See, I told you, that only took like twenty minutes. Here's the rest. Porn and fluff, basically.


Could John actually just sit in the Thai restaurant forever without anyone kicking him out? And if they did kick him out—which, of course, they eventually would—could he just stay at Sarah's forever? And when she kicked him out, could he just live in a fucking alley? Because he was almost convinced that he would rather live as a homeless man for the rest of his life rather than go face what he had just done.

But, even as he thought that, he knew he had to go back. Even if he was petrified to even completely admit to himself that what had just happened wasn't some sort of mad dream, he knew that he couldn't leave Sherlock there alone when he was so helpless.

And then… then there was Sherlock's actual response to what had happened.

He looked scared at first, yes… but then he had looked at him with those eyes like icy flames, demanding John to kiss him again.

And when they did, John wasn't the only one that moved forward. So had Sherlock.

And John wasn't the only one whose lips were moving against the other man's, wasn't the only one with hungry hands running over the body he'd always secretly wanted to explore. Like John's real desires in life had been locked in a box in his mind, and then Sherlock's lips had made the box fling open and reveal that the contents had been a single word, a single idea, a single person.

Sherlock.

And John's fear increased further as he thought all these things, because he realised he couldn't pretend that it hadn't happened.

Because John had wanted it. He didn't know that until it happened, but he'd wanted it.

Needed it.

As he walked back to the flat, he felt like he was in a daze. What was he supposed to say to Sherlock? What had Sherlock already deduced? What did any of this mean for their friendship? Sherlock was married to his work, after all. Not at all interested in any sort of relationship, emotional for physical.

But then what the hell had just happened?

He walked inside 221 and up the stairs as slowly as he could, putting off the inevitable for as long as possible. It had taken him close to an hour to get food when usually there was no reason for it to take longer than ten minutes. He half wanted to wait in the stairwell for another hour or seven, but knew it was time to deal with what had happened.

God, what would Sherlock say? What was he thinking right now? Was John going to walk into the flat just to see Sherlock's disgusted face? Was he going to scold him? Was he going to ignore what had happened all together? Because John wasn't sure he liked that thought either. Having 'what ifs' and 'maybes' floating around them without any resolution—

But all of John's humiliated pondering ceased the moment he walked in the door of the flat.

Because the settee Sherlock had previously been occupying was now vacant.

"Sherlock?" John called, almost surprised at the amount of panic that had filtered into his voice.

He was met with the reply of dead silence.

Even Sherlock calling back to him and saying he'd broken his other leg, or his head, or anything at all, couldn't have scared him as much as this lack of response had.

Because now John's imagination was going wild, wondering what exactly the quiet meant.

What if Sherlock was incapable of answering? What if he had hurt himself so direly that he wasn't even conscious?

Or maybe he was hiding from John in his room because he didn't want to talk to John and planned to just hide from him for ages.

Or, the worst thought that went through John's head was that Sherlock had been so alarmed by what happened between them that he hobbled out of the flat just to get away from John.

John put the food down in the kitchen. "Sherlock!" he yelled, the quiet flat filling with the thud, thud, thud of him pounding around, actually running in his haste to find Sherlock, to prove that his assumptions were wrong. That Sherlock was too resilient, too clever to really hurt himself—at least permanently or to the brink of death. That he and Sherlock were too close for their relationship to be damaged that thoroughly. That Sherlock wasn't quite that easy to scare off.

Luckily, his search didn't last very long. John sucked in a relieved breath when he found Sherlock. He was on the ground on his back, staring up at the ceiling with a petulant look on his face. But he looked completely fine, no blood or sign of a new injury. Just that same childish, grumpy face Sherlock often made.

"Why didn't you respond?" John scolded, helping Sherlock into a sitting position as John knelt down in front of him.

Sherlock wasn't saying anything. And John thought at first the look on his face was just the normal indifferent and irritated look of Sherlock Holmes, but then he took a closer look. He was looking angry and sad and even a little vulnerable. Frustrated as always, but not at the general stupidity of the rest of the universe like he might usually be.

And John had a thought. Maybe that face was geared towards him. Maybe Sherlock really had been on the way to his room to ignore John, but then had been unable to get there.

So John finally asked, "Are you cross with me?"

Sherlock still just stared at the ground, and it was making John even more nervous. Was he not speaking to John anymore? But then he said, "I haven't needed help with anything since I was old enough to walk and talk and shit on my own," said Sherlock, his tone of voice drastically different from the way it usually was, full of emotions John hadn't known his flatmate could feel. It shocked John more than he thought it would. "And now, I try to go to the toilet and on the way back to the couch, I fall and can't get back up, and I had to wait forty minutes for you to get back. It's utterly humiliating."

John's very first emotion, though it lasted for only a moment, was relief. Sherlock's distress was caused by the helplessness of his situation, not by John.

