it, too," he said simply.
John waited for Sherlock to elaborate on why he asked that, but he didn't. What an odd man…
"I heard that."
When John looked back to Sherlock, he was surprised to find his gaze slightly playful. John smiled. "Sorry, but that was a really random question."
"Were you expecting me to ask you a deep personal question?"
"Yes, actually."
"I don't need to."
"Why not?"
Sherlock's eyes lost their humor, his gaze turning unnervingly sharp. "Because I know all of that already."
John shifted in his chair. Well, that was downright uncomfortable.
Sherlock's progress was very slow, but it was definitely there since John made the deal with him. John discovered that the psychic was only truly intrigued by books. "I can't read the minds of fictional people," he explained, "so I love the mystery."
John found that strangely sweet. "What authors do you like?"
"I haven't read too much, but I like anything having to do with horror and/or mystery."
"No fantasy?"
Sherlock made a disgusted face. "Fantasy is childish."
"I like it."
"Not surprising."
John wasn't sure if that were an insult. "You said you can have books sometimes. Do you not have them all the time?"
"Nope."
"Why?"
"Punishment," Sherlock muttered. "I haven't read a book in three months."
"Punishment for what?"
"Tripping Anderson."
John snorted. "Nice." A question had been nagging him for a while now and he figure that now was as good a time as any to ask. "If you can't read, what do you do all day in this room with nothing to do?
Sherlock looked up at the ceiling. "I've got something to occupy my thoughts."
"And what is that?"
Sherlock said nothing for a moment, then said, "Nothing that would interest you."
John went out on a date with Mary. They had a nice time (though John wished they had gone a little further) and agreed to go out again next Saturday.
Sherlock refused to look at or speak to John the next day.
Sherlock was sitting Indian-style when John came in a couple of days later.
"You're late today," he opened an eye and scanned John up and down.
"I am," he said. "Sorry, I just…I wanted to give you something."
Sherlock was fully alert now and saw that John was holding something behind his back.
"You're nervous," Sherlock said.
John just nodded.
Sherlock then looked surprised. "You…got me books?"
"I knew I couldn't hide anything from you," John smiled ruefully, "but yes."
He held out a few books he had picked up downstairs. "I signed them out of the library. I got thing categorized under 'Horror' or 'Mystery,' like you said you liked."
Sherlock took the books and stared at them in his hands with wide eyes. He placed all but one down. He held The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in his hands and ran his long fingers over the cover.
"You didn't have to get me these," Sherlock told him quietly.
"I know. I wanted to. Figured it would occupy you a little."
While it would take him years to admit it, Sherlock was thankful. John could see it from the look on his face. His eyes were still wide and he held the book in his hands like it was a precious gem.
"If you think you'll be in trouble for having them," John said, "say I gave them to you."
But Sherlock wasn't listening anymore. He was on the third page of the book. John, for the first time, felt fondness bloom in his chest. Sherlock once again seemed like a little kid, but not due to his mood and tantrums, but because of his wonder. "I'll just leave you to it, then," John said mostly to himself and he left for the day.
Sherlock had little habits that John was starting to pick up on. He would absentmindedly run his fingers over his full lips when in thought, run his hand through his messy curls when he was tired or grumpy, and curl in on himself when he was about to sulk.
John wasn't getting any more personal information from Sherlock, but they did talk. John would ask about the book Sherlock was reading, he would answer, go on about whatever analysis and theory he concocted of the story, and then he would ask John something. Sherlock always asked the oddest questions like, "Do you take bubble baths?" or, "Why do you have arguments with inanimate objects?"
Another one of Sherlock's quirks was that he, apparently, slept naked. John came in a little earlier one day because he finished his lunch early. When he entered the room, Sherlock picked his head up from his pillow and yawned, his curls a mess. "You're early," he observed in a rough voice.
"I am," he said. "Sorry, is that a problem?"
"I suppose not." When he sat up the sheet fell to reveal his pale chest.
John swallowed. "Er, Sherlock, you're not wearing a shirt."
Sherlock looked thoroughly unimpressed. "And here I thought you were unobservant…"
"All right!" John cut him off. "But, why? Are you even wearing pants?"
"No," he ran a hand through his curls in an attempt to tame them.
"Why not?"
Sherlock shrugged. "I find clothes tedious at times."
John laughed at the utter ridiculousness of it all and Sherlock chuckled lightly after a moment.
John found that he had to tear his gaze away from Sherlock's surprisingly toned chest.
"You're wondering why I have any muscle definition."
John nodded, slightly embarrassed.
"When I'm not reading or thinking, I do pushups. It's better than doing nothing."
"Right," John looked at the wall and cleared his throat. "So, I shouldn't come early, yeah? Wouldn't want to walk in on you undressing or whatever." John hoped he didn't sound as flustered as he felt.
