This is just something lighthearted I started writing last week. You can tell by the title how serious this fic is. I just wanted to do something for Valentine's Day, since I have a bunch of wip's and I never get anything done without a deadline. Plus I haven't posted anything in probably a year. Don't know why.
P.S. This is only rated M for swearing and sexual language because of FF's annoying rating policy, otherwise it'd only be rated T. I figured I'd be careful just in case. Sorry, no graphic sex scene. Maybe next time.
Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with BBC's Sherlock.
Real Men Wear Pink
"Are you sure you don't want to go?" John asked knowing the answer already while slipping into a dark coat and striped scarf. His spaced-out flatmate looked up confused for a moment, slowly comprehending what was just spoken.
"To a pub?" The last word was spit like venom from a snake bite.
"Yeah. It might be fun. Lestrade's going."
Apparently John didn't realize that wasn't exactly an incentive. Sherlock liked Lestrade, always had, but he preferred the inspector delivering good news of murder and mayhem like a grey-haired, grumpy Father Christmas. Outside of work he was just another boring man with predictable problems. Drinking excessive amounts of alcohol and temporarily stopping neuron communication just to be hit on by total strangers was not the Chemistry major's idea of a good time. That was more John's area.
"Why would I want to get drunk with depressed bachelors the night before Valentine's Day? You lot will end up making fools of yourselves dancing like idiots and looking for easy women to go home with, likely failing and going home alone. Why would I want to witness that? Not my idea of fun, John."
John lifted a solo eyebrow. "Right. Never mind. On second thought, you're not invited."
"Good." Long legs hurdled himself from his black chair in one fluid motion. They continued toward John for equally long arms to grab his own coat and scarf. He threw on the Belstaff while John frantically checked for his keys in all possible pockets until Sherlock handed them to him from his own coat. John didn't bother asking how they'd gotten there. "I'm going to Bart's anyway. Molly says there's a new corpse worth checking into."
"Alright. Have fun. Don't get into too much trouble," John warned while clambering down the stairs with Sherlock following close behind.
"Oh, I will."
XXOXX
"So… what's John doing tonight then?" Molly asked shyly from Sherlock's side. There was no reply. "Sherlock? Did-did you hear me?"
"Hm? Oh. No. What were you saying?" The detective was distracted by a dark red, sticky residue on the victim's arm. Their death was from natural causes, so that wasn't of much interest. A Hemastix strip indicated that it wasn't blood, and the lab equipment confirmed it. There were several possibilities; three were the most likely-
"You still didn't hear me, did you?" From her tone she was getting irritated. It was the voice Sherlock was most used to from people. Three decades and counting into life and he still wasn't sure why.
"No. Sorry. Could you hand me that-"
Molly shoved a swab into his hand.
"Thank you."
As Sherlock wiped at the residue she started her sentence for the third time. There was much less malice this time around.
"I asked what John was up to tonight. Tomorrow's Valentine's Day, you know. Doing anything special?"
"Celebrate yet another overrated holiday built around triggered chemicals in the brain they call 'love' that's only meant to rob consumers of their wages? Of course I'm not doing anything 'special.'"
The petite woman nodded to herself, not put off by his venomous tone at all.
"Right. So you're free tomorrow?"
Not again... "Molly, you know I'm flattered, but-"
"No, I wasn't asking because- No. I-I meant you and John. If you both aren't doing anything maybe you'd like to come over for drinks. Greg said he was free, and a few of my friends are coming over, so…"
"That's very…" He attempted coming up with a better word but failed; "sweet of you, but I think we'll pass. There's a seventy-three percent chance that John will find himself a girlfriend tonight, so he probably won't be available tomorrow. And you know I don't like being around people."
"I know. Just thought I'd ask. Be friendly." Molly smiled brightly at Sherlock, nervously giggling.
Sherlock flashed her a small smile in hopes that she'd just go away. Or bring him coffee. She was a nice girl, but distractions of any kind while investigating gave him a headache. He was already annoyed for reasons he didn't want to think about thanks to a certain oblivious doctor. The last thing he needed was-
Suddenly Molly jumped. Her smile morphed into an excited, yet professional simper, making Sherlock clench his teeth in reaction. "Wait, I think I know what that is!"
