A/N: This one's a bit spontaneous and weird; I'm not sure if I like it. Whatever, enjoy?
Word Count: 675
Pairing(s): Johnlock
Warning(s): somewhat shameless fluff, rediculouslyoblivious!John, mentions of sex I guess?
Out
"Go out with me."
John startled, looking up from his book with eyebrows arched. He wasn't sure how late it was – it wasn't unusual for him to accidently slip into Sherlock's sleeping habits of not sleeping at all and he was quite engrossed in his book – but he knew that it was definitely the middle of the night. That, accompanied by the fact that they didn't have a case right now, or at least not one that required legwork as apparently the locked-room case was "so painfully obvious it does not warrant explanation or investigation, oh, just wait until someone starts to smell him, they'll smell him" and the like made the idea of leaving the house right then sound absurd.
He said so, shaking his head, but still he put his book down in his lap. Sherlock stared at him from the couch opposite, frowning. "Absurd?" he repeated, sounding dubious. "I wouldn't think the notion would turn you off that terribly much, John. We are quite close."
John frowned at this, caught off guard. "Whatthefuck?" he inquired in the most genuine way one could utter those words. Sherlock didn't react, simply staring at him, and it became quite clear that John didn't have any idea what he was going on about. Groaning and rubbing his eyes he got to his feet. "Fine, where are we bloody running off to this time? If it requires doing anything remotely Spiderman-like I'm going to need some tea first."
"Ah, is that what you would expect us to be doing?" Sherlock stood, peering down at him as if he were the a strange creature he'd never seen before when, in fact, he saw John every day and had seen him in almost every condition worth speaking of. John resisted the urge to scowl; sometimes the height difference got to him.
"Well, we certainly wouldn't be thinking of doing anything sane, would we?" he asked, trying his best to smile lightheartedly under the stare until he found that he couldn't anymore. His eyebrows scrunched. "What?"
Sherlock's lips pursed, looking somewhat miffed. "There's no case today, John."
John hesitated. "No case?" he asked. He felt dumb for being so baffled.
"No case, John."
"What, then?"
Sherlock sighed in a deeply mourning way that can only be faked by the best of the best and, with a surprising lack of grace, tangled his hands in John's hair and yanked him into a bruising kiss. John gasped, startled, and was more than surprised to find Sherlock taking that opportunity and deepening the kiss before John could even comprehend that that's what they were doing.
What he was doing. Being kissed by Sherlock Holmes.
He was more than aware that the nature of this fact should have alarmed him; kissing a man, kissing an admittedly sociopathic man, kissing an admittedly sociopathic man who was his flat mate, kissing an admittedly sociopathic man who was his flat mate and his best mate, kissing and feeling it bruise his lips and realizing he'd never been kissed so demandingly. Before John could comprehend just how he was reacting to this Sherlock pulled away.
The detective's face was flush and he was breathing hard, as if he had just run a mile rather than assaulted his only friend's mouth. Sherlock smiled grimly, gray eyes darting over his face in the clear deduction way. "I've cleared up my intentions, then," said Sherlock, and nodded. Then, after John's expression remained blank, he added, "Sorry."
John stared at him. He stared at him for what felt like a very long time even if it were only seconds, expression blank, eyes locked on Sherlock's. Then John made a noise quite unlike him, almost a groan of irritation, almost a moan of pleasure, and he grabbed Sherlock by his coat collar. "You choose that to apologize for, you stupid bloke?" he growled, and before Sherlock could respond John had declared a quite dramatic "Fuck all!" and had him pinned on the couch within seconds.
Sherlock hummed in quiet victory. Fuck all, indeed.