Sherlock simply said, "Oh, don't worry, I wouldn't mind that."
"He's an odd one," John said to Mary, "but absolutely fascinating. I mean, even aside from his power, he's just amazing. He's an arse, but extremely intelligent and pretty funny, too, if you get to know him."
There was a snort behind him. It was Donovan. "You think you know him?"
"Better than you," John glared at her.
One of the janitors decided to rudely step into the conversation. "Sounds like you've got a crush, Watson," he mocked loud enough for half of the room to hear.
John's face turned scarlet. "I…what? No, I'm not gay, firstly, and secondly, that would be entirely unprofessional."
"Oh yeah, did you even hear yourself just now? 'He's just amazing!'" Anderson teased in a voice that was supposed to sound similar to John's (but it really didn't).
Everyone except Mary laughed at him. The burning in John's cheeks intensified. A crush on Sherlock? No.
"You're troubled," Sherlock said immediately when John walked into the room that day.
"It's nothing," he looked down as he shut the door behind him.
"You should know by now that you can't lie to me, John," his voice held a light tease.
John said nothing, knowing anything he said would give him away faster.
"What's wrong, John?"
Can't you tell? John didn't even bother to voice his question; he knew Sherlock could hear.
Sherlock got up from his bed for the first time since John had known him and took a few languid steps toward his doctor. Fuck, he's tall, John thoughtas he looked up to meet Sherlock's sharp gaze. He was at least 5 inches taller. John could feel the heat radiating off Sherlock's lean body. John backed up against the door and tried to close off his thoughts, if that were even possible. They spent a moment staring into each other's eyes, Sherlock searching and John trying not to shudder due to their proximity. John would be lying if he denied being entranced by the mixture of color in his patient's light eyes.
Then, Sherlock looked surprised and he took a few steps back. "You think I'm…amazing?"
John felt the heat of embarrassment rise to his ears, but nodded. "Well, yeah, genius. You're quite extraordinary and not just for your power." There was no use in lying.
Sherlock's pale cheeks donned an adorable shade of pink. "Oh," he said quietly. He sat back down on his bed and stared into space. A little voice in John's head was telling him that Sherlock didn't receive too many compliments.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
No response.
"Don't start sulking now, Sherlock Holmes."
That got his attention. "I do not sulk," he seemed offended by the thought.
"Sure you don't," John smiled good-naturedly.
Sherlock still seemed a little troubled. "You said it's not just my power that you find amazing."
"Which is true."
"I know it is. But, why?" he looked genuinely confused. "Without my power, I am nothing."
Now we're getting somewhere. "Whoever told you that is full of shit, Sherlock."
Sherlock brought his knees up to his chest and rested his head there. John, now sensing a pattern, asked, "Are you done talking for the day?" Sherlock nodded. "All right, I won't push you," he patted him on the shoulder, noting how the muscle tensed beneath his touch.
John nearly skipped down the hallway in glee; he was finally getting somewhere.
The following day was the first time John saw Sherlock nervous. He was fiddling with the hem of his T-shirt. "There was something you did yesterday…"
John tilted his head slightly in confusion. "Yeah? What was it?"
Sherlock stared at the bunched the fabric in his hand. "Yesterday, you patted me on the shoulder."
"Yes, should I not have?" Crap, had Sherlock overstepped his physical boundaries with Sherlock? They hadn't touched beforehand, and he certainly hoped that he hadn't creeped Sherlock out…
Sherlock's head snapped up. "No! I mean, well, it was fine…"
John wasn't really following. "Okay, so you liked me patting your shoulder?"
Sherlock's cheeks were pink. "Forget it."
"No, no, you brought it up…Are you saying that you want me to do it again?"
"No, it's just been a while…"
"Since what?"
"Since anyone's touched me aside from medical purposes."
Oh, fuck.
"Sherlock," John's sympathetic tone made Sherlock scowl, "how long?"
"Oh, I don't know. Years. I've lost count," he said in forced nonchalance.
John understood his silent question, "Hey, I don't mind doing it again."
Sherlock stared back at John with widened eyes, then hesitantly nodded. "Do not speak a word of this to anyone," he added sharply.
"Why would I? What happens in this room stays in this room. Isn't very professional of me to talk about what we say and do, is it?"
"That doesn't stop everyone," Sherlock muttered.
John had to admit that the situation was a bit awkward. Actually, more than a bit, but that wasn't going to faze him much. Sherlock was beginning to open up to him. He couldn't throw it all away just because of a little awkward physical contact. He walked over to Sherlock and they stared at each other. He didn't know what to do for a few moments, but settled on clasping his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and rubbing small circles into the fabric of the T-shirt with his thumb.
And Sherlock, being so unaccustomed to the touch of another human being, felt as if he were going to melt like butter. The reaction was unexpected in a not entirely unpleasant way. He let out a sigh and relished in the warmth and comfort that was John Watson. He rested his head on John's stomach, the beige jumper soft against his cheek.