XXOXX
Molly's epiphany turned out to be correct. Five hours later and Sherlock had found out that the sticky red substance was in fact filling from a chocolate covered cherry that happened to be tainted with a barely traceable poison. A Valentine's Day celebration had gone horribly wrong for a cheating, workaholic husband, and became a short-lived victory for an emotional wife in handcuffs. Not a natural death after all. It was a night put to much better use than whatever foolishness John and Lestrade were up to. He'd have to relay this to John, show him the holiday wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Especially not for adulterers.
The cab ride home was mostly silent. The driver didn't bother with small talk, apparently realizing Sherlock had his mind on more pressing matters. Not many people were out at this time of night.
As they passed the streets of London, Sherlock thought about the case he accidentally stumbled upon. A feeling of contentment flowed through his chilled bones. It had been such a nice way to spend his evening.
Instead of Lestrade, who was likely passed out above a toilet somewhere by now, he had contacted DI Gregson, giving him all pertinent information for an arrest. He was one of the few people from Scotland Yard who didn't mind Sherlock's presence during investigations. The feeling was mutual. Besides Lestrade he was the least irritating officer on the force.
By time they pulled up to Baker Street it was a little after three o'clock in the morning. There were no lights on in the flat upstairs. John either wasn't home yet, wasn't coming home at all, or was sleeping it off upstairs. Once he unlocked the front door and ascended the stairs he got his answer. A small smile tugged at his lips without permission. There was loud snoring from the upstairs bedroom. No signs indicated he had a bed partner. So John hadn't found a new woman to pursue. Sherlock didn't want to think about how pleased that made him.
XXOXX
Groaning, Sherlock stretched his long limbs, feeling much like a black-haired cat basking in the warmth of sunlight streaming in from the bedroom window. Warm sheets brushed against exposed skin under his t-shirt. He scratched his stomach, looking blearily at the near alarm clock. Nine o'clock. More sleep sounded wonderful, but tea sounded much more appealing.
He slipped his blue dressing gown over his shoulders, yawning and stretching while wandering into their sitting room. The doctor was nowhere in sight. That was odd. John was usually up long before Sherlock, making tea and breakfast while the lazy man slept in on day's void of cases. He must have still been asleep.
There was little noise as Sherlock padded carefully upstairs. The wooden door squeaked on old hinges as Sherlock crept in unnoticed. The body passed out in bed was obviously John. Sherlock stopped, barely holding in a sharp gasp. It wasn't often the genius was taken off-guard. His eyes roamed over a motionless, mostly naked body. John was wearing a pair of red boxers with little pink and white hearts. With a note taped to his chest. And a red bow wrapped around his stomach. Sherlock stalked closer, finding something just as intriguing as his late-night case -though for different reasons- that just happened to be an arm's reach away.
For a few moments Sherlock stood and watched the rise and fall of John's chest. He had gained a few pounds since moving back to London, but he was still in good shape. Golden rays of sunshine poured through his uncovered windows giving him a heavenly glow. Sherlock scowled at himself. What a stupid thought. Ignoring the pounding in his chest and flutters in his stomach he inspected the writing. It wasn't John's. The note was on striped paper and stuck on well with scotch tape. Still, it came off without too much trouble. John didn't even stir as the sticky substance was torn from his blonde-haired chest, taking a couple hairs with it. It read: Happy Valentin's Day, Sherlock. 3 Unwrap your present. ;) -John & Greg
Sherlock read over the note again. Greg? Who the hell is Greg? …Oh. Right. Lestrade.
He looked down on the sleeping form, with mouth wide open and drool running down his cheek to pool on an off-white pillowcase. Not his most appealing look on record. But admittedly as Sherlock watched the still form sleep it wasn't… un-cute. Especially with ruffled hair and limbs scattered uncaringly over jumbled covers. The temperature was cool in John's room, so it must have been quite the hangover if he had slept all night not even attempting to get under warm covers.
Sherlock surprised himself by reaching out without much thought. John's arm was cool to the touch, but not dangerously chilled. Even so, Sherlock decided to wake him. He assured himself it was only so John would make him tea, not because he was at all concerned for the man's health and wellbeing.
"John. Wake up." Warm hands gently shook his shoulder. The man didn't stir. "John." Sherlock pushed harder, rocking him almost onto his side.
The hung-over man mumbled incoherently, slapping the unwanted hand away. "Ngh. Go 'way."
"No. Get up."
"Mph," he groaned, barely starting to process what was going on. But then he rolled onto his side with every intention of going back to sleep. That wouldn't do. Sherlock had a mystery to solve and a John to impress.
