Sorry, What?

Rating: T

Warnings: Lashings of sexual references and one briefly mentioned but not described – to put it politely – good ol' whankin'.

A/N: A little humour piece to pass the time and fill a prompt on the kinkmeme. Also, it's got to be the fifth or sixth shot I've written where John is either watching or mentions QI. Yes, I am a fan, and I'm fairly sure John would be, too. All in order? Right – onwards!

-for you!

Sherlock Holmes takes a deep breath.

It's not something he does very often, largely because he's usually focussed on more important things like thinking and if his lungs can't cope on their own they'll just have to lump it. Right now, though, he takes one anyway because he's read somewhere that it helps to calm you down when you're nervous. That's not something he has much experience with either, but the theory turns out to be bollocks; he's just as nervous after the breath as he was before it.

But enough about breathing, breathing's boring. Let's backtrack a bit, shall we? This morning dawned mild and a little damp, but Sherlock wasn't worried about the weather. He woke up at ten, and by ten fifteen Lestrade had called with a really rather interesting case involving a goldfish bowl, a toupee and a pair of tweezers, and even Sherlock wasn't quite sure how it got to where it did so quickly until about half an hour ago but it quite literally ended with a bang. His ears are still ringing faintly and he wasn't nearly as close to the building as John had been. Bless him, but the good doctor still has trouble keeping up sometimes.

As John had been blown off his feet and into Lestrade by the force of the explosion, Sherlock had been beset by three principal emotions: shock, concern and just a smidgeon of jealousy.

Which, let's face it, wasn't entirely unexpected. Sherlock has thought of many words to describe his relationship with John, but none of them quite cover it. He's not a complete stranger to physical attraction, but with John it's always been different: it's the doctor's mind he was attracted to first, and now after eighteen months of living together he just loves John, as a whole, almost blindly and yet more clearly than anything he's ever felt before. He loves the way John appreciates him, cares for him, loves him. He loves every single tiny detail of their relationship, which inherently must mean that he loves the way John's crows-feet crinkle when he smiles and the way his hair looks in the morning, and he wouldn't change anything about it for the world. He knows he's maybe sometimes a little bit sexually attracted to the doctor. And he knows John's usually just a teensy bit attracted to him back. But their relationship is so not about sex that somehow in his big scary brain he knows that it can never be about sex. Which is fine, of course – it's perfect the way it is, so why change it?

For the first time today, something inside our favourite consulting detective disputed that claim. When John Watson was blown, bewildered, into the lap of an equally surprised Gregory Lestrade – it's probably worth noting here that nobody was seriously hurt in this case except the goldfish – Sherlock wanted to scoop him up into his arms and hold him until he was all right again, which of course is what he did straightaway. He also quickly discovered that he really wanted to take John and kiss the hurt away with closed eyes and linked arms, but he knew he couldn't because sex would ruin their friendship.

He also knew that nothing could ruin their friendship.

If you've spotted the contradiction in those two sentences then you're one up on the consulting detective, who, it's been previously noted, can be spectacularly ignorant about some things. If you've spotted it already, it can't have taken you more than thirty seconds. The amazing Sherlock Holmes took a grand total of nine months, fourteen days and about three hours, which brings us back to around five minutes ago.

Between the revelation and the aforementioned deep breath, Sherlock's mind did some very quick thinking. It's rather good at that. He reasoned with himself suddenly that if nothing can ruin their relationship, and he's absolutely certain that nothing can, then theoretically they have nothing to lose. He's heard of good friendships being ruined because the two friends had sex before, but they can't possibly have been quite as close as Sherlock and John. The worst that can happen, again, theoretically, is that the sex doesn't work out, right? And that's where most of those friendships go wrong. Well, technically the two of them have already had sex, although neither of them likes thinking about that week, and if that didn't change their relationship one iota then this can't possibly.

The theoretical situation is a win-win. Sherlock's good at theory. Sometimes, though, people behave in ways that he didn't account for in his theoretical situations, and if there was a list of all the people who have ever surprised him, John would be the top twelve or thirteen people.

But, he decided eventually, the last decision of the furious five minutes, there could never be any harm in at least throwing these deductions in John's general directions and see if that's something he might possibly consider.

Hence the slight nerves contracting in his stomach like he's swallowed a grapefruit. Hence, after all of that, the deep breath.

John is in the sitting room with the television – predictably, an unbelievably old episode of QI – turned on so loud that just to be able to hear himself think, Sherlock had to lock himself in his bedroom. He comes out now, bursts through the door with his usual bravado and carefully positions himself on the coffee table so that his head is right between John and Steven Fry. John raises an eyebrow at him, then sees that he has his serious face on, sighs, and kills the sound on the telly.