John was silently praying that no one was planning to come in. That would be difficult to explain: well, you see, Sherlock is just so starved of physical contact that I, his doctor, decided to give it to him.
"John," Sherlock spoke softly, "stop worrying."
"Can you blame me?"
"I suppose not. Just—don't stop yet."
In the past, John had dealt with melancholy psychics, but this was downright heartbreaking, even though Sherlock was trying his best to make John not feel sorry for him. John was resisting the urge to feel those messy curls between his fingers.
"I hear you feeling sorry for me," Sherlock sounded slightly offended.
John only apologized and didn't let go.
There was a sharp knock at the door which caused the men to quickly jump away from each other.
Mrs. Hudson, one of the cooks, entered with a tray of food. "Oh, sorry, dears," she gave the tray to Sherlock, "I didn't know you would still be in here, John."
John liked Mrs. Hudson. She gave food to all of the patients and often shared pastries with the doctors. Her scones were always delicious and she was like a motherly figure to everyone in the facility. She also had a soft spot for Sherlock.
Sherlock smiled warmly, "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."
When Mrs. Hudson left, John turned to Sherlock, "You're an arse to everyone in this bloody place, but you're polite to Mrs. Hudson?"
"Of course, she's one of the only people I tolerate here." They locked eyes and then broke into giggles, Sherlock's rich voice resonating in the small room. John wished he could hear that laughter more often.
"I'm going to go for today," John told him. "Stay out of trouble."
Sherlock, looking genuinely happy, said, "Of course, John."
The touching didn't stop there. John would make sure to touch Sherlock at least once before he left for the next few days (Sherlock was secretly appreciative every time). He would fondly pat him on the back or shoulder, not wanting to do anything else in fear of crossing some boundary and making Sherlock snap on him.
Shortly after the touching began, John decided to call things off with Mary. It wasn't fair to her, really, when he was imagining kissing cupid's bow lips while with her.
Ah, yes. That was another thing. John was becoming more and more attracted to his patient by the minute. Not a very professional thing, you see. He could not help but be hypnotized by Sherlock's eyes (which were now always opened and staring at him), how enticing his curls were for his eager fingers, his inviting, pink lips…
Of course, hiding these thoughts from Sherlock was becoming increasingly difficult. Whenever any of this popped into John's head, he immediately squashed them. He was surprised that it was working. If Sherlock noticed his inappropriate thoughts, he didn't say.
Mary smiled sadly when John broke up with her and said, "I understand, John. It's obvious your heart is somewhere else."
He bit his lip. "Am I that obvious?"
"Only to me," she smiled a tad wider, "because I think I know your type." Her smile took on a more devious quality. "There is something rather dangerous about him, isn't there?"
Before John could form a coherent response, Mary had walked away and was talking to someone else as if nothing happened.
John was getting a nickname around the facility: The Tamer. According to the others that had to deal with Sherlock, he was becoming increasingly tolerable, which could only be attributed to the influence of the kind doctor. Or, that's what everyone said. John wasn't so sure. One of the idiots, Dimmock, said that John had "tamed the beast", and everyone seemed to think that was the funniest thing in the world and laughed about it for days. Thus, John became The Tamer. Not the most creative of names, John thought.
Sherlock commented on the new nickname. "Uncreative and juvenile. Have they really nothing better to do than sit around and create nicknames?"
"I guess not," John smirked. "Though, you are much more pleasant than when I first started visiting you."
Sherlock hummed and in a voice that dripped like dark chocolate asked, "Am I now pleasing you, Doctor?"
That was an awful choice of wording. The word "pleasing" combined with the voice made out of sex and his recently growing feelings invoked an image in John's head of Sherlock's perfect lips around his cock. Shit.
Sherlock sat up. "What are you thinking?"
Fuckfuckfuckfuckityfuck. "You tell me." He tried to keep his voice calm.
"Something sexual. I can't tell what. You're suppressing it. Why is it working?"
"I dunno. Perhaps you're losing your touch."
Sherlock growled and leapt from the bed to stand over John, placing his hands on the armrests of the wooden chair and bending down so closely that their noses were barely brushing. "This isn't the first time your mind has wandered like this," he accused in a low voice.
John gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing.
Sherlock continued, "You think such filthy thoughts sometimes. You immediately suppress, effectively disabling me to see who it is you're thinking about. Who is it? Mary Morstan?"
The proximity and heat of Sherlock's breath on John's face shot straight to his cock. John nearly shivered. "Mary?" he managed to ask.
"You get on with her, don't you? No…you've decided to remain friends..." He squinted. "Stop making your mind blank. I'm trying to figure out why."
"How do you know about Mary?"
