A/N: Dear lord I have no idea where this one came from. I actually seriously apologize for this one. I wrote it during school hours and then edited it (vaguely) during detention, in which I also read an 100 page fanfiction called Chameleon (which I encourage you all to read by the way, it's Johnlock) that I cleverly printed out. The detention was for a stupid reason, by the way, I promise I'm not a a rebel or whatever. ANYWAY this fic is really weird and long for no reason and has no real plot. Whatever. Enjoy it.
Word Count: 2,700 words of bullshit
Pairing(s): John/Sherlock, John/some bitch named Kathy
Warning(s): Really offensive language rhyming with baggot and tigger which actually physically pained me to type, talk of homophobia, cussing, mentions of sex and "experimenting" with sexuality. Also, possessive/protective!John, really-quick-to-move-on-from-some-girlfriend!John, sort-of-closet!Sherlock, cardigans, inexcusable amounts of fluff, and traumatized cabbies. Additionally I did the dialogue weird. Dunno why.
Because Cardigans
John broke up with his latest girlfriend. It was obvious he'd dumped her – not the other way around, like usual; he stomped his feet on the way up the stairs and slung his coat on the couch rather than hanging it on the hook. It was strange – last Sherlock checked, John had actually liked this one, it had been obvious in the crease of his forehead and the cheeky little smile he put on every time she rang him. Sherlock fought a pleased smile up at John as he passed him.
"Break it off with Vivian?"
He knows that isn't her name.
"Kathy. But, yeah."
The stomping dimmed to little more than a heavy plod as John hurried about through the kitchen. Sherlock almost voiced a request for tea, but relented – there was no need. John always made two cups.
"Good. She was boring."
A clatter of mugs against the counter – John was genuinely upset, then, but by what? The break up? Surely not, seeing as he'd instigated it. Before Sherlock could attempt to draw any clear conclusions John righted himself and spoke, voice laced with a startling quantity of loathing.
"She called you a faggot."
The word rips out of John's throat as if causing him physical pain to utter. Sherlock shifted in his seat, any hope of concentrating on the boring cold case file Lestrade sent over fading out instantaneously.
"Oh. And that upset you?"
Dangerous territory, this conversation, don't you think? Sherlock couldn't quite tell if it was his subconscious in his mind or Mycroft but he felt rather sure that they might just be the same voice.
"No shit it upsets me, Sherlock."
John stalked into the living room and Sherlock glanced up at him; he was wearing a cardigan, carrying two cups of tea, and absolutely radiating with rage. It's a strange sight, but... compelling? Sherlock was caught on this thought when John handed him his cuppa; their fingertips slid together in the pass, a casual, completely normal bit of contact – Sherlock cursed himself silently for even taking note of it. John settled into his chair, eyebrows scrunched.
"You're absolutely right. People are morons, Sherlock. Absolute fucking morons."
What slipped out next was accidental and while it should be heavily noted that Sherlock Holmes generally thinks before he speaks and makes very few mistakes, this was one of them:
"Well, at least the insult is somewhat accurate."
John went statue still, tea making it only half way to his lips and hovering there. Sherlock kicked himself internally and scrambled to right his words, only to have more Not Good slip out. (John has that effect on Sherlock sometimes, when he isn't careful. Caring is not, after all, an advantage.)
"She could have called me stupid, or psychotic, or a deviant. That would make her both rude and incorrect. Calling me a f—"
"Don't."
Sherlock flinched; John looked positively murderous. The rage might have actually been intruding (Attractive? No, stop.) had it not been partially directed at him. The veins on John's neck were strained and visible even at their distance; it was clear he was holding back even with the ire seeping through his words.
"Don't even say that word, 'Lock. I don't ever want to hear that word in your voice, it's… It's wrong. So, so very not good, do you understand?"
Sherlock nodded – how could he not – but…
"Why?"
"Because it's awful; I don't care if you're gay, Sherlock, it's really, really fine, but calling anybody that, even yourself… that is another thing. It's an insult. It shouldn't be, but it is. It's the same difference between calling someone black and… and a nigger."
Another repulse-word – John spat it out like it was on fire. Sherlock shrank a little.
"Right. Bit not good, then. I didn't mean to upset you."
"Yeah. Yeah, I know. I'm sorry, I just… I'm sorry. Sister, you know?"
Sherlock nodded, peering into his tea. Then, abruptly, John came to a full stop, a surprised little noise coming from his throat as he reworked the conversation in his head. A sense of both dread and relief fell over Sherlock; when he looked up again John was blushing a bit.
"So you're… gay, then?"
A pause.
"I don't know, actually. Yes, I think."
Not a lie – Sherlock didn't know if he was gay, per se. He'd only been interested in sex with one person in particular but that person was, in fact, a man. Did that make him gay? Uninterested in labels, Sherlock hadn't ever done research on the topic; his nose wrinkled. John gave him a thoroughly boggled look straight off the But-It's-The-Solar-System! tree. Sherlock blushed hatefully – he couldn't help it. Having thoughts like that right in front of the man in question; it was petty, he thought, ridiculous even, but he couldn't control the remarkably useless response his body insisted upon. That is, turning pink.
