I need to address something that was brought to my attention: the relationship between John and Sherlock is COMPLETELY consensual. I'm not calling out the person who suggested otherwise, but please know that I do NOT write dubcon or noncon. I wouldn't do that to either of them.


John was determined not to let things awkward between him and Sherlock. He was not going to screw up the only chance he had for human interaction because he had a hard time keeping it in his pants. He wasn't a bloody teenager. He had self-control. He was a soldier, for God's sake. He was the picture of discipline. His sleeping mind had less control, however. He woke up that morning with his sweat broken out over his forehead from a dream, but he was certain it had nothing to do with memories of war. He could only recall fuzzy images of his hand grabbing dark, messy curls. It didn't take a genius to figure out who the curls belonged to.

John had been secretly worried that Sherlock wouldn't stick around because of that weird encounter yesterday, but just like before, Sherlock closed the door behind him at dinner.

"Hello," John said and took the tray of food.

Sherlock gave him a stiff nod of acknowledgement, his lips pressing together tightly, "John."

John wanted Sherlock to take off his helmet again, but it would probably be wise to strike up a conversation first and make him more comfortable. "I was wondering," he said through bites of food, not missing the look of disgust Sherlock gave him, "about your job."

Sherlock made a questioning sound in his throat and John was able to see him raise an eyebrow under the mask.

"Why are you here? You said you don't agree with the Fire Nation's views, so why get a job at a place that holds prisoners of war?"

"My brother got me the job," he grumbled. "He knows how I feel, and feared that if I did not add to the war effort, it would arouse suspicion. It was either this, being on the front line, or holding some insufferable government position like he does."

"How high up is your brother?"

"I don't even know. I barely pay attention to his life. He knows the royal family, I know that much."

So Sherlock came from a posh background. Not surprising. "How does he feel about the war?"

"Indifferent, mostly."

A spike of anger made John's lip twitch. "Indifferent at all the lives being lost?"

"He doesn't care much about anything," Sherlock said.

"Sounds like a bastard." It occurred to John that he could have just deeply offended a prison guard, but he was caring less and less about potential punishment lately.

Sherlock didn't seem fazed. "He is."

His reaction cooled John's anger. "How'd your brother feel if he knew this," he waved his hand and gestured between them, "was happening?"

"Disappointed but not surprised," he said. "He knows I've always had a weakness for the brave type."

A tingling feeling entered John's gut. "Was...was that an indirect compliment?"

Sherlock scoffed, "Please-"

"No," John stood from his mattress, abandoning the food. "It was."

Sherlock scoffed. "You're horribly mistaken."

"No, I've got everything crystal clear," he crossed his arms. He wasn't going to let Sherlock get away with this. "You said your brother wouldn't be surprised that you're talking to me because you have a, and I quote, 'weakness for the brave type.' That obviously means me."

Sherlock opened his mouth, snapped it shut, opened it again, worked his mouth silently, then settled on forming a tiny smile. "I'm impressed, John. You were able to keep up with a conversation. Excellent."

"Thanks a lot, you wanker." In another situation, John would have playfully shoved his shoulder, but there were limits. Besides, shoving Sherlock's shoulder might lead to other inappropriate physical contact.

Sherlock's eyes were boring into his.

John felt pinned. He forced his eyes to tear away from Sherlock's. They flickered down to Sherlock's lips. Bad idea. God, he couldn't remember the last time he kissed someone. The last person he kissed was Mary, but it felt like a lifetime ago.

"John," the plump lips curved around his name.

"Sherlock?"

"You want to see my face again."

John licked his lips, but remained silent and breathed deeply. Was he really that transparent?

Sherlock didn't need a response. He took off his helmet and shook out his hair, little droplets of sweat flying. It must have been hot under that thing. His hair had a little more volume than it did yesterday, though.

Seeing Sherlock's sharp cheekbones, wispy eyebrows, and messy curls did nothing to quell John's lust.

"Why do you want to see me?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't know," John lied. "I just do. Why did you get upset yesterday when I said you could put your helmet back on?"

Sherlock's handsome features scrunched up. "I wasn't upset."

"You seemed offended."

"I thought my face displeased you."

"You want your face to please me?"

"Not what I meant."

Their voices had become quieter and quieter, down to a near whisper. This conversation was going down the wrong path. John's skin was hot and his palms were sweating. Control yourself.

Sherlock cast his eyes downward. "John, I find myself more drawn to you by the day."

John's heart sped up. Why, lord? "You, uh, mentioned something like that a few days ago."

"It's getting worse." He looked up. "Finding someone so interesting and similar in beliefs has not happened before. I don't know what this is."