"Irrelevant," Sherlock dismissed. "Tell me, John," he said with a twinge of bitterness, "who is it that stimulates you?"
"You really don't want to know."
"I do."
"Why does it matter?"
"It just does." His eyes grew darker. "The wall you've built is crumbling, John. I'm going to find out as soon as your thoughts slip."
Seeing that the stubborn jackass was not about to relent, John's brain frantically searched for a way out his predicament.
Sherlock, of course, immediately picked up on it. "Don't try to distract-!"
Sherlock's words were cut off when John abruptly stood up and pulled him into his arms. John felt Sherlock freeze. He forced his mind to go blank. He thought of a peaceful meadow with rabbits hopping along.
They stood there in the gray room for what felt like an eternity, the only sounds coming from outside of the room were distant footsteps.
"Really, John?" Sherlock laughed weakly—bitterly—after a moment. "Using my lack of human contact to your advantage to distract me? I thought you were better than that."
John took a deep breath, "You must be able to tell that isn't the only reason I'm doing this."
After a pregnant pause, Sherlock observed, "A part of you genuinely wanted to do this."
John nodded.
After a beat or two of silence, Sherlock sagged in the embrace and wrapped his arms around John, resting his forehead on his shoulder. John nearly jumped out of his skin. John couldn't believe just how warm he was; he felt like a bloody heater.
He felt lips brush the shell of his ear. "You want to...touch me in this way," Sherlock sounded a little dazed.
That was one of the most awkwardly-phrased sentences John had ever heard.
"Mhm."
Sherlock was slightly tense in is arms. "You're always asking me questions…Know how long it's been since someone has done this?"
"How long?"
Arms tightened around him. "Fifteen years."
"Sherlock!" John pulled back enough to see his face. "You can't be serious!"
The look on Sherlock's face said it all: there was no way in hell that he was joking. "Tell me about it, Sherlock. Please," he insisted when Sherlock averted his gaze, "do you trust me?"
Sherlock looked back to him. "More than anyone. I don't know why, but I do."
"Then tell me."
Sherlock was silent for a few moments. He lowered his head back onto John's shoulder and said, "My mother is a psychic, as is my older brother, Mycroft. She taught my brother and me from a young age to hide our powers. She never wanted us to end up here, understandably."
"Was your father a psychic?" asked John.
Sherlock shook his head against John's shoulder. "No, but he sees nothing wrong with us. I was able to keep it all hidden until I was thirteen."
"What happened then?"
He felt Sherlock's fingers curl into fists and he spoke quickly.
"There was a boy at my school, James Moriarty. He was a psychic, too, and saw right through me. He wanted me to join him in ganging up on other kids we disliked. I didn't want to. His thoughts were far too…sinister for my taste. He told the teacher about my power. They brought me to the principal's office and questioned me. I denied it, but I slipped and told the principal that he shouldn't take out his frustrations regarding his suppressed homosexual desires on his students."
John chuckled at that, which vibrated pleasantly through Sherlock.
Sherlock smiled a little and said, "It was that small mistake that brought me here. I was allowed to hug my parents goodbye. They cried."
"What about your brother?"
Sherlock laughed sourly. "He didn't even want to look at me. He thought I was an idiot for slipping. I suppose he started to feel guilt for not saying goodbye, however, because he occasionally sends me letters."
"You get letters?"
"They're under my bed. It's the only connection I have to the outside world."
"Do you send any back?"
"Sometimes."
Something seemed off about Sherlock's story. "That boy, Moriarty? Why wasn't he ever found out?"
"He never slipped. I tried to tell the principal about his abilities, but after my accusation, he wouldn't listen to me."
John squeezed Sherlock tightly. "You do realize that's the saddest story I've ever heard?"
"Yes, I heard it before you spoke."
"Then you know what I say is sincere."
"Yes," Sherlock's voice softened, "you're always very sincere. However, there's no need to feel sad. I got over it years ago. "
John thought he was going to have a heart attack when Sherlock shifted to fucking inhale his scent and give a contented "hmmm." John was confident Sherlock could feel his heart hammering wildly. He had to know what he was doing, right?
The alarm on John's watch beeped to signal the end of his shift. Sherlock frowned and broke the embrace. "You'll be going, then."
"Yes," John cleared his throat awkwardly.
Sherlock looked a little flushed. "John, you won't tell anyone about my mother being a psychic, will you? I don't care if you tell others about my brother. Actually, I do. I don't want him here with me."
John chuckled, "Of course not."
Sherlock averted his gaze. "What you did for me, that was…good."
"Uh," John cleared his throat again, "yeah. Anytime, Sherlock."
That night, John had his first wet dream of Sherlock Holmes.
Donovan and Anderson had been eyeing John suspiciously for a little while now. John ignored it until Donovan approached him. "You've been spending a lot of time with the psycho."
"You mean Sherlock? Yes, he is my patient, so I should be spending time with him. It happens to be my job."