"John!" Sherlock roared.
Heart pounding, John scrambled, startled and confused, thinking he'd somehow slept through reveille. His half-conscious body jerked, arms flailing as he about crashed onto the floor. Gladly, strong arms caught him just in time.
"Jesus. Sherlock?" His blurry eyes squinted up at him. "What time is it?" He pressed an arm over his eyes. The bright sunlight was not doing his hangover any favors.
"Aren't you a ray of sunshine this morning," grumbled Sherlock. "It's nine. Get up. I want tea."
John mumbled something, likely a curse.
"Oh, God. I think I'm dying," John moaned. "Make your own damn tea you wanker."
"You're fine. You don't have alcohol poisoning or any other hangover symptoms besides the norm. Get up. You'll live. Probably."
For a few minutes John stayed stretched out over the chilly bed, arm thrust over his light-sensitive eyes, trying to remember how to move without feeling a jackhammer pounding into his throbbing cranium. When he got his bearings his eyes were met with Sherlock's, light and searching. And concerned. The tall man just stood there barely blinking. Most people would find it creepy.
"…What? Why are you looking at me like that?"
"How can you possibly be comfortable?"
"Huh?" Confused, John squinted upwards, blinking at the abundance of light infiltrating his windows. "Why wouldn't I be?"
A long finger pointed to his stomach. When John looked down and blinked again he finally understood. Suddenly he felt a lot more sober.
"What the hell?"
He snatched off the note Sherlock had stuck back on and read it. Then reread it. His mouth gaped.
"Oh, that bastard."
"Good night I suspect?" Sherlock asked, words dripping with sarcasm. John wouldn't look at him.
"You could say that..."
Curious eyes squinted downward. But John hadn't noticed. His own eyes were still staring at the note.
"Why would Lestrade want me to unwrap you? Couldn't he have found a better use for ribbon?"
The blonde finally glanced back up, that typical questioning look written all over his scrunched up face.
"Um." John cleared his throat, definitely not ready for such a conversation so early in the morning. "That's not what unwrap meant in this case, Sherlock."
"But you-"
"Yes, I know there's literally a bow around me. That's not the point."
John plopped back down, scrubbing a hand over his stubbled face. A shave was definitely in his future. As was a bath and a few aspirin.
"Ugh, I don't remember anything after the pub. I'll have to ask Greg, see what he remembers." Before his hand reached his phone Sherlock stopped him.
"Don't be daft. I'm sure he remembers very little. I've got all the information I need. You came home last night -technically this morning- some time before three. Lestrade made sure you got into bed safely.
Drunken scuff marks on the stairs indicate two pairs of shoes. You were both pissed, Lestrade much less than you, but still obviously drunk enough to forget the 'e' in 'Valentine' and write an adolescent winky-face. Once inside Lestrade decided he'd have a little joke, apparently, since the note was addressed to me. You must have been in on it somehow, being almost unconscious and definitely impressionable. He tore a page from your notebook, scribbled the note while you undressed. You kept your boxers on; something festive from your limited wardrobe: pants some girlfriend gave you last year. You disliked them but kept them anyway. Some sort of sentiment, probably. Or you feel women like that sort of thing. You thought someone besides Lestrade and myself would be seeing them last night, but instead you're now hungover and your attempt at romance has failed."
"Alright, no need to mock my love life," he growled before moving on. "I suppose that… makes sense." John squinted an eye. "Sort of. But-"
"One thing I don't understand -and enjoy that phrase because I won't say it often- is how this was meant to be funny."
"Hold on. I was talking, Sherlock. Don't be rude. Where's this ribbon from?"
"That's the question you choose to ask me? Really, John," the detective scoffed. John put up a hand.
"Seriously, Sherlock, I'm not in the mood. Just tell me, yeah?"
Sherlock looked away, subconsciously rubbing his hands behind his back. Pale green eyes raked over the wooden floor beneath his bare feet.
"Lestrade must have found it downstairs in my bedroom."
"Why do you have a ribbon in your bedroom?" John asked, wondering if it was for some odd experiment he would never understand or if it had a practical purpose for once.
The answer came quickly.
"No reason."
It was an obvious lie, but John didn't question it. When Sherlock blocked himself off there was no way to scale his tall walls, and no battering ram could penetrate them. There was no use.