John felt a little indignant, feeling like Sherlock's occupation for the day. But, they had agreed to talk solely to keep each other occupied. But, really looking at Sherlock now without the helmet and mask, John could tell that wasn't it, at least not entirely. He didn't want to be presumptuous. He straightened his spine, and old habit he used to feel confident derived from being on the shorter side. He decided to go for it, "It's...It's called friendship, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.

John had the feeling he'd gotten it right. Sherlock would have probably yelled if he got it wrong.

"Friends?"

"I think so," John said slowly. Sexual desires aside, John was really growing to like him. To hell with it: he did like him. He wished he talked to Sherlock sooner. He remembered how Sherlock stared at him a lot before he was put into isolation. He'd thought it was creepy, then, but maybe Sherlock just wanted to start a conversation and didn't know how. It still felt so fucking weird that he was considering the possibility that he was friends with a guard. He wished they could have met outside of this hellhole.

Sherlock was processing John's words. "We're friends."

"I guess. I don't know how else to describe this."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, that seems to be a plausible assessment. This could be dangerous," his voice deepened to a rumble.

A tiny thrill went through John. "It was dangerous before, wasn't it? We just put a name to it."

Sherlock nodded again, still processing, blinking.

He looked so jarringly lost that John wanted to reassure him. "Think of this as a small way to stick it to your brother, yeah?"

That made Sherlock smile. "Yes." His eyes softened. "He would despise you."

That made John smile, too. "That's a nice thought."

Sherlock snorted, then the smile faded slightly. "Is this normal?"

"Nothing is normal about this situation."

"No, I mean we've only been talking like this for, what, nearly a week? Are friendships supposed to form this quickly?"

Well, that told John all he needed to know about Sherlock's life outside of work. "They can." He felt a little guilty. Sherlock's view of their relationship was almost innocent, and there John was, ready to suck that pretty neck. What a bloody pig he was. He was technically still in a relationship. Kind of.

"We should shake hands," Sherlock blurted out.

John looked at him in surprise. "What?"

"Isn't that what friends do?"

Not always, John wanted to say, but he had an opportunity to touch Sherlock. He wasn't stupid enough to let that pass. He held out his hand.

Sherlock looked down at John's hand for a solid seven seconds. He slowly held out his hand and took John's in his own.

His hand was large, large and warm, but not sweaty like John's. His skin felt surprisingly soft. John thought about how, if he wanted to, Sherlock could make fire burst from that very palm.

They shook hands five times before dropping their arms to their sides. It was one of the strangest things to happen to John, to be frank. Kind of pleasant. Entirely strange.

Sherlock seemed to snap out of something. "Perhaps I should leave."

John let his brain win over his desires, "Perhaps you should. People might start looking for you."

Sherlock put the helmet back on and slid the mask down. "See you tomorrow."

"Yeah, see you."

Sherlock left, the cell door shutting loudly behind him.

John sighed and rubbed his eyes. "I'm in deep shit," he said to the empty cell. Friends. He never thought he'd end up here. He had nineteen days left in isolation. Nineteen days of hiding his god damned lust. Nineteen days of talking to Sherlock. A part of him wanted to continue his new friendship with Sherlock, but he hated being in this small room. Sherlock was the only good thing about this punishment. He fucking hated being contained. It wasn't so bad at first, but he felt like he was going to burst sometimes.

Now was one of those times. Sherlock's absence combined with sexual frustration made John stir crazy.

John slammed his hands against the metal wall, putting all of his strength into it, willing the wall to bend. His hands shook, fingers twisting. Of course, it didn't work. He just ended up with sore knuckles. He stomped down in the position to bring up a rock from the ground only to be painfully reminded that nothing would come of it. He just wanted to get the fuck out of there. Not just out of the cell, but out of the fucking prison. His friendship with Sherlock eased his anger and anxiety slightly, but not enough that he wanted to stay. He wondered what it would be like to know Sherlock outside of here. He doubted he would ever know.

John gave up trying to bend the metal and slumped to the floor, not caring enough to crawl over to his mattress. His shoulder was going to make him pay for it tomorrow.

He looked up at the ceiling. He had nineteen days. Maybe, if he was very careful, he could test the waters with Sherlock. There could have been a slim chance Sherlock had similar feelings. At this point, he didn't think Sherlock would burn him as punishment for stepping out of line in any way. If things would completely backfire, he could just avoid Sherlock once he was out of this cell. It was worth a try. After all, he had time to kill.


This story is honestly getting difficult to write. I don't think it's going to be much longer. I just want them to fuck already.

Please review!~