"No one's ever spent this much time with him," Anderson said. "He's driven everyone away within a week. You've been with him for, what, three months?"
"Yeah, so? He finds my company tolerable, I guess," John began to walk away.
"Oh, I think he finds you more than tolerable," he heard Donovan say.
John knew he shouldn't have engaged with her, but curiosity got the better of him. "What are you talking about?"
"Nothing," she smirked, "except that yesterday when I went to his room, he referred to you as my John."
A few days later, John started to fidget in the old, rigid wooden chair in the middle of Sherlock's room.
Sherlock noticed this. "Chair hurting your back?"
John nodded and groaned a little when he sat up to stretch. "That thing has got to be at least twenty years old," he complained. "Christ, I feel like an old man."
"You can sit here if you want," Sherlock offered meekly.
John saw the tips of his ears turning pink. "You're asking if I want to join you?"
"Forget it," Sherlock rolled over to sulk.
"No! I mean, uh, I would like that. My back hurts and, yeah."
Sherlock slowly sat up. "Well, don't just stand there. Sit before I change my mind."
John awkwardly sat on the bed. It was softer than he expected.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It will do nothing for your back if you don't lie down."
"Oof!" In an instant John found himself on his back with Sherlock hovering over him. Sherlock didn't seem to find anything awkward with the situation. "Back better?" he asked.
"Uh, yeah."
"Good."
Sherlock then began to talk about pirates as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. John couldn't help but smile.
John and Sherlock were lying side by side on the bed and staring up at the ceiling, only their sides touching. They hadn't talked in about ten minutes. John was hoping that Sherlock was enjoying the closeness, though he was the one who suggested it.
John broke the comfortable silence. "Sherlock?"
"Hm?"
"I understand that your powers are the greatest here, but why can't you leave your room? You're not dangerous."
Sherlock smirked. "That's not what people think. When I first got here, I was so bored that I performed experiments in the kitchen after everyone went to bed. One turned out to be…explosive."
"Seriously?" John gaped.
"Seriously."
"Still," John's brows furrowed, "that's not enough to send you to your room for life, is it?"
"No, you're right. There's more."
"Well," John propped his head up and stared down at Sherlock, "I'm listening."
Sherlock's gaze didn't leave the ceiling, but he did speak. "Do you know of a patient by the name of Victor Trevor?"
"I've never had to treat him, but yeah. I hear nothing but good things about him."
Sherlock's hands momentarily clenched into fists. "That doesn't surprise me. He acts so politely that everyone treats him like a king. It helps, of course, that his family is loaded and pays boatloads to this place to make sure he is comfortable. Arguably, this place would not be as nice as it is if it weren't for him."
"Really?"
"Yes. You don't think the government pays much for this place, do you?"
John supposed not.
Sherlock's eyes darkened. "Trevor is my nemesis."
"That seems a little dramatic, Sherlock…"
"Well, it's true!" he snapped. "Are you going to let me tell you the story or not?"
"You're right, I'm sorry. Continue."
Sherlock took a deep breath. "He was the only patient I found to be tolerable. His power and intelligence does not match mine, but is better than most. He wasn't dull. We talked. We got sort of close."
"What happened between you two, then?"
Sherlock bit his lower lip, "He wanted to be…more than friends."
"Did you not want to?"
"I wasn't sure," he admitted. "I told him that I would give it a try. I wanted to experiment."
John couldn't suppress a twinge of jealousy.
"But after a little while, I decided that it wasn't for me."
"Why not?"
He fidgeted a bit on the mattress. "It was too distracting, the sensations. I felt like I was losing control and that was unacceptable. He didn't take no for an answer. Things got ugly after that. I can hear you worrying."
"You seem so nonchalant about it," John couldn't keep the anger out of his voice. "That bastard."
Sherlock shrugged. "Anyway, he tried to touch me again and I refused. He didn't rape me, if that's what's worrying you. He got violent and told everyone I fell down a flight of stairs."
"No idiot would believe that."
"You'd be surprised."
"Wait, seriously?"
"I was already disliked, remember. Those who didn't believe him didn't care enough to do anything about it. I wasn't horribly injured."
"How injured were you?"
Sherlock rolled over to face the wall. "A black eye, split lip, few bruises, nothing major."
John's fists were shaking with anger.
"But he wasn't finished," he said. "As an act of revenge, he went to the boss at that time—it wasn't Lestrade—and complained that it was I who tried to molest him."
John felt like his gut was in knots.
"He also said," Sherlock's voice had a smidgen of hatred, "that if I were not locked away, his family would stop funding this place. You can figure out the rest."
John's whole body was shaking. That was the reason why Sherlock had to be locked away like he was a monster. All because of a rich, horny prick. If he ever encountered the man who attempted to harm this beautiful man—
Sherlock sat up and looked down at John with eyes the size of dinner plates.