Right after that though, he felt deep sympathy for the man that he on some days could call his friend (though today that was in question even more than usual, because 'friend' suddenly didn't seem like the right word). Sherlock didn't know what it was like to depend on someone, and likely that was uncomfortable for him.

"I'm sorry I took so long," was all John could think to say.

"I expected it. You left out of discomfort, not hunger. I knew you would need time. Had I been thinking clearly, I would have waited for your return, but I must admit your kiss left my mind rather muddled."

John didn't expect Sherlock to bring it up again so bluntly, and so soon on top of that. John felt his ears going red, but didn't know what to say.

"I'm… erm… I'm sorry about that too," said John lamely. "That was… really stupid."

"I thought that was the cleverest thing I've ever seen you do."

John gaped at Sherlock. "Sorry, what?"

"When you kissed me, the arousal which occurred made hormones secrete into my system that temporarily distracted me from both my irritation and my pain. Until I accidentally moved my leg enough to cause pain that the hormones couldn't mask, I was feeling quite content."

John found that this whole speech narrowed down into one single word that Sherlock had said. The only one that mattered.

Arousal.

Sherlock had just admitted that John kissing him had caused him to become aroused.

"Probably that wasn't your intention," Sherlock continued, "but I'm feeling generous right now, so I'll pretend it was deliberate."

It was right about then when John became just a little… disappointed.

I need you to do that again. That had only been because Sherlock had been in pain and the kissing helped that to be dulled. John wasn't sure why it mattered. It's not like he honestly expected Sherlock to want to kiss him.

Or that John even wanted to kiss him again. No, definitely not…

Even though his lips had tasted so perfect, and fit against his like they'd belonged together all along. Even though kissing Sherlock had been ten times better than John had ever imagined—

Not that John had ever imagined kissing Sherlock.

Well, other than in strange dreams…

But no. John needed to stop thinking about this. It didn't matter. It was all just delusional fantasies. What was real was the fact that his friend needed him, and John had been doing a real shit job taking care of him so far, considering he disappeared for so long that Sherlock was left on the ground for the better part of an hour.

Finally, John met Sherlock's eyes again. And Sherlock was frowning at him, obviously trying to read him. John shuddered to think what Sherlock saw, and hoped that it wasn't the insane, inexplicably disappointed man that he felt like on the inside.

John stood up, and he helped Sherlock up as well. "Come on," he said, "let's get you back to the settee. I can make you a new cuppa, since yours probably went cold."

"John—" Sherlock started, but again John didn't let him finish.

"I'm really sorry I left you here alone. I won't do it again." He was helping Sherlock down onto the settee once more.

"John—"

"That was so stupid of me. But I can put some of the takeaway on a plate for you and we can—"

"JOHN!"

John was startled into shutting up.

"I think you misunderstood me," Sherlock said.

"I did?" asked John.

"I didn't only enjoy you kissing me because it dulled the pain, John."

John, still having utterly no idea what to say, planned to just walk into the kitchen, letting the conversation hang in the air, unfinished, but then Sherlock for the second time that night grabbed John from behind the neck, forcing him to look into those pale eyes.

"John, you aren't listening."

"You just aren't making any sense," John replied.

"I'm not? What exactly doesn't make sense about what I've said thus far, in your opinion?"

"You…" John muttered. "I dunno, you don't get aroused. You don't kiss anyone, and if you did, you wouldn't enjoy it. That's what's not making sense."

"Then let me clear up the confusion. Just because I have never been aroused does not mean I am not capable. Just because I had never kissed anyone before today does not imply that I would never have the experience in my life. And saying I wouldn't enjoy it was only speculation on both our parts. But you must know the same as I that a hypothesis, even one of mine, is not always correct."

"So you're saying… you genuinely enjoyed kissing me."

"You're slower than usual today," said Sherlock.

John ignored that. "Then… what the hell is happening here?"

"For once, I'm not actually completely sure. But I do have a plausible experiment that could answer the question for us."

John was always wary of the word 'experiment' when it was uttered by Sherlock, but still prompted hesitantly, "Which involves…?"

"Which involves you coming over here and kissing me again right this instant, because I'm honestly having an amazingly difficult time looking at anything but your lips as you talk right now."

John's heart was pounding now, and he was nervous and way too excited by the thought of kissing the detective again.

His detective.

Without telling himself to, he found himself inching closer to Sherlock, his gaze shifting from his eyes to his lips. Which were just slightly parted, because Sherlock's breathing was just a little less relaxed than usual.

Maybe John would have chickened out, except that Sherlock's eyes were so intense, and they were more than desirous—they were commanding. It wasn't that he wanted John to kiss him. It's that he needed him to. Just like before.

And how could John say no to that?