"What is it, Sherlock?" he asks, not in irritation exactly, just a sort of resignation that Sherlock is never going to let him watch an entire episode of this program.

Sherlock catches himself taking another deep breath, tells himself off for it, mentally shrugs and continues. "John, I've been thinking. Do you think sex would ruin our friendship?" He doesn't pause for the good doctor to answer, but instead plunges headfirst into the deductive reasoning that led him to ask the question. "Because I know you're attracted to me and you know I'm attracted to you, but we don't do that sort of stuff anyway because we're already such good friends and you think that if we went into a romantic sort of relationship we'd fall into that stereotype and not have exactly this friendship anymore, and I always sort of trusted you because you know more about this sort of stuff than I do. But I think it might work, you know, because we already don't fit into stereotypes, so why would sex change that? I don't think it would change anything else about our relationship, John, and I think that we should give it a try. If it doesn't work, it doesn't work, of course, and you can veto this suggestion at any point along the line if you want to, but I just think that maybe we should try it. It can't ruin our relationship, John, because nothing could do that, and technically I hate to bring it up but we've done that sort of thing before and it didn't change anything. I just… when you nearly got blown up this morning and I wasn't expecting it I just sort of realised, you know, that if we do we kind of don't have anything to lose and maybe it'll work, and if we don't we'll never know."

He glances up at John now, having delivered most of that speech to the room at large. The doctor's mouth has twitched into a half-smile, but it's impossible to tell what he's thinking. Sherlock loves that, loves that there are times when he actually cannot even begin to predict what he'll say. "I love you, John. You know that," he finishes finally. The doctor's expression does not change. Sherlock starts to get maybe a little bit more nervous, if that's possible. "John?" he asks softly. "What do you think?"

John's weatherbeaten, much-loved face splits into Sherlock's favourite smile. "Brilliant, Sherlock," he exclaims proudly. "Absolutely brilliant, like always. I'm positive you're right."

Sherlock frowns. Well, yeah, great and all that, but really when you fit that response back to the original query it doesn't quite match up; he doesn't know much about romantic relationships, but he knows that a proposal to start one, however well-reasoned, merits a little more thought than a 'brilliant, Holmes!'. "What, that's it? You're positive I'm right – so you want to give it a go, then?" he tries to clarify. John frowns too, now looking thoroughly confused.

"Look, Sherlock, I'm sorry, but I really can't hear you. My ears are still ringing from the explosion this morning, all I can hear is a sort of mumbling. You'll have to talk louder."

Sherlock's heart sinks. So John didn't hear any of his little speech? That had taken him a while to bumble out so ineloquently. He sighs, readies himself for another go only louder, then gives up. Suddenly he doesn't feel like confessing again. He considers it for another few seconds; it can wait, if he ever feels like bringing it up again. And maybe John was right the first time. Maybe it's a bad idea to even bring it up. "Never mind," he waves away, standing up. "It's not important."

John apologises again, but Sherlock's already gone, so he shrugs and turns the sound back on the television. The consulting detective is blasted with another wave of General Ignorance as he shuts his bedroom door again. He sits on his bed with his head on his fists, half-hard from anticipation and disappointed, and re-weighs the pros and cons.

He knows there's something about sex that is taboo to even mention, knows that even bringing it up can ruin a friendship. What if John had said no? It would always be sort of hanging between them, that Sherlock had wanted sex at one point and John hadn't, and even if both of them pretended to ignore it it would always be there and somehow the relationship wouldn't be as good anymore.

There's nothing wrong with it the way it is; in fact, it's perfect right now. He's never – with today being the only exception – been attracted enough to the doctor to do anything about it, and he knows that's the way John feels too. So it doesn't matter. Sherlock knows he'll never mention it again, and somehow feels that he won't regret it. Knows that tomorrow he'll be insanely glad he didn't, because he's new to sex with someone he actually cares about and tomorrow the brief longing to kiss John will have gone away.

He lies down and with the sound of Steven Fry still in his ears – a 'John' sound if ever there was one – he wanks to thoughts of the doctor for the first and last time. And it doesn't matter, somehow, that he goes back into the sitting room after calming down and lies down with John on the couch, the doctor massaging his head absently. It doesn't feel wrong, or dirty, even if John knows what he's been doing he doesn't have to say anything.

That's the way their relationship works; even sex couldn't ever come between them.

A/N: So that turned out sadder than it was meant to. But hey. Hope you enjoyed it anyway. Oh – the prompt on the kinkmeme was Sherlock confesses his undying love to John, who doesn't quite catch it. Maybe the TV is too loud, or he's on the phone, or something. It fitted into my headcanon for this piece better than anything else. Drop me a line on your way out!

-for you!