John looked around his room, thanking his drunken self and Lestrade for not messing up any other part of his small room. He remembered what the inspector was like plastered, so he sadly wasn't all that surprised at what had happened. Behind the badge and short haircut was one of the most interesting drunks John had ever seen. One time Lestrade had ended up dragging him along to butcher songs on Karaoke night, and along the way had lost most of his clothing and had almost gotten into a fistfight with an unruly barstool. Not a memory he wanted to keep, but the mind was rarely that considerate. All he wanted to do now was forget this had ever happened. It would be the wisest decision.
"Right. So... I should get dressed."
"Probably," Sherlock agreed, hands clamped behind his back as he stared down at his reclined flatmate.
John waited for Sherlock to leave. He didn't. If their lives were a movie there'd be crickets chirping in the background. John sighed, wondering how a man could be so intelligent yet so damn oblivious.
"Sherlock, some privacy, please."
"Oh. Right."
Sherlock turned to go, looking somewhat embarrassed. Before he had made it three steps John tried to unwrap himself. And failed. Dammit. Lestrade must have been a boy scout, because he sure knew how to tie a knot. It wouldn't budge, even when he used fingernails and attempted prying it apart. Pulling at it just made the knot tighter, not break like he had hoped. This was quickly becoming a crummy morning. Saving lives during surgery was simple, but untying a knot while hungover was proving to be impossible.
His mad flatmate turned around and opened up a desk drawer, not even bothering to actually look at the struggling John. He took out a pair of scissors, then walked back toward his hopeless friend. Sherlock asked for permission with only raised eyebrows. With a small nod served with a huff of annoyance he got his approval. Sherlock cut the ribbon with grace, trying not to smirk. As he left to gallop downstairs John sat on his bed wondering how he could possibly forget there were scissors only feet away. John mumbled a thank you that only the walls heard before finally standing up.
XXOXX
A few minutes later John came into the living room wearing a multicolored stripped jumper and jeans. Sherlock sat in his chair rethinking the note from every possible angle. What did it mean? John was embarrassed to explain it. Obvious. But what does it mean?
For hours Sherlock sat cross-legged in his chair, barely moving. John did his own thing as usual: read a book, watched television, ate normal meals. He didn't bother talking to his flatmate. Many months of experience made him realize it was completely useless. Sherlock was basically in a comatose state whenever he had a mystery to solve. His body was manually shut off except for basic functions. Only his Mind Palace was fully operational.
As time went by he saw John move around the flat like he was in fast-forward, though Sherlock barely noticed in his trancelike state. There was something missing. If only he could figure out what it was. Maybe then- Wait. Everything screeched to a halt. It was February fourteenth. Sherlock jumped back into the real world, his body literally jumping as he did so. With everything that had happened he'd completely forgotten.
After stretching sore muscles, Sherlock stood and leisurely strolled toward his bedroom to not tip John off, even though his insides felt cold and tightly squeezed. Molly had given him the idea of a Valentine's present, dropping giant hints that he should get her something cute and fluffy (probably a teddy bear or some nonsense), but he figured John would appreciate the sentiment about as much as her. The week prior he had gone shopping, which was something he normally appalled. But the idea of seeing happy surprise on John's face made him eager to find something worthy of the occasion. When a store employee had approached him he explained his situation quickly. He needed to find a befitting gift for someone special, though he had no idea where to start. The older woman –Heather, her nametag said- had smiled knowingly, showing her alarmingly bold crow's feet in the process. Like most people she assumed the giftee was his girlfriend. Idiot. Regardless of her assumptions she had been very helpful. They started with jewelry, which was a horrible idea. Sherlock made that very clear. After a few more suggestions the woman had struck gold. A few minutes later he was on his way out of the store with a bag and a pleased feeling sitting inside his chest.
Now that it was go-time to surprise John he wasn't feeling nearly as eager as he'd hoped.
Sherlock found the wrapped present sitting on the floor just outside his closet. It was a practical gift at least, not some useless trinket that sat around collecting dust. Thank God John was a practical man like himself. Another reason why he preferred John over most everyone else. He never could have put aside his distaste for pointless holidays and gotten him something that wasn't useful. He'd leave that sort of gift giving to everybody else, like Molly who had slipped a heart-shaped lollipop into his coat last night while he wasn't looking. Sherlock hadn't bothered getting her anything in return. To be honest he wasn't really sure what she even liked besides dissecting human bodies. Besides, Sherlock knew for a fact that a certain detective inspector had already bought Molly something, so she really didn't need a second pointless gift.