John propped himself up on his elbows. "What is it? What's wrong?"
Sherlock swallowed and his breathing quickened. "You…" He blinked rapidly. "You think," he swallowed again.
John was totally lost.
"You think I'm….beautiful?"
FUCK. Fuck. Shit. Why, out of all thoughts John had been thinking, did Sherlock have to hear that? Though, considering the more inappropriate thoughts that floated through John's mind over the past three and a half months, it could have been a lot worse.
Since it was understood that there was no use lying, John said, "I do," with a curt nod.
Sherlock looked like he was either about to faint or dart to the door. Instead, he said, "I've always considered myself rather attractive-"
"You're correct then, you conceited arse."
Sherlock pursed his lips. "However, many words have been used by others to describe me, but never that one."
John frowned. "I've guessed as much."
Sherlock got up from the bed and began to pace the room with his hands behind his back. Seeing Sherlock out of bed wasn't a common sight. His limbs were so long a graceful.
Sherlock's head snapped back to John. "I heard that."
John was sure his heart was about to leap out of his throat. "No point in hiding it now," he scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably.
"I don't understand," Sherlock moved about the room like an animal in a cage. "Why? Why me? Why not Mary? She isn't dull. She's interesting and attractive by societal standards and…"
John sat up, "And?"
Sherlock stopped, his back facing John. "A suitable mate in every sense. Wait," he turned back to John, "you stopped going out with her because…because of me?"
John sighed heavily. "Yes."
"When you were kissing her…" He swallowed. "Oh…"
John wanted to die right then and there. "Sherlock, I'm sorry. I really am. I never wanted you to find out about my, er, feelings."
"All of those times you were thinking of something dirty…"
"Yes."
"It was…"
"Yes."
"Me?"
"Yes, Sherlock!"
Sherlock turned around again to face the door.
"Look," John got up from the bed, "I'm sorry, I really am, but I can't help how I feel. However," he cleared his throat, "I still want to be your doctor, if you want me to. We're friends, aren't we, and I don't want to ruin that because of my feelings." Hell, this was humiliating.
Sherlock was silent for a long moment. The hands behind his back unfolded and his arms fell by his sides. "I just want to know why you're interested."
No going back now. "Because you're incredible. Your power intimidates me, amazes me, fascinates me. You may be a dick sometimes—scratch that, a lot of times—but there's more to you. I know there is. I've seen it. You're charming and funny and, God, I can't even begin to describe how handsome you are."
John was sure that his entire face was the color of blood red roses. It felt like someone lit his cheeks and neck on fire. He hadn't felt this humiliated when admitting his feelings since adolescence.
"All of what you said is true to you," Sherlock said quietly.
"I wouldn't lie to you."
"I know that."
They stood in unbearable silence.
John cleared his throat. "I suppose I should go…"
"John," Sherlock sounded desperate, "no. I…I don't know how…how to do this sort of thing, but I think I want to."
"What sort of thing?"
He saw Sherlock's back rise and fall with a deep breath. "Return sentiment and engage in romantic interactions."
Romantic…oh! Oh! "Sher-?"
"Yes, I feel the same," Sherlock grumbled. "Happy now?"
A wonderful explosion of shock and glee exploded in John's chest. His heart hammering in his chest was now a pleasant sensation. He hesitantly stepped forward. "May I touch you?'
Sherlock nodded curtly.
John gently wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist.
Sherlock tensed and let out a quivering breath.
John stood on his toes to reach his ear, "Do you want this, Sherlock?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I am!"
John chuckled. "All right, all right. Quid pro quo, Sherlock."
"Hm?"
"You just told me not five minutes ago that you didn't like being in a relationship, that the sensations were overwhelming. How would I be any different?"
John could see a red tinge to Sherlock's cheekbones. "You're just John."
John was about to say that that didn't make any sense when Sherlock spoke again, "You're the first person to treat me like a human being in years. You're patient, kind, understanding, and overall the best man I've ever had to pleasure to know." He grinned. "Plus, you're not too bad on the eyes."
John laughed.
"I may be hesitant with some physical aspects of our arrangement," Sherlock admitted.
"That's fine," John said and squeezed him tighter. "I'm not totally confident, either, with you being the first bloke I've ever had. You know, I got the impression that you hated me for months, but what you just told me goes against that."
"I lashed out because I didn't want anyone to get close to me. You're an exception."
"Well, as long as it's all sorted out in that brain of yours now. Thank you, Sherlock, for what you said about me. That was very nice."
"I wasn't being nice," he corrected, "just truthful."
How sweet.
Sherlock elbowed him in the ribs not hard enough to hurt. "I am not sweet!"
"Anything you say, Sherlock," he murmured and placed a chaste kiss to the back of the long, pale neck, right below the curl at his nape.
