The first week after they officially became a couple (not publically of course) Sherlock tried to give John a blowjob.
It wasn't really that John minded as much as it was that John wanted to take things slow. He had been flattered, really, and was rather surprised when Sherlock looked like his heart was broken into two.
"I thought that's what you wanted?"
John only smiled sympathetically at him and gently gave his cheek a tiny stroke with the back of his hand. "Oh, Sherlock."
John actually has to sit there and explain to Sherlock that blowjobs aren't necessary to sustain a healthy relationship, especially this early on. He's actually rather appalled that Sherlock had been taught that, and there really isn't anyone to blame but Jim Moriarty. It's actually amazing how virginal Sherlock could seem without actually being virginal in the slightest.
"Did he use you?" John asks, his head on Sherlock's lap as they watch television with the sound muted.
"For sex?" Sherlock clarifies. "Yes." He seems impartial to John's body position. He hasn't yet become accustomed to touching, although he doesn't mind whatever John does.
"I hate hearing that," John mumbles sleepily.
"You asked," is Sherlock's blatant retort.
"I suppose I did." John rolls over so that he's facing the ceiling rather than the television. "But no more about Moriarty."
So they succumb to silence. Silence is good. Silence is peaceful. Sherlock actually feels at peace with John without having to engage in some sort of destructive behavior. It's nearly heartwarming. Almost domestic.
Just as John starts to close his eyes, however, the door slams open. John starts to scramble up, but it seems like he's just a touch too late.
"Holy fuck."
It's Lestrade, standing in the doorway with a hand full of what appears to again be some sort of pastries and a jaw dropped nearly to the floor.
John starts to stammer.
"Holy fuck," Lestrade only repeats, and Sherlock seems to be completely calm about the entire thing.
Lestrade drops the box of pastry on the kitchen table, if only to point an accusatory finger at the couple. "No, don't you dare even try to pretend," he warns them. "I know what I saw. Try explaining yourselves out of this one."
John opens his mouth to say something-anything, that'll save their arses, but Sherlock interrupts. "We're dating."
"Holy fuck."
"Sherlock!" John cries out, like he's mortified.
Sherlock's only response is to shrug like he's done nothing wrong. "I understand you're worried about being publicized. Trust me, Lestrade won't tell a soul. I ensure it."
"That's not the point!" John sighs.
"Holy fuck."
"Lestrade, please."
"Sherlock!"
"I promise you," Sherlock says. "I will tell no one else. It's just that this is less tedious and annoying than Lestrade finding out for himself. And trust me, he would have."
"Holy fuck."
In the end, John and Lestrade split a Danish at the kitchen table- courtesy of Molly Hooper of course, while Sherlock sits on the sofa playing his guitar with a burning cigarette between his lips.
"I don't believe you," Lestrade tells John, his mouth half full.
"I have nothing to apologize for," John defends himself.
Lestrade shakes his head quickly. "Never said you did. But all the same I can't believe you. This is bad. This is so bad. For you, I mean. Do you have any idea what you're up for?"
John shrugs. "Heads in the fridge?"
"Sherlock is not a romantic person," Lestrade warns.
John nods. "Yep, got that."
Lestrade can't really argue with that. So the subject is dropped.
"Sherlock, please," John calls out in exasperation for what seems like the millionth time that night. "This isn't how this works." It's been a week since Lestrade found out the two of them had been dating.
Sherlock sits at his desk, peering through a microscope as if John isn't even there. "Really? Because I think this is working quite nicely. I'm actually learning a lot."
John sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers. It's nearing midnight now, the blinds are open and John can clearly see the stars. "Yes but this isn't what you're supposed to be learning," he explains to Sherlock. "I have no doubt in your scientific confidence, but you do realize your English final is tomorrow and you still can't tell the difference between abstract and concrete language."
"Well I don't care about abstract versus concrete language."
"Well your marks do."
Sherlock snorts. "Marks are hardly a measure of intelligence."
John throws his hands up in the air. "Yes, yes, the failure of the English education system, I've heard it all before. But come on. Won't a nice mark make you even the slightest bit pleased?"
Sherlock turns away from his microscope and twists his head to look at John. He's pouting-actually pouting, like a five year old child, and John almost wants to laugh because this is who Sherlock truly is. A grown man with a juvenile mindset no matter how hard he tries to hide it. Sherlock is manipulative and much like a child, he can't stand when things don't go his way. It's actually kind of adorable in that god-I-wish-you-wouldn't-do-that sort of way.
John crosses his arms over his chest in defiance, to show that he won't back down. He won't give in to that cute little pout. It won't work on him. He watches Sherlock stiffen and puff out his ribcage like he's trying to out-stubborn John. It's almost like they're animals, fighting to assert their dominance. Their eyes lock onto each other, hardly blinking.