Before he even realized it Sherlock had ended up standing in front of John holding the present in his arms, not even blinking. Sherlock scowled at himself. He hated when he did that. His body was often acting without his mind's permission. He needed to work on that.
Looking down he saw John's bulged eyes staring at the wrapping like it might attack him any moment. His mouth parted as he sat down his book without bothering to see where it landed, which happened to be sprawled open on the floor beside the chair.
"Is that what I think it is?" John asked.
Sherlock gave him a look.
"Did you, uh, get me a present?"
His friend huffed, showing every sign of rolling his eyes without actually doing so.
"Obviously, since I'm handing you a wrapped item with your name on the tag. Minus the bow. You've already seen that."
John looked up perplexed.
"Right..."
John tentatively reached for the gift as though it sported teeth. Being careful, he tore open the wrapping which was Sherlock's doing, done meticulously with immense precision and care like it was more than just colored paper covering a box. Simple heart designs not much different than his boxers were scattered over the glossy white paper. It was all the stores had the week prior, Sherlock explained almost bashfully. John opened it carefully hoping nothing weird or wet or squawking would poke its head out. Wouldn't be the first time.
Sherlock was getting impatient, rolling up and down on the balls of bare feet. John opened his mouth. Then closed it and cocked his head. Then opened and closed it again, not deciding which facial expression was more appropriate.
"Sherlock, it's... it's a..."
"Do you like it?" He sounded so hopeful.
John gulped.
"It's a..."
He held it up to get a better look, wondering if maybe it would change colors somehow. It didn't.
"It's a pink dressing gown."
"Do you like it?" Sherlock asked.
John looked at him almost speechless. Was that good or bad? For one of the few times in his life Sherlock wished he was much better at reading people's emotions.
"John?"
"It's pink."
"It's the only color they had. But it's fluffy and looks very comfortable. Your old one isn't in pristine condition, you know. And it's your size. I made sure of it."
"The tag says it's for a woman."
"John, I'm sorry to inform you that you're about the average height of many women."
John glowered.
"You don't like it, do you? I've kept the receipt-"
"No, it's great, Sherlock. It's just... It's pink."
"Oh. I see. You're one of those people who think colors are masculine or feminine. A stupid social construct. Besides, don't they say 'real men wear pink'?"
John seemed to contemplate it.
"Okay, yeah, I see you point."
"Good. So...?"
"Hm?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Do you like it?" He asked more forcefully. Sherlock hated repeating himself. Why couldn't John keep up?
"Of course I like it. You gave me a gift. On Valentine's Day. You never give gifts."
"Not unless the mood strikes me. And I feel the person's deserving."
John blinked. That was certainly unexpected. The sitting man cleared his throat and stood up, making the distance between their chests only a few inches. He seemed to be contemplating something before he-
Sherlock's mind went blank. It never went blank. What was happening? Did he faint? Was he dead?
He felt a warmth around his torso and breath against his neck. It took him an embarrassingly long time to realize what was going on. John was... John was hugging him. That was new.
By time Sherlock realized what was happening it was over. Sherlock didn't even have a chance to take in the new sensation. Before he could speak there was a slight wetness against his cheek. John had kissed him. Sherlock gaped, not understanding why his friend would do such a thing. Does this mean…? No, don't be ridiculous.
John looked awkwardly embarrassed as he pulled away, taking a step backward. Sherlock wondered why he missed the contact as soon as it left. He was never a touchy-feely person. Quite the opposite. This needed intense analysis.
Sherlock needed to sit down.
"I…"
Sherlock collapsed backwards into his chair, barely registering that he could have easily ended up on the floor instead. In an instant John leaned over him, doctoral and friendly concern blatantly obvious from his tight frown and wildly searching eyes.
"Jesus, Sherlock. You okay?" The back of his hand pressed against Sherlock's brow.
"Fine. Just... need to rest for a bit." His eyes narrowed in thought. The normal intensity in those pale eyes dulled into something unrecognizable. It worried the doctor. He'd never seen his friend act this way before. If Sherlock were any other patient he'd swear he was ill. With skin pale, tinged slightly over well-known indented cheeks he looked far from okay to the trained eye. But he was Sherlock. Other than the color change and sudden need to sit down he looked fairly normal. Yet he knew how the man acted when he became physically sick. This wasn't it at all.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
"Mhm hm. Perfectly okay."