Before John consciously decided what to do, his hands were on either side of Sherlock's face and John's mouth was back on his flatmate's, his tongue plunging into the other man's mouth. John couldn't feel unsure about it, because the next moment Sherlock's tongue was tangling with his, his arms winding around John's body. John was still trying to be careful of Sherlock's injuries, but he was quickly getting lost in the moment.

So lost that he was running fumbling fingers over the edges of Sherlock's blue dressing gown, longing so much to remove it, and his teeth were just barely snagging on Sherlock's lip, making him give a quiet groan.

They parted for a moment—maybe to breathe, but John wasn't quite sure why that was necessary—and Sherlock quickly said, "Bedroom."

More commands. And John didn't mind being bossed around, if only just in this case. John nodded, and he transitioned in less than a moment back into his protective mode, being as careful as he could as he helped Sherlock to his bedroom. John had only seen Sherlock's bedroom a few times, as usually John was not allowed inside, so it was strange to him that he was not only being allowed to glance inside, but that in a moment he might even be under Sherlock's sheets.

John put Sherlock down on his bed, and Sherlock winced at some jolt to one of his legs.

John became concerned quickly. "Sherlock, you're hurt. We can't—"

Sherlock grabbed at the back of John's head and kissed him once more, apparently not wanting to allow for any talk.

But this time John wouldn't be silenced by the detective.

"Sherlock," John said when he could wrench his face away, "you could hurt yourself worse."

"I'll be fine, John," said Sherlock impatiently.

"And I'll still be here a week from now, and two weeks from now, and a year from now. There's no reason this has to happen now."

"John," Sherlock said in a soft whisper. "I understand that you are being considerate of my injuries, but I would be in less pain if you would give up this argument and do what we both want."

John considered these words, and the tightness of his pants showed that he wanted to give up the argument just as much as Sherlock wanted him to… but one thought came to mind to stay his hands. A similar thought to one he already had that day.

"Do you only want to do this so the pain goes away?"

"Admittedly, yes," Sherlock said. John only had a moment to feel another mad stab of disappointment before Sherlock smirked. "But not the pain in my legs."

John met Sherlock's eyes. "What?" he asked quietly, as if this conversation was forbidden and he had to hide it from everyone, maybe even himself.

"John… I've been wanting you for a long time. I hesitated to admit it even to myself, and I ignored it pointedly… but then you kissed me, and I can't ignore it any longer. And I fear that I will wake up tomorrow and I'll try to tell you none of it mattered… but not if we find out exactly what this is right now. This is… a time sensitive experiment. The longer I wait, the more I will question if this is the thing I should do. So do it now, John. So I won't lose my courage."

It was so strange, hearing these words coming out of Sherlock's mouth. Not that he was comparing it to an experiment, that was normal, but talking of secret longings and of courage… John was seeing another part of Sherlock that he never knew existed. And it seemed amazingly similar to how he was feeling about this. Would he lose his courage if they waited? Would they try to forget the kiss ever happened?

And John really couldn't risk that.

So without any more argument, John was hovering over Sherlock, careful not to hurt him, and kissed him, more sweetness there than before, but also more heat.

It was an interesting business, with John half losing himself to the desire, but also paying very close attention to the man beneath him, so afraid of hurting him. He was in John's care, and even if this was part of caring, he would feel horrible if he hurt his detective in the process.

But somehow John managed to take off Sherlock's pyjamas without any incident, and John's oatmeal jumper and jeans joined the dressing gown and grey tee shirt and cotton trousers in pools on the floor.

John could admit to himself now that he'd imagined more than once what Sherlock's body might look and feel like. Like many things with his flatmate, it was almost inhuman, so smooth it seemed impossible, so pale that it was close to the colour of paper. Cooler than skin usually was, but Sherlock's lips were hot, and John's hands tingled where they ran against Sherlock's skin like there was electricity running between them. It was so unreal, the feel of the other man, but it was more amazing that he was touching John back, that he was just as enthusiastic, gripping John tight with slightly cold hands. John wondered vaguely if that meant that Sherlock was colder than average or if John was actually warmer than average. Maybe it was both.

During all this, John wondered how this could really work. Since he was admitting his fantasies now, he'd had many ideas of what he and Sherlock's first time might be like, but Sherlock's injuries really hindered any of those ideas. John decided that the only logical way to do this without Sherlock being hurt was to keep Sherlock in exactly the position he already was in, lying on his back with his legs utterly stationary, and that ruled out any ideas of actual penetration. And John himself wasn't comfortable with the idea of taking that role in the encounter either. John thought all these things quickly, working through it as fast as he could as his hands explored Sherlock. Before he actually meant to, he found his fingers running beneath the waistband of Sherlock's pants, and Sherlock actually shivered beneath him. That took away any of John's fears and he gripped Sherlock's cock in his hand. Sherlock shuttered in a gasp at the touch, and his eyes were wide with what John was almost sure was fear. But how could Sherlock Holmes, of all people, feel both longing and fear in the same day? John had meant it when he said that his favourite aspects of Sherlock were the things that made him human, but that didn't mean he saw these things frequently. But today… Sherlock seemed just like any other person.

