The case was the retrieval of photographs, ones compromising to the most powerful family in Britain. She didn't want any money, simply a power play. I remember how intrigued Sherlock was when he met the woman. I remember hating her. The way she flirted, thankfully only at Sherlock. He never replied. She was a mystery to him, which only furthered the depths of his curiosity. Damn her. He tried to impress her, which was his downfall. She was a set up, a trap, a trick. She played Sherlock like he played his violin. You see, Irene Adler was working for a dangerous man, Sherlock's nemesis you could say in fact. Jim Moriarty.
Moriarty was a sick and twisted man, probably what Sherlock would be if I hadn't been around to smack him upside the head when he insulted someone or was insensitive. Sherlock would probably be just as bad if he didn't have a guided hand. A lot of things would be different.
Moriarty had a spider's web strung all throughout the system of Britain. He had hands in numerous cookie jars and many flies tangled in his threads. Sherlock was determined to defeat the monster. Sherlock starting coming to bed less and less, sitting up all night at his desk, shuffling through multi-colored papers and fiddling away on his mobile. It was like the work had consumed him.
He rarely ate, barely slept, and refused to change into suitable clothes unless absolutely necessary. He spent about three days in his blue robe. I'd like to say I snapped him out of it, that we made up from our fights over the subject and had delicious make up sex, but that's not what happened. If fact we fought time after time. I always lost. You can't make 'the great' Sherlock Holmes do anything he doesn't want to. Until one day, I just got fed up with it.
"Look Sherlock," John ordered, "You need to eat something. You haven't had a bite all day."
"I'm not hungry." the detective groaned from his position on the couch.
"At least drink something then?" John begged.
"Not thirsty."
"God damn it Sherlock!" John barked, "You're loosing it. Aren't you just deteriorating here?"
"I need to figure out how to defeat-"
"Screw Moriarty!" John interrupted, "Get ahold of yourself already!"
Sherlock sat up, his elbows on his knees. "What's the matter."
John was silent for a while before retreating to the kitchen and quietly returning with a glass of water. "Please, Sherlock. At least drink a little bit. Otherwise you're going to kill yourself." John frowned.
Sherlock just sat back against the leather, shaking his head. So, John did the next best thing. He took a swig of the water into his mouth and walked over to Sherlock, who shot him a questioning glace. It wasn't until John settled himself in Sherlock's lap that things took a turn. "John, what're you-"
He was cut off by the sudden contact of lips. Sherlock rested his hands on the man's lower back, filling up with John's kiss. Traces of water dripped from the crevices of their mouths and John pushed it down Sherlock's throat. The detective swallowed after a short protest, and the little man drew back, admiring his quick thinking. "That was sneaky." Sherlock grinned devilishly.
"You weren't going to drink it otherwise." John shrugged.
He reached behind him for the water glass on the table and took another swig, which was accepted a little easier then the first time. They went on like this until the glass was nearly empty. John smiled to himself. "There. Was that so hard?"
"When you put it that way..." Sherlock retorted.
John planted another quick peck on Sherlock's lips before starting to climb off. His hips however, were caught and held in place. Strong hands gripped at his jumper with cocky confidence. "Where are you going?" the detective asked.
Now I've said it before, I am not gay. I swear to you, I like women, and the thought of sleeping with men is sort of a turn off, but being with Sherlock was an entirely different matter. It's as if it was only him that I liked the idea of, not necessarily male or female, but Sherlock.
We were together for a while, much to the pleasure of the fangirls that plagued the internet with their sick fantasies. When Sherlock became famous, it became popular assumption that he and I were together. I guess it was a sort of subliminal advertising, the more a thought is put into your head, the easier it is to believe.
I'm not going to spill every detail of my sex life for your entertainment I'll have you know. It wasn't as if we did it on a regular basis, but each time was, or at least felt magical. That probably sounds stupid and cheesy, but somewhere in the drabble of cases and the excitement of catching a killer, I fell in love with the tall, showoff. I think I may have first realized I had feelings for him when we took on the case you know as 'a study in pink'. The cereal killer, a little old, seemingly innocent cabbie, had gotten to Sherlock. I remember feeling my heart pound in my head as I ran through the massive building, vainly searching for my flat-mate.
When I found him, he was probably about to die. I couldn't even think, I just... pulled the trigger.
"Good shot." Sherlock grinned.
"Yes, yes whoever shot that was... umm..." John babbled, trying to cover his tracks.
but Sherlock already knew it was him, "John."
John turned to face Sherlock, "Mmh?"
"Thank you."
John grinned to himself, "You're welcome."
I think that moment was when I realized it. I'd realized that I'd fallen in love with Sherlock Holmes.