But alas, Sherlock cracks first. He exhales deeply and closes his eyes for a long moment before giving in. "All right. Fine. What's the difference between abstract and concrete language?"
John half-smiles as he walks up to Sherlock, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Come on. To the living room, where you won't be distracted by…whatever the hell is under that microscope-Oh god did it just move?!"
Studying with Sherlock is more tedious than John had ever imagined. They basically had a little less than eight hours to go over an entire semester's worth of English-no, seven years worth of English, because it seemed like Sherlock couldn't recall anything past the start of secondary school.
John reads aloud a sample passage to be analyzed for rhetorical devices. "And in 1543, Copernicus built his theory that the earth revolves around the sun, a premise that still rings true today."
"The earth goes around the sun?"
When John looks up from the textbook, his is absolutely mortified to see Sherlock's genuinely bewildered expression. His jaw gapes open and he stammers a bit. "You didn't know what?"
"Why should I?" Is Sherlock's defense.
John gives out a little rude laughter. "This is primary school, Sherlock!"
"Is it relevant to being a chemist?"
"Well, perhaps not, but-."
"But nothing. Not interested."
John scoffs. "But it's the solar system!"
"Oh hell!" Sherlock yells out in frustration. "What does that matter?"
John is in disbelief. He's caught between an internally struggling state of oh-god-how-could-this-man-be-so-stupid and oh-god-he's-adorable-when-he-doesn't-know-anything. In the end, he settles for the latter and decides that Sherlock's nearly inhumane obliviousness is actually quite cute. He laughs and runs his fingers through his hair.
"Don't make fun of me, John," Sherlock pleads.
"I'm not," John says between laughs. "I just…wow. You're an idiot, you know that?"
Sherlock sits up straighter than ever before and looks positively offended.
And then they're both laughing.
It's nearing three in the morning when Sherlock gets restless. Boxes of Chinese takeout and empty coffee mugs lay strewn about, most of them attempts to get John to stay away more than Sherlock. It seems like Sherlock is used to all-nighters.
"Bored."
"Sherlock." John slams the open textbook on the table before them in frustration. "I'm trying to help you." He really is dealing with an overgrown child.
"Let's do something else," Sherlock proposes. "I'll play the guitar for you."
"No," John rejects him. "The only reason I came over was to help you study for your English mid-term. If you're not going to study, I'll just leave and let you sleep." He starts to close the textbook. However, his actions are halted when a slender hand grips his wrist and stops him in his tracks.
"No," Sherlock objects. "No, stay. Please. I want you to stay. I'll be good. I'll study. Help me."
When John looks into Sherlock's eyes, he can see the absolute sincerity. Of course Sherlock doesn't want this. He doesn't want to study. He hates English class. He doesn't understand literature-nor does he want to. But more than anything, he doesn't want John to leave, and if studying will keep John by his side, he's willing to be uncomfortable for a couple hours.
John can't help it. He smiles warmly at Sherlock. He's proud of him, really, that Sherlock is finally learning how to sacrifice a little bit of comfort. "Okay," he practically whispers. He can't stop himself from cupping the side of Sherlock's face with his free hand and leaning forward to give Sherlock a light peck on the lips-the most coupley thing they've done all week.
Sherlock doesn't react at first. He just sort of sits there unmoving, like John is kissing a stone, but then he loosens his grip on John's wrist. John takes that opportunity to grab the other side of Sherlock's face, pulling the two of them closer together. Sherlock hesitantly places a hand on John's shoulder, fingers hardly even touching, simply ghosting across the fabric of John's hideous sweater.
"Okay, enough of that," John whispers against Sherlock's lips. "Back to studying, hmm?"
At around five am, John falls asleep with an open textbook on his lap and his head on Sherlock's shoulder. For a while, Sherlock lets him, marveling in the warmth of John's body, the weight of John's head on his shoulder. It's a relaxed, peaceful feeling, quite a nice change from Sherlock's normally hectic life. A sort of euphoria he can get without stick a needle into his arm. But alas, geniuses get bored, and Sherlock soon finds himself itching for excitement. So he holds John's head and gently lowers his entire body down onto the couch. Sherlock then proceeds to cover the sleeping man with a blanket, something he finds himself doing often lately. He then walks into his room to take a peek at the experiment on his desk.
When John wakes up and Sherlock has to go, he gives Sherlock a reassuring pat on the back. "We tried," he tells Sherlock. "That's all that matters. Now go ace that test."
Sherlock ends up failing anyways.
John couldn't be prouder.
