Bonjourno! I haven't written fanfiction in ages, mainly because my inspiration has been lacking over the past few months, so this is my measly attempt at writing a (hopefully) good one. I'm quite pleased with it, to be fair, but reviews and feedback is loved! Thank you!
They had waited for months.
Months and months of pining after each other, lusting for one another, never having the courage to tell each other how they really felt. It was so easy to dismiss themselves as just friends, but after a while people had begun to figure it out, that their feelings were much more than platonic. Even so, the pairing had always carried a little shard of doubt with them, and even when they had picked up the slightest hint of courage it was immediately dismissed with questions along the lines of what if he just doesn't like me back? What if he's not gay? Who am I kidding?
It didn't take a genius to work out that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were utterly crazy for each other.
Sherlock? A high-functioning sociopath? Please. It was easier, at first, because he'd been saying the same thing to different people for years before his flat mate came along, that he didn't care for anybody, that his heart was pretty much non-existent. Nobody has suspected a thing when Sherlock had nonchalantly announced that he had a new flat mate. Nobody thought that the detective could've melted as soon as John Watson had entered his lab, his life, for the first time. He could've fallen on his knees with the way John walked, with the way his eyes studied him with such interest and confusion. And what struck Sherlock the most was that John was fascinated with his deductions, with the way his mind worked, consistent and non-stopping. Usually Sherlock was responded with a very sharp piss off or freak – in which he wasn't offended in the slightest – but the fact that John was actually impressed struck him as very, very odd indeed.
Now, of course, many people – at least, people who had the guts – confess their true feelings to their hopeful significant other in a calm and civilised atmosphere, perhaps a café with a cup of hot coffee or a quiet and pleasant day at the park. It's not usually the first choice for people to pick a deserted swimming pool in the middle of the night accompanied with a psychopathic bomber and a jacket laying on the floor ready to explode.
Obviously either John or Sherlock would've have chosen a much more suitable place, but it's not like the choice was exactly theirs considering one of them had been forced against his life to stay seated in a little changing room on the side of a swimming pool with a couple of bombs strapped against his chest as he awaited the other's big arrival. But even so, when Sherlock and John had to run out of the building as it burst into huge orange flames, and when John collapsed on the concrete helplessly the moment felt so right. They could have set up a huge scene at a restaurant if they wanted, but it could never have felt as perfect as it did then, with all the adrenaline and the excitement and sheer and utter terror that ran through their bodies.
Even if they were so close to dying, they were forever thankful for those few minutes.
Just to think that all of Sherlock's uncertainties and doubts about his true feelings were brought ashore by one little line delivered by Jim Moriarty himself, probably very insignificant to anybody else he could have said it to, but with Sherlock the impact was as hard as the first wave of a tsunami crashing down onto land.
I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you.
I have been reliably informed that I don't have one.
But we both know that's not quite true.
There was a reason Sherlock did not reply. Because for once in his life he did not have anything to prove his opponent in this game wrong; he did not argue because he had nothing to argue for. It was true. He really did have a heart, and after all those years – in fact, after his whole lifetime with it locked up in a cellar at the back of a damp and dusty compartment of his body, he was finally able to open up when John had come around. It was easier because he was the only person who actually put up with his natural personality – after a while his friends always left in the end, not that he had had many friends in his previous lives – and it was much easier because he cared. He understood.
It was a quality not many people possessed.
So as soon as Sherlock had pulled the trigger on his British Browning L9A1 he had instinctively grabbed John by the waist and pushed him into the pool with himself swiftly followed, feeling the impact of the explosion as they both desperately tried to stay out of the way underwater. Neither of them had the slightest clue as to what Jim had done to save himself; it was safe to assume that he had dived into the water, too, just unable to be seen by either Sherlock or John, but it hardly mattered when the famous duo knew they were safe with each other. Underwater. Which wasn't exactly too convenient, since the two of them seemed to be running out of breath and it was hardly appropriate for them to drown when they could swim perfectly well.
As they reached the surface together, the damage the explosion had caused was pretty rough in the pool viewing area and was rapidly starting to catch fire. Sherlock could hear John gasping for breath and then yelling as loud as he could, "We have to get out of here!"
It was hard for Sherlock not to reply sarcastically with a I congratulate you, John, for pointing out the obvious, but he realized that there wasn't exactly much time to do so when it seemed quite likely at the moment that they were going to perish.
Which wasn't the most comforting thought in the world.
Quickly enough, Sherlock had swam to the edge of the pool and clambered out, and he held out his hand for John to help him. It was strange how Sherlock Holmes was starting to panic, despite the fact that he had never panicked in a situation similar to this before. "Quick!"
Flames were starting to arise in the reception area and the smoke was getting into their lungs at that point, the two of them beginning to cough uncontrollably. "Sherlock!" John had struggled to call, grabbing his arm and urging forward to the exit hurriedly. As soon as they had ran out the building together, John still clutching hard at Sherlock's arm – which the two of them found was quite a pleasing sensation, despite the hurry they were in to get out – and the smoke still clogging up their lungs, John collapsed, shutting his eyes and muttering good lord over and over.
"John?" Sherlock bent down to level himself with John, genuine concern in his eyes, something that honest-to-god surprised John completely. Looking up, he blinked once, immediately noticing how close they were to one another.
"I…" John was stuttering, as silly as it was with a building bursting into flames right before them. "I, uh, Sherlock…"
It was in a moment that their lips were touching one another's, one singular movement and all the feelings locked and bolted up inside of them were finally, finally let out. Their lips were cold and wet yet so soft, but it didn't matter because that was it, that was the moment they had both spent days and weeks dreaming of. It was a bit of a cliché, really, kissing in front of a miraculous display of dancing orange flames, but it felt so good. So right.
They pulled apart, gasping for air. "I love you," John managed to finally blurt out, three words that had changed their relationship for the rest of their lives.
Sherlock only smiled.