"You… don't know? Sherlock, no offense, but you're in your thirties, how do you not know?"
"I am allowed to be ignorant on certain topics, John. Do not assume I am clever in every spectrum of intelligence, you have plenty of evidence that I am not."
John sat upright, perturbed. Sherlock couldn't read his thoughts, although he tried to (John was a bit of a blind spot, irritatingly enough.) but they must have been embarrassing because his face was taking on the appearance of a tomato. Blushing was significantly more fun to observe than to experience, Sherlock thought.
"Haven't you ever…"
Vaguely vulgar hand motions joined the parade. Sherlock scowled.
"No. No, I have not. I know the mechanics and have a basic grasp on the cause and effect of intercourse but I've never engaged first hand, no. I never understood the appeal."
"Not even—"
"No."
"—I don't know, heavy petting? A casual at a party? Something?"
Sherlock gave John the kind of look that shot straight through one's chest. No. John lowered his gaze to his tea again but made no move to drink it, looking simultaneously shameful, baffled, and (oddly enough) vaguely hopeful.
"You've never even… wanted to?"
Hesitation – Sherlock put the cup down on the table, deliberately keeping his gaze on the opposite wall. He was a good actor normally – it came with the job – but he knew John knew him oh-too-well and his usual masks of indifference and arrogance struggled for survival under the good doctor's scrutiny. The blushing, similarly, did not ebb.
"It has crossed my mind on occasion."
Recent occasion. Sherlock glanced at John out of the corner of his eye (an accident, again with the God-forsaken accidents) but John didn't catch the look, much less the suggestion. He was busy staring red-faced into his tea. Oh. I've made him uncomfortable. Sherlock fought the urge to sigh.
"With, uh – with men? I mean, it's all fine, Sherlock, I just."
Would it be too obvious to say "A man"? Sherlock frowned and said it anyway, gaze carefully set on the skull for fear of gazing at John too obviously. The skull grinned back. No way out of this one, you know, it whispered, sounding pleased and a good bit like Lestrade.
"Oh."
John sounded (and felt) very much like a man in a maze. He knew, on some level, what was on the other side, but had no clue how he was supposed to go about getting to the conclusion. Eventually Sherlock looked at him and, meeting his gaze, John apparently decided plowing straight through the walls was the best method.
"You mean me, don't you?"
Sherlock very nearly squeaked, but he certainly had more self control than that.
"Ah, yes. Clearly. Your deductions skills are improving, John."
John's name came out an octave too high and was quickly followed by an escape hatch:
"It's just a fleeting notion, John – perfectly natural, isn't it? No need to look so… red."
"So you mean you aren't sure."
"I identified as asexual before so, yes. I'm… confused."
Sherlock very nearly gagged; admitting confusion was far, far worse than admitting he was gay for John. Was he gay for John? Sherlock's toes curled. Are we really having this conversation?
John looked fidgety and nervous, a strange sight on a grown man, much less an ex-army doctor, but also unbearably cute. Cute? Sherlock didn't have time to work through that thought before John was up out of his chair.
"Okay, tell me if I'm overstepping or something but… do you want me to help?"
Sherlock's heart climbed into his throat.
"Help?"
Something predatory flickered through John's eyes; it was gone in an instant, so quickly that Sherlock very nearly missed it, but he didn't, and Sherlock felt an abruptly primal feeling prickling at the back of his spine. He felt trapped by his gaze, which was disturbing not only because it was irrational but because Sherlock found he rather liked it.
"Yeah, help. You're confused, so that just means you need to do research. An experiment, I mean. University stuff, you know."
Sherlock wondered just what John's experience at University had been. Mostly, Sherlock's had consisted of schoolwork, cocaine, and avoiding other humans as much as possible, venturing out of his dorm room only for the occasional supply-run or to go to class. Certainly it had nothing to do with gentle, blushing expressions or determined dark blue eyes that peered down at him; even less to do with quickening heartbeats or an inability to move one's gaze from another's mouth. When John licked his lips Sherlock very nearly lost it.
"Okay?"
"Oh, yes. Enlighten me."
Sherlock sounded (and looked) far more sarcastic and cocky than he was by a long shot. John seemed to sense this and shuffled in place for a moment before he bent down, knees leaning on the chair between Sherlock's legs. The position should have been awkward – why wasn't it awkward? A startling, lazy smile crawled over John's lips.
"Relax."
Sherlock tried. John's lips twitched in a slight nervous tick.
"Just… close your eyes, okay?"
"Okay."
John brushed his hands through Sherlock's hair and down to rest on the back of his neck. His thumbs pressed against the skin at the top of Sherlock's jaw, the gentle pressure sending a strange sensation through him. A multitude of urges descended to battle – open your eyes kiss him push him away let out a noise a moan a yell a hum pull him closer punch him in the jaw kiss him all over his stupid face – but Sherlock pushed them away and focused his attention on the sensation of John's breath on his lips and the callous on John's hands on his face.
