The Brown Journal
John found the little brown journal on a laundry day. He was down in the basement, turning out pockets before loading clothing into the washing machine, when he came upon it. John had managed to sneak away Sherlock's trench-coat to be cleaned, and it was there that he found the journal, tucked carefully away in the smallest inside pocket. Being the curious bloke that he was, and considering there to be almost no secrets between him and his flat-mate by this point, John opened the journal for a quick look-see.
The first entry read as follows:
TOS: November 23, 2010, 12:03 p.m.
COS: Incest
The book was filled with similar entries, written in Sherlock's elegant script, with ascending dates and various 'COS's. John flipped through the pages, impressed with the quantity of entries. They all seemed to have been recorded within the last six months. He came to the last page, which held yesterday's date and Muffins as the 'COS'. John leaned against the washing machine, thinking.
What had happened yesterday? That really minor case that had taken them less than 3 hours. Then he and Sherlock had come back to the flat and John had made a valiant yet futile attempt at muffin making, and Sherlock had been so taken by the doctor's effort that they had gone straight up to John's room and-
"Oh no." John muttered. He flipped back to the first page, feeling his face growing hot.
It had been almost exactly 6 months. That's why John had tried to make the muffins.
John abandoned the laundry to vault up the stairs to the flat, to the room that Sherlock and he now shared, to fling open the door and confront the groggy detective.
"Sherlock!" John bellowed. Sherlock glared at the doctor from over the top of the blankets.
"What, John, can't you see that-"
John held up the journal with a quizzical tilt of his head. Sherlock was completely still and silent for almost an entire moment before he leapt out of bed in an explosion of blankets, to rush to John's side and attempt to wrestle the brown book out of John's hands. John held the journal out of Sherlock's reach with one hand, using his other to combat the detective's desperate retrieval attempts.
"You are keeping a journal of our sexual encounters!" John yelled. Sherlock stopped his struggles to adjust his ruffled shirt and regain composure.
"If this bothers you, then I can't imagine what you'd think of the spread sheet. It's much more detailed."
"Sherlock!"
Sherlock turned an icy glare on John. The detective was blushing.
"I am a scientist, John; observation, documentation, it's what I do."
John ran a hand over his face. He couldn't laugh. Sherlock would not learn a lesson if John got a case of the giggles.
"The logs help me remember exactly what happens." Sherlock said to the wall. John couldn't help himself. He smiled.
"You can't just enjoy the experience while it's going on?" he asked. Sherlock fixed him with a serious turquoise-eyed stare.
"You know I can't."
John sighed and held out the journal, which Sherlock demurely took.
"It's a lot for just six months." John laughed. "What are the abbreviations?"
"Time and cause of sex." Sherlock said quietly. John exploded into laughter, resting his head on his partner's shoulder and shaking with amusement.
"Oh, God, Sherlock." He managed. Sherlock had wrapped his arms around John and buried his flushed face in the doctor's sandy hair.
"How in the world was our first time caused by incest?"
Sherlock smiled and kissed John lightly on the neck.
"Don't you remember?"
John nuzzled Sherlock's hair.
"Remind me."
It began with a murder case (don't all these stories), a particularly challenging case that rendered Sherlock temporarily baffled and John especially sleep deprived. Like most cases, Sherlock's final deduction was triggered by a strange seemingly unrelated detail; in this case a children's book featuring a falcon with a cap on its head.
After seeing this book in a shop window, Sherlock froze on the street for several seconds before exploding into action. John could barely keep up as the detective raced down the particular street of London they were on and burst into the museum where the murder had occurred. The current feature was a super-sized human body exhibit, and Sherlock managed to burst in just as an interactive display on lactation ended.
"It was the brother!" he cried triumphantly. Museum patrons responded with blank and wary stares.
"Oh, but he was clever!" Sherlock rubbed his hands together as the murder played out, frame by frame in that glorious mind of his.
"He had us so preoccupied with his brother and mother's disturbing relationship that we never even thought to consider the sister!"
John was as lost as the bystanders. He had phoned Lestrade on their mad dash over to the museum, and the inspector had arrived at the scene shortly after the doctor. He had heard enough of Sherlock's rambling to understand what the detective had figured out, and was already dialing Donovan to arrest the siblings in question.
Lestrade met Sherlock and John over by the tunnel of human digestion.
"Appreciate it, boys," he said "Good work. I'm grateful that you toned down the vigilante justice approach this time. Last week was a disaster."
He eyed Sherlock reproachfully.
"Arrests just aren't quite as effective without police."
John smiled and nodded while Sherlock studied his phone in a bored way.
"Museum closes in 10." Lestrade called back as he walked away.
"We should go, then, Sherlock." John said. Sherlock ignored him.
The detective wandered deeper into the digestion tunnel, claiming to be curious about a secretory gland farther within the tract. John followed loyally. After several more moments he glanced at his watch.
"Sherlock, five minutes," he announced. Suddenly, the detective turned back to face the doctor, tail coats twirling dramatically.
"Sherlock?"
"John, there is no secretory gland in this region of the digestive system." Sherlock announced. John knitted his brow.
"What?"
Sherlock was at John's side in a single stride, clasping the doctor's chin gently in his hands.
"Sherlock?" John's voice was much softer.
"John."
This was the closest thing to a mating display that John would ever receive from the detective. Inspired, John slammed Sherlock against the wall (it hurt a little, but Sherlock didn't really mind much), and kissed the man with all the emotion of the moment and with all the energy that had been building for months in the form of sexual tension. When they parted, both men were bright faced and breathless. Sherlock's hands were already at John's waist, deftly unfastening his belt, undoing his trousers.
John caught Sherlock's hands, and looked at the detective closely.
"Are you sure that we're doing the right thing? Is this really what you want, Sherlock?" John tried to still his breath and ignore the growing sensation in his lower torso.
"I don't want this to be an impulse decision that you end up regretting."
Sherlock pulled John into another kiss; a slower one with less desperation but even more desire. Sherlock ran his tongue curiously along the inner rim of John's teeth, and John unconsciously pressed himself even closer to the detective. He wondered idly what doing it in the butt would be like with Sherlock Holmes. Probably mind- blowing. Sherlock drew away and chuckled, almost seeming to read the other man's thoughts.
"I don't do anything that I don't want to, John." He said.
And so, that evening, deep within a whale sized exhibit of the human digestive tract, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson shared a passionate exchange of fluids. It was a progression of events that neither of them had anticipated experiencing that night, but wouldn't have traded for the world. Much later that night, the men broke out of the museum and stole back to the flat for even more salty surprises.
"Of course, I remember." John smiled. "Are you kidding? That was one of the most brilliant nights of my life! Really strange, but completely brilliant."
John riffled unnecessarily in Sherlock's pockets for a moment before pulling out the little brown notebook that had initiated this little reminiscence. He held the book lovingly, leaning up to press his lips firmly to Sherlock's. Sherlock linked his arms around John and pressed his body into the doctor's. Sherlock's tongue licked open John's to explore his partners' mouth. John draped his arms over Sherlock's neck and steered him backwards, falling onto the bed and pulling Sherlock down on top of him.
John allowed his fingers to wander down to Sherlock's pants and slide beneath the denim. Sherlock caught his breath.
"John?"
"Sherlock?" John pulled Sherlock's neck close to bite it.
"I think that I'm going to need another journal."