"What are your symptoms?"
"I'm just tired, John. Stop worrying."
The doctor wasn't sure he believed him. But if Sherlock didn't want cared for he would never allow it. When he wanted to Sherlock could be a worse patient than a bratty two-year-old with focus problems.
"Alright. If you're sure." John stood straight, robe still in hand.
"I'm sure. Are you going to try that on?"
"Right. Um. Sure. Just to make sure it fits. You sure you'll be okay? You won't die on me, will you?" The last part was said lightly, but the shaking voice made the concern beneath obvious.
Sherlock nodded absently while waving him away, trying to figure out why John seemed so embarrassed. And also why he himself felt discombobulated. Friends hugged, right? He'd kissed Molly and Mrs. Hudson's cheeks before and those were only friendly gestures, so it must be socially acceptable for John to do so as well. Right? But he'd never done anything remotely similar before. What was Sherlock not seeing? Why were the puzzle pieces not slotting into place?
While Sherlock combed excruciatingly over every piece of evidence, John came back down. He was wearing the same boxers as before, apparently discarding his jeans for weekend comfort; a white t-shirt; the dark pink dressing gown; and an utterly embarrassed look upon his face.
"I think they match, don't you?"
Sherlock nodded. Of course they did. The man needed to work on his fashion sense.
"This is really comfortable, Sherlock. I needed a new dressing gown. Ta." John cleared his throat, contemplating his next words. "I just hope no one else sees me wearing this. I'll never live it down." He silently went to make tea, not looking like himself, which had nothing to do with the clothing choice whiplash. Something was off.
"John, you don't have to wear it if you don't want to."
"No, its fine. Really. I do like it, Sherlock. It'll take me a bit to get used to it, though. I guess it's dark enough it's almost red, though. It's just… if you wore anything remotely pink when I was in the army or school they'd call you a bummer for sure."
Sherlock winced.
"Are you sure you're alright? You look a bit green."
"I just don't like that word."
"Hm? Which one?" John went over what words he remembered from his previous sentences. Shit. Now it was John's turn to wince. Sherlock wasn't the only one who spoke without thinking. "You mean 'bummer'?"
Sherlock nodded weakly. John froze.
"Ah. Right. Sorry, that wasn't the best choice of words," he apologized before turning back to making tea. The last thing he needed was accidentally saying something else offensive.
"You're wondering if I'm gay again, aren't you?"
John frowned and looked toward the living room. Sherlock's sharp gaze was staring laser beams. John could almost feel the holes forming in his shirt.
"You know I don't care if you are, right?"
"Wrong."
"What?"
"Of course you care. You're curious. Always have been. Most people are. I'm just not certain why you have a need to know such a pointless piece of trivia."
John gulped. "We're friends, yeah? Usually friends know things like this about each other."
"If you want to do something useful with your time," Sherlock barked, quickly wanting to change the subject; "then tell me what the letter meant."
John walked slowly back to his chair barely phased while waiting for the kettle to boil. Sherlock was finally acting like himself again, even if that meant warm and inviting was off the table. He just wished Sherlock would have stumbled upon a different subject.
"You haven't figured it out by now?" John looked pleased by this. He knew the answer. Dammit. Of course he knew. How did he know?
"Why did you kiss me?"
Eyebrows shot up. The question threw John for a loop. Of all the questions Sherlock could have asked that wasn't one he braced himself for.
"Because it's Valentine's Day. And you gave me a gift." His head cocked to the side, brow furrowed.
Sherlock shook his head slowly.
"I've given you Christmas gifts. You never kissed me then."
John's fists knotted and loosened several times as he thought, staring defensively at Sherlock the entire time. Sherlock almost sighed. John had such an easy tell when it came to distress.
"There was no mistletoe," John offered jokingly.
Fists slammed down. Leather arms of Sherlock's chair made a distressing cracking noise. Apparently Sherlock wasn't in the mood for games. John jumped, heart pounding as thoughts of war slammed into his consciousness. Loud, sudden noises did nothing to help his PTSD.
"Jesus. Sherlock," he warned. Sherlock just growled.
"Just tell me why!"
"Can't you deduce it?" snapped John. "All of the clues are there!"
Sherlock blinked. Of course. All of the fight inside him was sapped out instantly to clear space for rapid deductions. There had to be something he'd overlooked. What could it be?
