It Has All Been Escalating

When John bumps his knee...

"Sherlock! I am fine!" John tries as Sherlock starts shucking through medical supplies. "Blood is not fine. If you are to continue this case, you need to have it wrapped..." He looks up maniacly through his disheveled hair, "...You are the doctor afterall."

He was right, but John wasn't fully prepared for those pale, cold fingers to roll his trouser leg up. It was what he was avoiding.

"Tssk. John, it's black and blue! What on Earth did you hurt yourself on?" He was going to have to change from his blood soaked pants, "On the table after I tripped over YOUR box of evidence." Then he mumbled under his breath, "Evidence that has nothing to do with the case." Sherlock's head pops up, "Heard you. And it does, John. Don't be so clueless."

tissues. Hot water. Gauze, wrapping, wincing. Pill popping. Then the genius takes a stand, "See how it feels in thirty. We're going to the morgue for a body inspection." John grinds his teeth, "Inspect my ass, Sherlock! I'm going upstairs for a nap. I've been running around town for seven hours too long. You just bloody don't care about my choice." The way he limped to the door reminded Sherlock too much of his other limp, the psychosematic one.

"You mistake me for not caring. I simply expect you to follow along despite injuries, like you always have." John wasn't listening until Sherlock followed it with, "I do care."

. . .

When Sherlock lost his memory...

He didn't technically lose it, he was hypnotized to lose it. Then he forgot he forgot his memory after remembering... -It went something like this:

"Do you remember yet?" John casually asked as he walked across the flat. "No, but i'm doing research." Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, staring very blankly at the wall. The doctor leaned over the table, eyeing bills, and laughed. "That's good, research is something you'd do." But the genius frowns. Stands. "Don't you want to know what kind of research i'm doing?"

John shrugged then nods. Sherlock gets closer, closeness being his point. "It doesn't have to do with my memory." The doctor closes his eyes, as if making him disappear, "What then?" And he can feel Sherlock's toothy grin get ever the more closer to his face, "It has to do with you, and how you're not expressing your hidden feelings." John's eyes open in a mad rush of 'oh shit' and 'fuck i'm pinned against the counter'. "Sherlock! If you are pretending to be out of your wits-"

"-But i'm not. I've just noticed the obvious attraction you have towards me, and would like to appease you in that." The mad way Sherlock stands, lankier than ever, he looks terrifying and brilliant. In one. And John can't move, he can only be aware of hips pinning his down. "Let me prove my point."

Thus began a stranger in Sherlock Holmes' body and mind forcing his tongue artfully inside John's mouth, creating a pleasant sensation of spit and lips. And knowing nothing of what was really going on, John began moving his jaw against the other man's. Though it was short lived as Sherlock finally pulled away walking off stating, "That needing no proving. Just thought it was necessary."

Weeks later, when Sherlock regrettfully did remember everything, John was picking up his jaw off the floor because the genius just went on. He denied ever forgetting his wonderful memory. He truly forgot all about that so-said kiss John had trouble reminding him about.

It was gone. "Sorry, John."

. . .

When John gets scared of heights...

They had scaled the height of an old church, standing on its steeple. The suspect left notes, and directed them here for the next. And it was sprinkling.

"Sherlock, you've got the note now please just get us down." John holding tight to the center point, speaking to Sherlock just on the other side. "The museum of Science, just a few blocks down! We'll make it!" Was his reply. Daintily stepping sideways on the near loose roof tiling. John pleaded again with quiet, "sherlock.. Sher- sherlock, please." He couldn't let go, but he had to.

"Just down this way, it will be quick. Promise." Sherlock's attempt as reassuring. So John did let go with a gutless cue, inching far behind the taller man. Another, "Sherlock?" A slippery hinge. Rubber soles squeaking. "Sherlock!" John didn't know they were so close to the edge, or were so far up. The next thing in his line of sight was the rain covered pavement below... But it wasn't coming at him. Sherlock caught him.

"John. Do take precaution, this is a very dangerous place not to." John shot his eyes up at him angry, shocked at him, but they fell again, and he sat down on the tile. A shaking started out in his hands, and he just couldn't move anymore. Seeing the ground so far away was burned in an image. The wind was soon blocked on his right side then. It was Sherlock. "Apologies Watson... Take your time." A murder could wait. This time. Just once.

John didn't have a sly retort, a stray tear had fallen and a string of feelings were caught in his throat. Proving that you can be an old man and still have strong emotions. Old man going as far as ex-military.

Then he slumped, his head falling against his friend's shoulder, rain pouring lightly down his cheeks. Comfort wasn't something they gave one another often, example Sherlock's tenseness. But it was nice to dream of it. To think that one minded genius under his head was capable of sensitivity. "Lets go chase a killer." He smiled.

. . .