It should be said that Sherlock had, of course, kissed before. He was a grow man after all. But it had been different then, calculated, expected, controlled – nothing more than a play at normalcy or twist for manipulation or, on very few occasions, a half-hearted swing at something that was decidedly not his area. Every time the attraction had been nil (for Sherlock, anyway) and he had been in control, plotting each and every bit of action, never losing himself to the partner in question. It was never this, never –
"You're thinking too much."
"Am I? Here I was, thinking that you were thinking too little."
The last breathy trembling of laughter tinkled against Sherlock's lips and John is still smiling when he leant down to press his lips against Sherlock's. Sherlock sucked in a breath (through his nose, as his mouth is otherwise occupied), heart skipping a beat; it isn't as if he sees fireworks, but something definitely exploded. Oh. John's hands curled to caress Sherlock's jaw, holding his face as if he might fall out of his grasp at any moment.
Kissing John Watson was nothing like Sherlock had anticipated. It was cautious and careful, pausing for long intervals between movements, constantly awaiting that silent OK to proceed; it's awkward, perhaps, but Sherlock is grateful because damn his heart might just burst out of his chest and make a mess of things if John wasn't careful. Sherlock's mind spun, frantically collecting data, recording the multitude of surprising sensations the near-chaste contact is giving him – the movements of John's mouth on his, the occasional brush of John's nose, the slowly fading smile on John's lips on his, the unfamiliar heat growing in his core, the gentle caress of John's hands. It occurred to him that he was overwhelmed to the point of not responding only after John pulled away, biting his lip.
"Sherlock?"
It took Sherlock a moment to come back to Earth but when he did John was still rubbing his thumbs over Sherlock's cheekbones and staring at him with a dubiously patient sort of heartbreak painted over his face. Sherlock blinked once, twice.
"Oh."
Another blink, deliberate and slow, the butterflies in his chest quickly dying in the fire building there. A smile – smirk? – drew over Sherlock's mouth.
"Yes."
John's eyebrows scrunched. He thinks I was rejecting him. How cute.
"Absolutely."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Vague, some people need more than one word to comprehend meanings."
"Really?"
"Really."
Sherlock kissed him so hard that John, startled, slid and fell off the chair completely. Sherlock was quick to follow and they tumbled bodily into each other, lips parting only to accompany hitting the ground and the painful clacking of teeth against teeth and skull against hardwood.
"Ouch."
"Shut up, John."
No argument.
The so called experiment's conclusion ended up needing to be proven-and-re-proven for almost an hour, quickly going from tentative to ravenous. Discoveries were made: Sherlock that kissing was really quite a bit better than breathing and John deciding being pinned to t he floor by another man was a lot less uncomfortable than originally anticipated. It was fairly chaste considering, most clothing staying put, but they were both more than content to take it slow. Had they had more time they might have taken it slow all the way to the bedroom, but alas:
They broke apart when the Wife came calling, shrieking from across the room. Sherlock hovered over John for a moment, taking in his best friend's frazzled, goofy grin and bruised lips before bounding away to check his phone.
"Further ministrations will have to wait, John. The game is on!"
John sat up, ruffled.
"A case, then?"
"Yes! Fix your collar, John, your hickey is visible."
Pause.
"Actually, don't. I like it."
Sherlock swept past him and snatched his previously discarded scarf off the floor. John scrambled up and after him, cheeks flushed as he pulled down his cardigan mid-stride. While his clothes were still on they were still quite a bit rumpled and his hair… oh, Sherlock's hair was just as bad. It would be obvious what they had been doing. Sherlock found the thought not entirely unappealing. John hurried after him to the door, eyes wide.
"W-Wait!"
Sherlock paused, back to him.
"'Lock, are we…?"
Hesitation. Sherlock peered over his shoulder, eyebrows arched. John stared back, stiff with indecision. Sherlock faltered, a bit – any and all uncertainties were wiped from Sherlock's mind now, but still he wasn't sure how to respond.
"I don't care for labels, John."
"No?"
"No."
No hesitation. John took five almost-angry strides forward, grabbed Sherlock by his forearms, and pulled him to eye level. It was an uncomfortable way to stand, back forcefully arched to accommodate John's height, but nowhere near as uncomfortable as the intensity in John's eyes, a discomfort outmatched only by the excitement.
"I don't want a label, Sherlock, I want a confirmation. Call me a traditionalist, but being vague about this isn't going to work for me. Are you mine or aren't you?"
Sherlock's chest clenched. Well, when you worded it like that:
"Yours."
"Good."
John pulled Sherlock into a brief, crushing hug before pulling away and hurrying out the door, pausing only to pat Sherlock on the bum on the way past, grinning from ear to ear. Sherlock stared after him, lit up with a pleasant sort of shock.
John twisted around to waggle his eyebrows at him.
"What're you waiting for? Crime scenes, remember?"
Ah, yes. The Work did come before arousal, didn't it? John did have this down.
"Excellent."
The unfortunate cabbie was quick to discover that, although relationships did come second to the Work, the Work did not include transportation to-and-from the flat, even if it did mean they nearly got kicked out for indecent exposure. Would have, too, but you know. John looked pretty intimidating in that cardigan.
Review?
Also, if anyone is curious, progress on longer fic is slowing significantly - I'm a bit stuck. Ah, well, it'll be out eventually. Ta!