So I got such a great response from my last JohnLock fic and this idea just seized me, so here I am, with another JohnLock, churned out in a day.
John Watson sat at a small table in a candlelit restaurant, fillet mignon garnished with a light sauce and rosemary before him. Across the tabletop where his date had been sitting moments ago was a Caesar salad. She was a nice woman, in her mid-thirties, blonde hair and green eyes, freckles dancing across her button nose. She wore a slinky black dress that showed just enough cleavage and hung low enough to brush her knee; the proper kind of dress for a thirty-something-year-old. She was just the kind of woman John would be interested in, and so far he thought the date had been going pretty well. Until she excused herself to the ladies room.
John had been living with Sherlock and observing his deductions for long enough to have picked up some people-reading skills. And he read her like and open book. She was not having a good time. The smile on her carefully made-up face was fake, not reaching her eyes in the slightest. After saying 'Excuse me,' standing up and pushing her chair back in, she hurried away in no casual manner.
She had been gone for five minutes when John's phone vibrated against his leg, sending a fleeting jolt of arousal through him followed by the thought, "Finally, something interesting tonight."
Really John, why don't you give up? –SH
He quickly replied with, Because I'm a lonely old bloke and there has to be someone out there willing to put up with both me and you. –JW
I put up with you. –SH
I want a romantic relationship. –JW
I'm capable of romance. –SH
With a woman. And no, you aren't. –JW
Your date left you. –SH
Don't change the subject. –JW
Wait what?-JW
Your date left you, John. –SH
And just why do you say that? –JW
She left for the bathroom fifteen minutes ago. –SH
Maybe she has digestive issues. –JW
No. –SH
Freshening her make-up. –JW
No. –SH
Chatting? –JW
Give it up, John. Stop trying to save the date. Just come home; you know it's over.-SH
Fine. I hate you. –JW
No you don't. –SH
John let the last text go unanswered as he emptied his wallet to cover the bill. With a sigh he pushed back his chair, donned his jacket, and headed into the chill night air, forced to walk the few blocks to Baker Street by his empty wallet. But it did give him more time to think.
He and Sherlock had always had a platonic relationship that occasionally crossed a line or two, as they did share a flat. Maybe one would leave the bathroom door open while pissing; or they'd brush their teeth together, elbowing the other out of the way which always ended in fits of girlish giggles; Maybe Sherlock would be curled up on the couch and John would lift his head or his feet and sit back down, replacing the detective's body parts on his lap so he could watch the telly.
But he had never thought about the man in a romantic or sexual way, save for a few times the detective would unwittingly do something extremely erotic and John's body would respond to it and he would have to excuse himself to deal with his problem. Because dammit, it had been over four years and that man was gorgeous.
As he walked, he pondered the love/hate/tolerate/masturbate relationship they had, thoughts of his days in the army floating back to him. The days when, when his young body so demanded, he would allow himself to indulge in some erotic activities with one of the other men. It was a rather accepted practice among them, as the women were scarce and they were young. But John had only done so when strictly necessary, when his almost daily erection refused to respond to thoughts of biology textbooks, the elderly, the danger he put himself and his men in every day.
He had never actually considered the possibility that he might just be. . .gay. Although that would justify his reaction to Sherlock's sensuality. But… no, he just couldn't think of Sherlock in a romantic relationship. He was too disconnected from emotion.
Shaking his head, he opened the door to 221B Baker Street and climbed the stairs to their room, where Sherlock lay curled up on the sofa in his dressing gown and boxers, staring blankly at the television, which of course was off.
When he heard John's footsteps, Sherlock picked his head up. "Ah, good; you're home!"
"Why? What do you need?" John asked, knowing that when it was 'good' he was home, it was actually very, very bad.
"Nothing. I'm just glad you're home."
"Right," John said, taking his coat off and lifting Sherlock's head to sit down before gently placing the halo of dark curls on his lap.
He began stroking the soft hair absentmindedly and Sherlock relaxed into him, heartbeat slowing, a soft, continuous rumbling emanating from his chest.
"Sherlock, are you…purring?" John asked skeptically.
The detective did not answer, instead looking up at John, pale gray-blue eyes calm yet piercing, before looking away again.
John sighed and rolled his own hazel eyes. His flat mate was a sociopath.
After a half comfortable-half awkward silence that lasted a lengthy five minutes, John spoke again.
"Sherlock I—"
"John, stop." The detective said, putting up a hand.
The army doctor snapped his mouth shut.
"Every date you go on ends badly, either because she leaves because she's not interested, or she doesn't meet your standards. Now, why exactly would she leave? Either because you're not invested and so putting forth little to no effort, or because you're putting forth too much effort in an attempt to make something work to convince yourself that you're straight.
John huffed indignantly. "I'm not g—"
"John," Sherlock interjected calmly. "When was the last time you were with a woman?"
Watson thought for a minute. "fif…teen years?" he answered haltingly.
"Exactly. And how 'good' was it?"
"Alright," he mumbled.
"And the last time you were with a man?"
"How do you—"
"John, just answer the question."
"Night before I got shot." He said quietly.
"And how 'good' was it?"
John didn't answer, instead silently fuming and thinking.
"Case and point." Sherlock said, a self-satisfied smirk on his pale face. He rolled to stare at the ceiling as John drew in a breath to speak.
"No, Sherlock. Don't look so happy with yourself."
"Well, fine. I know it wasn't a difficult deduction to make but I have a right to feel some pr—"
"That's not what I mean, Sherlock!"
"Oh. What do you mean?" he asked earnestly, looking deep into John's eyes.
"I mean didn't you ever think that maybe I just wanted to live happily in ignorance and denial? That I didn't want to acknowledge the fact that I might just be gay? That maybe I don't want to recognize my feelings for my fucking gorgeous flat mate? That maybe I just wanted to keep on pretending and hoping that someday I could find a nice lady and get married and have a semi-normal life?!"
He took a breath and continued. "Maybe I don't want to admit that I'm attracted to you, that I've wanked off to you on a number of occasions. Maybe I didn't want to say that I might just be in love with my sociopathic flat mate!? Maybe I just wanted to push it all down and cork it; keep it inside me so I don't have to face the humiliation." By the end the yelling had died down to a whisper, a choked sob or two making its way out of his throat.
Sherlock sat up , turning himself to face John, opening his mouth to speak, but John spoke on.
"And the worst part?" he said quietly. "You can't possibly reciprocate any of my feelings, because you told me yourself the first day I met you; you're not interested. And even if you manage to, we'll never have a relationship that can even begin to resemble normalcy, because you don't know what romance is." The last part was said bitterly, but Sherlock could tell that John was hurt and upset.
He had so much to say to him, so many things to contradict that it would take hours. But some part of him, some little part that had laid latent in him for so long told him to just kiss him; that that would tell John all he needed to know. So he did.
It really means a lot to me when the two of 600 review, because yeah, I can see that guys. :( But ya know.
Please review!