When there's an Intruder in 221B...

With a preference of cold showers, Sherlock let the freezing water roll off his body. If ordinary people had life changing self conversations in the shower, Sherlock had Universal changing ones. Though, he wasn't thinking. His mind was on a break after spending a full two days going through dead end evidence. It wasn't useful to overthink now.

He's just soaped his hair, and the suds ran over his eyes when there was a series of quiet thud thud thud's. And the slow creak of the bathroom door opening and closing. "John?" Sherlock asked blindly, but he was shushed. John whispered, "Keep down. There's a man with an automatic rifle in there, and you've hidden my gun again."

The doctor must've skilled a hand to the water and shut it off, as it stopped running. The curtains still closed, "I didn't hide it, I used it and never properly gave it back." Still blindly talking. "I told you to keep down!" Disgruntled little hedgehog. The footsteps outside became audible now. "John, get me my robe and jump in the shower." Orders. But John only did half of them, giving the man in the shower his blue robe with stretched arms.

"John Hamish Watson!" The steps grew ever the more closer to the door, light underneath blocked. John gulped, walking to the back of the tub and fiddling inside, just as the handle began turning.

Sherlock looked clearly tired and wet and pissed at John for not obeying sooner. But it wasn't any of John's worry now as the man took his arm and hauled him close, putting a mouth to his ear.

The man with the gun was stepping inside, the gun in his hands loudly shifting, his boots loudly thumping.

"Sex noises, make them." Sherlock's words were low and drafted across John's neck. The man with the gun was hired, obvious, and upon hearing a noise as such would throw him off, it'd be unexpected and unauthorized. Sex noises, easy way to fend off dumb intruders with guns. Then Sherlock proceeded to make an extremely obscene, high pitched gutteral moan and hit his fist on the shower wall. John's eyes grew wide and shocked. Again, he just couldn't do it.

The genius grew agitated, hearing the intruder's gun click, and mouthed 'for heaven's sake', and threw a swift knee to John's gut and groinal region. A low, pained groan from John turned (thankfully) to forced moans, and he caught on. Crimpled over himself, he mimicked Sherlock, creating what would sound like two men having sex from the outside. John nearly let out a sniffled laugh as Sherlock yelled out, "Oh GOD YES!"

The steps from the intruder backtracked, and he left within a minute. And the two men stopped the ungodly noises to just look at each other, slightly out of breath, and full of suppressed laughter. John finally broke as he strung out the shower curtain, "That was probably better than sex itself."

Sherlock proceeded to turn the water back on, "What? Convincing a gunman we're at it or the fact that a gun was in fact on us the whole time?"

. . .

When they went undercover...

It was a gay bar. They've been following this woman across town, to dozens of diners, to countless pubs, and now they find she waits at a gay bar. Strange but everyone needs money. (It doesn't take a sociopath to figure this one out)

"Sherlock, she sees us. I think she knows, she's going to-" Sherlock's hand went to John's hair, fast, he knew this was bad and was thinking of a good coverup. Something. So he thought: Gay bar, men, we're two men, kiss! It was so plain and simple he thought about asking John if it'd be too obvious, but the mistress was coming in hot.

The next word crumbled out of John's mouth and into Sherlock's as he swept John's back towards the woman. He watched her carefully, head cocked and lips pressed just off of John's, just off, barely. The corners of one another's mouth's meeting. The genius expected John to put up a fight, but he didn't. He guesses they both were calculated a good 'hide'. The woman stopped, the tray in her hand faultered, then she backed up, walking off with multiple double takes back at the men.

Sherlock threw himself off of John, then watched the other wipe of his mouth on the back of his jacket. "You know..." Here we go. "I was thinking the same thing, SAME THING! But I was thinking more along the lines of faking a kiss, like in plays or bad movies." Sherlock rolled his eyes, beginning to walk to a safer watch spot, "I didn't kiss you exactly, John. Why do you have to over exaggerate?" What the genius didn't know is that John was remembering the amnesia, the hypnosis. "God, Sherlock. Just keep moving."

. . .

When Sherlock remembers his memory loss...

"I kissed you?" Sherlock said one day, very confused, infront of the telly as John typed away on his blog. The good doctor didn't move, "Yes, in the gay bar." His eyes looking to a corner thinking: 'Why does that sound so wrong?'

"No, no. John, I really kissed you. I snogged you right in the kitchen!" He was pointing. Christ, he was pointing. The light bulb flickered on, slowly. John stopped typing, "You were under some spell. I wouldn't think too much into-" Persistence. "Yes! I did. And I was doing research over something, that's why I did it."

Thinking. John was trying to avoid this, "You weren't! Really, doctor's said you may never remember what-" Cutting in, "I spoke to you too. I said it was research for... God, what was it?"