He went over everything meticulously: The so-called romantic boxers, the cryptic note from Lestrade, the fact that John was wearing the gift even though it made him a little uncomfortable, the hug, the kiss... What did it all mean? Why did- Sherlock's body suddenly clenched. Oh! Did that mean-? Oh God. It was so obvious. The winky-face wasn't meant to show humor, it was a knowing remark. That was it! He'd found the missing piece. Even though technically it had been there all along hiding in plain sight, just flipped backside-up. It was so obvious now.
"You fancy me," Sherlock deduced with a goofy grin.
John swallowed down a sip of tea. Only his calculating eyes peered over the rim. Right, so the kettle must have boiled by now. John sighed, looking over at him. He put the cup on the saucer, then leaned back, crossing his legs defensively before speaking.
"Um… Well…"
Sherlock stood up and peered at John unnervingly. It caused him to squirm in his seat, but he didn't move to leave, just lick his lips. The detective supposed that was a good sign.
"Lestrade learned of it last night. You told him, didn't you?"
For a long time John just sat there staring up at Sherlock with different fleeting emotions crossing over his worried face. Eventually he cleared his throat and began.
"We were drunk. It was the night before Valentine's Day. I just... Greg's a friend. I guess I wanted to get it off my chest. I don't remember much after that, but we must've come up with what we thought was a brilliant plan. Didn't work so well, though, since you didn't understand the note and I passed out before you got home, apparently."
Sherlock didn't know what to say. That didn't happen often. John… John Watson… liked him? Romantically? No one he ever even tolerated had fancied him before let alone a friend. What did that even mean? What was he supposed to do? Oh God. Sherlock felt dizzy again.
John leaned forward, taking all of Sherlock's concentration with him. Sherlock followed his dark blue eyes with a dash of green. They were even more striking up close. Wait, since when was John's face only a few inches away? Am I going mad? Is this actually happening?
"So?"
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, confused.
"So...what?"
John smiled shyly.
"What do you think?"
"About… what?"
John's smile brightened even though his eyes were still carefully guarded.
"Do you fancy me?"
Sherlock sucked in a breath.
"I-I think I might."
Two separate sighs filled the room after three long seconds; John's was long and staggered, Sherlock's short and deep. John stayed sitting as Sherlock loomed over him as though he didn't know what else to do. John supposed he probably didn't.
"Thank God. I was tired of pretending, hoping you wouldn't catch on. You're kind of rubbish at figuring this sort of thing out, aren't you?" As John put a hand against Sherlock's chest his smile grew. It was obvious what he attempted to accomplish. John had been paying attention. Through his shirt he could plainly feel his heart beat overtime against John's warm palm. It made Sherlock uncomfortable; not for the intimate contact, but for all that the rabbit-like pitter-patter gave away. Emotions were never his strong suit. All Sherlock could think to calm himself was "be still, my beating heart" which annoyed him to no end. Sherlock scowled internally at the stupid quote. What the hell was that even from? Some ancient room in his Mind Palace, apparently. Sherlock ignored it for now. Ugh, sentiment. Useless.
"Can I kiss you now?" John asked with trepidation as a pink tongue jutted out to wet soft, pink lips. "We don't have to, but I, uh, I think you should know I've been dying to kiss you since this afternoon."
Sherlock gulped. A kiss? John wanted to kiss him? Was he hearing things? No, I can't be. Could he? Well, hopefully not.
"We can't have that," breathed Sherlock who leaned forward.
John froze, stopping halfway there. His face was so close Sherlock could pick up traces of his aftershave wafting through his sensitive, trained nostrils.
"Does that mean you don't want me to kiss you, or-"
"No," Sherlock cut off, annoyed with himself for giving John doubts. He hated being misunderstood. "Don't be an idiot. We can't have you dying," he corrected. "How would you make me tea?"
John rolled his eyes, yet there was a shining warmth behind it all.
"It was just a figure of speech. God forbid you get off your lazy arse and do something."
"You're the one being lazy, John. I'm standing, you're the one still sitting down."
"True, but that can be fixed."
John gripped Sherlock's dressing gown, yanking down hard without warning. Sherlock's balance was instantly thrown off. The only place to land was on top of John, straddling his hips as his hands pressed against the chair on either side of a blonde head. It took Sherlock a moment to realize what was going to happen. Like a frightened cat every muscle tightened, ready to bolt at a moment's notice. His breathing went into hyper drive. Oh God.