Sherlock inhaled sharply through his nose. "John…"
"You haven't really done much in this area, have you?"
Sherlock shook his head.
"How much have you done?"
Sherlock finally turned around in the embrace to face him. "Some kissing, a little bit of stroking. He made me orgasm once with his hand. That's about it," he looked everywhere but John's eyes.
"It's all fine," John assured. "I just wanted to know."
Sherlock's light eyes had no traces of their usual severity. He was open, vulnerable, and a tiny bit frightened. John gently cupped his cheek. Sherlock's face was warm. "Is this okay?"
Sherlock nodded.
A knock on the door followed by a "yoo-hoo!" made the two jump apart. It was Mrs. Hudson with a tray of food.
"You're still here, John?" she set the tray down on Sherlock's bedside table.
"Yeah," he looked at his watch, "my shift ends in two minutes, actually."
"Then I'll leave you two for your last two minutes." She pointed a finger at Sherlock. "I expect you to eat that dinner, young man." She stared at him for a moment, then reached up and rested the back of her hand against Sherlock's forehead. "Are you getting sick, dear? Your face is all flushed and you seem a little warm."
John held his hand over his mouth to muffle his giggles.
"I'm sure Nurse Morstan will take care of you. Want me to call her, Sherlock?"
Sherlock glared. "I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you."
"Eat and get some rest." Before she left, she turned to John, "You better take care of him. I swear, for such a smart man he sure neglects his health."
"I'll take care of him just fine, Mrs. Hudson," he grinned.
Sherlock looked like he wanted to murder him.
"Good," she beamed and left the room.
John nodded to the tray of food. "You heard her. Eat."
Sherlock grumbled and stuffed a spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth.
John's alarm on his watch beeped. "That's my cue, then."
Sherlock made a noncommittal noise.
John took a long stride forward, dropped a kiss onto Sherlock's curls and stepped back, grinning. "See you tomorrow."
It took all of his strength not to burst into laughter at the sight of Sherlock's shocked face, his mouth hanging open (still filled with potatoes) and eyes wide.
"I think he's broken," Mrs. Hudson commented to John the next day.
"Broken? Who?"
"Sherlock! I went to bring him his breakfast this morning and he was just staring into space. I don't think he even noticed I came in. His dinner only had a scoop of mashed potatoes missing, too."
"Well, that's not too uncommon," he said.
"Oh, but it's not just that, love. It was the look on his face. Usually he looks so thoughtful when he's in a trance like that. But today, well, he looked surprised about something."
John fought his smirk. "Did you try to get his attention?"
"Of course." He waved her hands in an exasperated manner. "Nothing."
John opened the door to Sherlock's room to be met with a sight that exactly fit Mrs. Hudson's description.
"Afternoon," John greeted and shut the door behind him.
Sherlock blinked. "John," he sounded startled. "Why are you back?"
John raised an eyebrow. "I always come at 1:15 in the afternoon."
"Impossible. You just left."
"No, I was gone for the whole rest of the day and this morning."
Sherlock noticed the breakfast tray next to him, untouched. "Ah. That seems to be the case."
"Did you just sit there the whole time I was gone?"
"Evidently. I was thinking. I suppose I got lost in my thoughts."
"For over twenty hours?"
"It happens."
John laughed. "You're a madman, you know that?"
Sherlock grinned.
John pointed to the tray. "Eat."
"I ate yesterday."
"Yeah, a spoonful of mashed potatoes. That's not enough."
Sherlock pouted, his full lower lip protruding, then gave in and started to nibble on the toast given to him.
John sat on the bed next to Sherlock. He felt like a nervous teenager again. Should he attempt to touch Sherlock? To mention what happened between them? Would Sherlock want to talk about it?
"Stop thinking so loudly," Sherlock grumbled through bites of toast. "I suppose we should talk about it, yes? That's what people do, isn't it?"
"They do," John agreed. "Considering our situation, I think talking about it is pretty important."
"Our situation?"
"That I'm your doctor and you're my patient."
"Oh. Right. That can be problematic."
"That's an understatement."
Sherlock finished his toast and folded his legs up on the bed. "We've been in questionable positions before and nothing happened."
"That doesn't mean anything."
Sherlock sighed. "We can hear if someone is about to open the door. Also, I can hear the thoughts of people walking down the hallway."
"Wait, really?"
Sherlock nodded. "I can hear everyone's thoughts from everywhere in the building, John."
"Don't you get sick of it?"
"It has its advantages, but gives me headaches constantly. I can hear dreams, too, so I don't get much relief unless I'm asleep."
John frowned. "Is your head hurting now?"
"Yep," his lips popped around the 'p' sound.
"Wait, if you can hear everyone, why didn't you warn me that Mrs. Hudson was about to come in yesterday?"
"I was distracted. I didn't hear her thoughts in time."