John leapt out of his chair as soon as Sherlock did, as soon as he began dancing around the flat with his hands at eye level. "IT WAS DUMB! Okay? Sherlock, some things are never to be-" Then the hands fell, and Sherlock opened his eyes, he stopped dancing and running, "Hidden feelings?" He was confused again. "I must have been mistaken on that, right?" He squinted as he tried to follow John's eyes, but the doctor turned his head away and down, arms insecurely folding over one another.

Sherlock dropped any facial expression except 'Realization'. His shoulder evening out, posture straightening. "Oh." John nodded, avoiding being seen, feet swifting towards, where, the door? But the detective didn't let him go, he caught his arm, "I understand why you wouldn't want me to remember this, but there's one thing I don't understand." The doctor's expression looked up from a personal hell, "What would you not understand?"

And Sherlock felt a new feeling, one he hasn't made contact with since the drugs, the bad years.

"Why do you feel embarrassed?"

. . .

When John punched Sherlock...

It had to happen. Sherlock needed to know what's right and wrong to say. He absentmindedly insulted John's ex and John had the last straw. He ended up punching the wanna-be genius, throwing him to the ground, straddling him, and threatening to put another blow to the perfect cheek bones.

"I take it back, she was a wonderful cook!" Too late for appeasement now. John clenched his hand tighter to his collar. "No, you owe me now." And Sherlock didn't know what he owed him, money, words? "What on gods green Earth do I owe you now?" Maybe the two had a few glasses of wine, but the arguement was real. "An explaination."

Alright. Explaination he could do. Easy. He does this on a regular basis. He nods against the hand in his shirt. The thigh's straddling his stomache inch up, John's face tilting and eyes squinting, "Tell me why you tease me all the damn time. And don't act like you don't know. Because you do. You do. I see it, you know it." Sherlock stops struggling, and he bangs his head back on the ground.

The wine must be clearing in the doctor's head now because he catches his breath and scatters off his friend, crawling backwards, falling to his ass. Sherlock just lays there, heaving a good heavy few sigh's before sitting up much like John is across the floor. "I can only speak for me when I say I'm not one for a relationship. This friendship is actually the closest thing I've been to any sort of love. So, a response your looking for isn't something I can give you." Maybe they didn't have that much wine, maybe they drank one glass and pretended they had three.

"I'm sorry. I was being, ignorant." They exchange a glance, and Sherlock sees John's equal frustration.

. . .

When there's another intruder...

John was just woken up, taking his ritual scalding shower before work. Real work, like at the clinic work, not detective work. Not yet. When the door burst open and shut closed. "Sherlock." He knew who it was, nobody on Earth would be so enthusiastic about walking into a room.

"Stop your vocals, John. Another man with a gun was chasing me, he's in the flat." There was a quiet sound of shoes then Sherlock stepped quickly into the shower. "Sherlock! There's one too many corrections you need for doing that!" Naked, wet, then there's Sherlock, dry, clothed. "I hear him, he'll see my shadow, move-" And suddenly Sherlock's body was pressing tightly against John's side, his arms above the shorter man's head. "He's not even in here!" John whispered, covering and shifting his body so that nobody touched anyone's genitals.

"Shh, I think he's heard you." Tick tock. "You know hot water really dries out your skin." So nonchalantly said John turns to face Sherlock in a small fit of rage. Then regrets it. "What-" His voice loses, "Are you doing in here?" He finally asks because no matter how hard he listens, there is nobody in the flat, nothing moving.

And no matter how hard he tries, he can't look away from Sherlock's clothes soaking slowly through, hair poufing down, skin prickled, he hates the hot water, but he loves it with him (John thinks), the way his arms are still framing him from above, and how their faces are sharing warmth close together. "I'm giving you your explaination."

The perfect porceiline skin, the perfect tinted pink of those lips, the perfect shade of tinted blue of his wet shirt, the perfect kiss. This time soft, this time different, this time it's full of something. Meaning? And this time John lets his mouth fall open and Sherlock's tongue is welcomed in, and it's not snogging or kissing. It's making out in their shared shower. And John is overly self conscious, he's hyperaware of his nudeness...But.

But it's Sherlock infront of him, and it's his friend, and it's alright. His cheeks go hotter than the water running down them as Sherlock pulls away, the string of spit connecting them being washed down their skin and fabric. "When?" It was so quiet, it's hard to tell if it was really said afterall.

"Always. I guess it has all been escalating to this." His arms fell and scanned over his shoulders, pulling him in for a hug. John dismissed his discomfort of having an awkward shower erection pushing into his friend's leg, becaues the nudeness of Sherlock shone now. He did what he never expected him to do. And that's love someone. And it was him. All he could do was wrap his arms around him and give in, letting his feelings well up inside his chest as they stand there. Letting the hot water run cold.