Originally published on Tumblr on 6/3/2016.
It should have been awkward.
After years of 'married to my work', and 'love is a chemical defect found on the losing side', and 'we're not a couple', and 'I'm not gay'; after (faked) suicide, and (real) grief, and torture, and marriage, it should have been awkward.
Surrounded by sirens and the shouting of Met officers and SIS forces securing the scene in the aftermath of a showdown that had left them injured and bleeding, each applying pressure to the other's wounds, a consulting criminal and an assassin dead behind them, it should have been awkward.
Sherlock knelt at John's side, keeping firm pressure on the gunshot wound to John's leg with his right hand while his left arm curled around John's shoulders, pulling him close enough for Sherlock to bury his nose in John's hair. John kept his left hand clamped tightly over the jagged knife wound in Sherlock's bicep, his right arm snaked around Sherlock's waist, thumb rubbing lightly back and forth over Sherlock's hip.
John shifted slightly, lifting his head away from Sherlock's shoulder and running his nose lightly up Sherlock's neck. Sherlock pulled back just enough to curl forward and down, until his forehead rested against John's.
"Yeah?" John asked.
"Yes."
The brief, barely-there touch of lips was heavy with reassurance, with acknowledgment, with confirmation. With promise.
As other hands came between them, separating them for statements and medical attention, it should have been awkward.
It wasn't.
It was as natural as breathing.