A/N: Sorry for the wait, lovely readers, but I have some news for you!

First I'd like to give huge thanks to reviewers, especially TheReturned, CR.5 (wont let me spell out your full username, but hopefully you know who you are!) and Sendia for their undying faith as well as Ayno23, KilgharrahPendragon and Shortcake Yard for their reviews! You're all beautiful souls and if I could hug you (or shake your hand if you'd prefer) I would; your support keeps me writing, truly!

So now for the bitter-sweet news: it pains me to say it but this chapter is officially the second to last I will be posting to this story. At least, for now. Unfortunately life has come and slapped me in the face and I must attend to it; I am currently neck deep in the process of applying for colleges/universities and I have developed a new idea for a work I wish to publish. Of course I will update whenever my muse whispers sweet nothings in my ear but for now, I must focus on school and this new lovely piece.

That being said, be on the lookout for that new piece! It'll be titled 'The Private Lists of Dr. John H. Watson' and will follow a separate story of how our boys finally lifted their blindfolds and fell in love!

Romance is my jam, guys. Obviously

Anywho I do hope you enjoy this chapter, I decided to write about the boys first kiss. Or a version of it. There are many in my head ;)

Leave a review if you feel so inclined! They make my heart happy :)


It First Begins…

"John? John! I finished!"

As the dark haired man rounded the corner of the kitchen table – a tube of bubbling purple liquid close to overflowing behind him – he beamed with pride. Having just finished his study on the liquid states of poisons and their varying colours. John had been complaining day in and day out about the 'contamination of food' and the 'unhealthy repercussions' of his actions. The doctor would be pleased and, as Sherlock hoped, admiring of the speed at which he had completed this particularly strenuous series of experiments.

John sighed and quickly finished his shaving, the razor running nicely over his stubbly skin, picking up piles of white cream along the way. He looked into the mirror as he inspected his work, the smoothness of his square jaw. Another sigh for an entirely different reason and he turned around, knotting the dark blue belt of his robe as he walked out the bathroom. Unfortunately, he had been looking downwards at said belt as he departed said room.

"Sherlock I'm coming, I –"

Then there was a collision; the scientist and the doctor met in the middle between kitchen and bathroom. Only one was prepared and as the shorter man started to stumble backwards, long pale fingers wrapped themselves swiftly around those well-muscled biceps. While this stopped the backwards push of gravity, it did in fact cause the space between the two men to diminish significantly.

Yet as they stood a bit too close for comfort, Sherlock's grip was no less than vice-like, his body was no less excited, his eyes were no less… John couldn't say what they were.

Well, he could, honestly, it wasn't as though he had gone mute but if he were to divulge the truth and regurgitate these things it would get… messy. Messy like that beautifully disheveled mop of unruly hair. If he was being brave, and John did certainly believe he was brave at times, he could admit he found those eyes to resemble brilliant works of art, fascinating constellations of green and blue and grey, even brown.

The proximity of their bodies had grown less and less, yet neither had taken any steps to changing it. It was as though they were simply slow-working magnets, sliding into an inherent position; they had been made to fit here.

John watched as Sherlock's triumphant smile faded from his long, angular face and was replaced with an analytical line of deep and intense though. A look to which John was made slave to, unable to look away even though he knew he was the one being deduced. Surely Sherlock could see the dialating of his pupils, could feel the speeding pulse under those fingers still at his elbow… John could practically taste those lips and he wondered if Sherlock felt the same; if Sherlock felt any of this at all.

That was always the question, wasn't it? Did Sherlock feel the same? Often John would scold himself for even indulging in the fleeting thought of attraction between them. Sherlock had already stated he was 'married to his work,' and besides which, John had already stated he wasn't gay. Many times.

With his head bowed, John was about to shake his head and step away when the hand holding his arm tightened softly. Looking up he had a split second to wonder, 'what the…' then he had no thoughts at all.

Those erotically sculpted Cupid's bow lips were resting on his own lightly, moving slowly as if searching for some kind of lost thing. John watched as those eyes above his closed and the weight of all his hopes falling from his shoulders had his own stormy-blue eyes closing tightly, as if the loss of sight would in fact heighten his ability to feel and taste. Then, right then, he realized what was happening. Sherlock was…

Kissing. A terribly mundane and rudimentary need of the body which Sherlock often ignored; affection and sentiment were weaknesses. Only for cases had he ever been involved in such base activities and even then it was not something he had particularly enjoyed. But now, as John's thin but soft lips were responding beneath his, the great consulting detective almost moaned at the sheer want which raced through his mind. It enveloped every lobe and crevice which hid inside the muscle he valued most, till he felt it trail down his body to an entirely different one.

Their lips came together once, twice, three times before John felt the wall at his back, felt not just a hand still gripping his arm but one now running fingers through his short hair. With a moan he grabbed hold of whatever bit of shirt he could; wrinkling the silk but neither man gave a toss as tongues met reverently. Nips and sucks and bites ghosted calligraphic patterns on now reddened lips, wrote hymns to both lust and love; this was proper worship.

Sherlock thought he heard the distant sound of some violin concerto, perhaps cellos and standing basses thrown in here and there. It was lovely.

Later when Sherlock would tell him this, John would ask him what he would name the composition. After no more than a few seconds thought, he replied 'Initium'.