"Oh yeah?" John grinned cheekily. "Why were you distracted?"
Sherlock crossed his arms, "Don't tease, John."
"It's all with good humor, Sherlock," he placed his hand on Sherlock's knee. "Do you mind?" his eyes darted to his hand.
"I don't mind," Sherlock said, although his lips tightened when John gave his knee a light squeeze.
"In this scenario," his voice lowered, "I don't trust your brain. We need to lock the door somehow."
"Use the chair," said Sherlock slightly breathlessly.
John got up and wedged the wooden chair under the doorknob as a makeshift lock (the patients' doors could only be locked from the outside and were locked by the staff at night).
John sat back on the bed across from Sherlock. "I don't want you to be overwhelmed."
"I trust you."
John leaned forward and stopped a few centimeters away from Sherlock's lips. "What do you want me to do, Sherlock?"
Sherlock hated feeling so uncertain, so vulnerable that a part of him wanted to push John away and hide in his sheet. But this was John. He couldn't do that to John, especially when he wanted him so badly…
"Kiss me," he said suddenly.
John smiled nervously and licked his lips. "All right."
He gently grasped the back of Sherlock's neck with his right hand. They looked into each other's eyes for a moment, anxious, and John brushed their lips together, no pressure and barely there. He heard Sherlock inhale deeply. John kept his lips still, waiting for Sherlock to take the lead. Then, Sherlock fully pressed his lips against John's. John sighed when he discovered that the delectable cupid's-bow were as soft as rose petals.
He deepened the kiss and clasped his left hand with Sherlock's. He gently ran over Sherlock's knuckles with his thumb and Sherlock made a tiny happy noise. His lips were soft and deliciously full and god, John found himself getting lost in them.
They briefly parted for air and molded their lips together again. They spent a few moments familiarizing the touch of each other's mouths before John gently sucked Sherlock's plump bottom lip. He felt Sherlock shudder and grab his forearms. John broke the kiss and rested his forehead against Sherlock's.
"Did you like that?"
Sherlock's eyes were unfocused and his lips were delightfully pink. John wanted to take a picture.
"That was nice," Sherlock said dazedly. "My mind was blank."
"Is that a good thing?"
"Very."
John smiled. "I feel a bit smug. I, John Watson, managed to make Sherlock Holmes' brilliant mind blank. I feel like I should get a trophy for that."
Sherlock lightly smacked John's bicep. "Shut up." He tugged on John's sleeve. "Again."
John was happy to comply. Sherlock moved his hand to John's graying blond hair and tugged lightly. John suppressed a moan and Sherlock tilted his head in an attempt to deepen the kiss.
John lightly nibbled on Sherlock's bottom lip and moved his hand to his hair, finally petting the soft curls and mimicking Sherlock's earlier action by tugging at the curls by his nape. Sherlock made a small groan which shot straight to John's cock. Keep it together, John.
The tip of Sherlock's tongue, to John's surprise, gently traced his upper lip. John allowed entrance immediately. Sherlock only explored John's mouth briefly due to lack of expertise and when they pulled apart, he sat back on his heels and had a goofy smile on his face.
"What?" John smiled, too.
"I like kissing you."
"You don't feel overwhelmed?"
"Only a little. I like the blankness."
"Do you not hear other thoughts when I'm kissing you?"
"Surprisingly, no." He frowned slightly. "It's coming back already."
"Come here," John held his arms out.
Sherlock looked unsure of himself, but crawled into John's lap all the same and rested his head in the crook of John's neck.
John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's back and used his left hand to pet the dark chocolate curls.
"Not sure if this will help you," John admitted, "but I guess it can't hurt."
Sherlock made a low, rumbling sound in his throat and nuzzled John's neck.
"I feel like a teenager," John said, "kissing in secrecy."
"What, with Sarah Sawyer?"
John rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes. I won't ask how you know that. Shall I tell you the story or do you know it all already?"
"Tell me."
"We were around sixteen and she was my girlfriend. She was pretty. We were in her bedroom and I wasn't going to take it any further than kissing, mind you, but her dad caught us and I was never allowed to see her again."
"You were quite fond of her."
John could have sworn that there was a hint of jealousy in his voice. "I was. But, I mean, I haven't seen her in around fifteen years. Any feelings I had disappeared a while ago."
That seemed to make Sherlock feel better. "Are you bisexual?"
"I suppose. Well, I don't know. I always liked girls before. Does it matter?"
"Not at all."
"What are you, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Disinterested."
John didn't follow. "Asexual?"
"Not exactly. I've always found men more physically appealing, but I never considered acting on my low libido until Trevor." He smiled. "You're jealous that he got to kiss me before you."
"Shut up, Sherlock," John rolled his eyes and kissed him.
Drama in the next chapter (not too much, though). So, yeah.
Please continue to the second half of this story!