"John," Sherlock said shakily. "I… I don't…"

John saw the signs that Sherlock was going to start panicking.

"I w—want this, I do," he continued, "but… I…" He looked so scared that John felt a moment of reservation. Should he stop?

But then he thought about Sherlock, about what he knew about him. John then decided that stopping wasn't the way to go at all.

So he kept his hand in place on Sherlock's erection, but raised his other and put it on Sherlock's face. "Sherlock, I'm right here. It's just me. The one who always takes care of you. This isn't any different. I'd never let anything happen to you. You know that, right?"

Sherlock, after a moment, nodded—his eyes still wide and looking somewhat like a child, but still somehow looking more determined. It made warmth blossom in John's chest. Sherlock trusted him.

"You're okay?" John asked softly.

Sherlock nodded again, swallowing visibly. John placed one more kiss on Sherlock's lips, soft and lingering, and when he backed away, Sherlock's eyes were shining in what John had come to recognise as a smile.

John then started to run his hand up and down Sherlock's prick, feeling unsure at first since he'd never done this before (unless doing it to himself counted), but Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut, and his breathing got louder. As his confidence increased, he dared to continue as he pressed kisses to Sherlock's mouth, his neck, his ears. Sherlock's fingers dug hard into John's bare shoulders, and his hips just barely rocked to the rhythm of John's pumping. John became nearly intoxicated by the look of pleasure on Sherlock's face, and in that he found the nerve to replace his hand with his mouth. Sherlock gasped again, and then groaned, his hands tangling in John's hair.

Sherlock didn't last long after that. John savoured in the helpless sounds coming from Sherlock's mouth, the types of sound he never thought he'd really hear coming from the great Sherlock Holmes.

"John…" Sherlock moaned, which made John move his mouth faster, and he wrapped his hand around his own erection, finding it swollen and sensitive, like just the sinful sounds Sherlock was making were enough to bring him to the edge of orgasm. His movements were a little clumsy, as he had never done this before, and he was still trying to be careful of Sherlock's legs, but despite all of that both men were under the impression this was the best sex anyone ever had.

And maybe John would have lasted longer, but for the fact that when Sherlock came, he let out a yell that sounded much like John's name, and it was enough to send him over the edge just a moment later. John couldn't pay attention to the mildly unpleasant taste of Sherlock's come, because he found himself swimming in pleasure, groaning even with his mouth still on Sherlock's penis, as he found his own release.

John sat there for a moment, gathering himself, before releasing his lips from Sherlock and looking up at him. Sherlock's eyes were closed and he was heaving in breath like he had been running for ages. His fingers were still in John's hair, but the grip was loose enough that John was able to move Sherlock's hand away and meet him at the top of the bed, collapsing down like he'd been on the jog too.

John kept looking at Sherlock, waiting for his eyes to open, but Sherlock ended up speaking without opening his eyes.

"I think you could have broken my other leg just now and I wouldn't have even felt it. Hormones are an amazing thing."

"I'd really rather you not get hurt again," John replied.

Sherlock opened his eyes, smiling with his eyes again. "It's sometimes strange to me that you care so much. It still baffles me, even after all this time."

"Well then you should start getting used to it," John responded, "because I'm never going to stop caring about you."

"Even when I annoy you?" asked Sherlock in amusement.

"Even then."

"Even when I tell you to wash my sheets because you ejaculated on them?"

John rolled his eyes. "Even then," he repeated.

"You know, I've never considered before, maybe I don't deserve a friend like you."

"No, you don't," John replied. "But you have me anyway."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched up.

"Wait, friend?" John asked. "After that?"

"I don't think I'll worry about titles just yet."

"But there will be a title then? You're not going to pretend this didn't happen tomorrow?"

"Oh, certainly not. I admit that I enjoyed that rather more than I expected, and thus I predict I'll be wanting sex many more times in the future."

John looked at the ceiling, suddenly thoughtful.

"Oh, what did I say wrong now?" asked Sherlock in a bored voice.

"Nothing," John said. "I was only wondering… how would you feel about going on… well, a date?"

Sherlock glanced over to him. "A date?"

"I just don't want this to just be sex. Because it isn't for me."

Sherlock met his eyes for a long moment, his face as unreadable as always. "Nor for me," he finally said. "A date then."

"When you can walk again," John added. "Because I'm not dragging you all around the bloody city."

Sherlock gave a real smile, one of the rare ones that made John feel like he was melting. "Agreed."

And both of them, with John's head in Sherlock's shoulder, still carefully avoiding Sherlock's injuries, fell asleep.


Hope you enjoyed. Please review. : ]