"Shh," John whispered against his mouth. "Relax." He quieted his tremoring lips with a kiss before the talkative, petrified detective had the chance to comment further or run for the hills. Unbeknownst to John, Sherlock wasn't completely inexperienced. Sometimes his profession required less-than-moral romantic situations. Because of this he had kissed before on numerous occasions and was fairly confident in his abilities. But it never felt this vivid with color, nor did he ever want to kiss someone this much before now. Can tastes even have color? Yes, he recalled, but only if he had synesthesia. Last he'd checked he-
"You're thinking again. Stop that," lightly scolded John. As he breathed out Sherlock breathed in. All he could smell and taste and feel was John. It felt wonderful.
"Sorry. You're distracting," Sherlock apologized between small kisses. His back and neck were starting to strain from awkward positioning, yet he barely minded.
"Apparently not as much as I want to be."
"Mhm," Sherlock said even though he didn't understand what was meant. At the moment he didn't actually care. The opportunity he'd been waiting for was finally presenting itself. He had every intention of cherishing this moment in case it never happened again, which Sherlock found to be likely.
John pulled back for a second to catch his breath. When he did Sherlock happily moved onto new territory, which happened to be his neck. It was longer than he realized and not quite as soft as he'd imagined, but that was no matter. He pushed the dressing gown out of his way before licking up toward John's left earlobe. When he mouthed over the tough skin John sharply gasped. It took Sherlock a minute to realize it wasn't from his actions alone.
"Shit. I just realized I didn't buy you anything. I wasn't aware we'd be exchanging gifts."
"Doesn't matter. I don't require anything."
"I feel guilty, though. I guess I could write you a poem or something."
Sherlock stopped marking John's neck to pull away, a hard frown already set in place.
"Please, don't. You're not nearly as good of a writer as you believe."
"Don't insult my writing skills," John warned, feathers ruffled. But then a slow smirk formed on his face. "How about this: Roses are red, my balls are blue-"
"Ugh." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please do shut up. Don't attempt humor, John. It doesn't suit you."
John kissed him again, pleased with himself and not at all hurt by the comment.
"Quiet. It's the thought that counts."
"Hm," Sherlock said, mostly agreeing.
They went back to kissing before John could come up with any more stupid lines. Their hands roamed freely over each other's clothed bodies as the desire between them grew slowly yet steadily. Sherlock suspected John didn't want to spook his previously platonic partner by going too fast. The concern normally would have been touching, but Sherlock had no intention of getting spooked. He could feel John's enthusiasm through his boxers nestled against his own eager groin, so going too quickly wasn't an issue.
It wasn't until he wrapped his arms around John's waist that he realized something that made him curse. He hadn't gotten all of the pieces fitted together after all. Argh. He hadn't wanted to stop, but his stellar mind always came before his wanting vessel.
"John?" Sherlock breathed once their lips parted.
"Huh?"
"I still don't understand the note."
John looked lost for a second, but then smiled at the man sitting on his lap. It kept growing wider until he lightly chuckled, slowly shaking his head. His flatmate couldn't see the humor, so he frowned instead.
"I completely forgot about that. You're still stuck on the note?"
"Yes," the great detective admitted through a scowl. "I understand everything except the unwrapping bit."
John leaned down, his breath tickling Sherlock's exposed neck, and whispered into his ear.
"It means I'm your Valentine's present this year. And you can... unwrap me."
John undid a button on Sherlock's shirt, sliding a warm hand inside to stroke fair skin and drive the thought home. Sherlock's thick eyebrows shot up in realization while watching John through shaded eyes.
"Looks like I got you a present after all. I would thank Greg for that, but he'd probably get a big head about it. He said he always knew I fancied you, even before I did."
"He told me the same thing once," Sherlock admitted. His voice cracked as John's thumb stroked over a sensitive nipple.
"So, about my offer…"
"Oh. I could be..." Sherlock cleared his throat; "easily persuaded to do so. With your permission of course… Captain."
John leaned toward Sherlock's lips with a grin, eyes sparkling with mischievous intentions.
"Permission granted."
I feel like Sherlock wouldn't be the greatest gift giver. Or even close, really. It's the thought that counts. And I want to see Lestrade drunk. I feel like he'd be a blast to get plastered with. (I'm tempted to write a cracky fic about the Karaoke night with him and John now. Maybe someday.)