A/N: Well it's 2:03, I'm still awake, and I randomly felt like taking a break from watching Supernatural (which is murdering me with angst, by the way) and typing up/submitting another one of these. Probably because this fic is almost-literally my only source of self-esteem right now. BUT ANYWAY do enjoy this… thing, which was meant to be complete crack/fluff/gay but ended up being all of that with a big, heaping side of angst-cake. Oh well.

Word Count: 2,600+

Pairing(s): John/Sherlock, mentions of John/ladies

Warning(s): Insufferable amounts of fluff, smutty content (but nothing too explicit), slightly dubcon, Lestrade being a… casual observer…, John trying way too hard to be a heterosexual, Sherlock's apparent abandonment issues, surprise hand-jobs, brief The Reichenbach Feels, the Yard's incapability to mind its own business, and aprons. Also, Anderson.

Of Rivers in Egypt and Sex in Stairwells

The first time it happened, John honestly didn't think much of it. This was Sherlock Holmes, after all – it was kind of a given that weird, invasive behavior might occur.

So when Sherlock suddenly grabbed John one day while he was making tea and planted a kiss on the corner of his mouth, John's first reaction was, "What was that for?" And his second reaction, following a blank-eyed response of, "An experiment, John," had been, "Oh, alright." Because John was straight but he wasn't a hick and one little kiss from another man was no big deal, especially when that man was your presumably-asexual best friend.

It probably would have continued to not bother him, too, except it kept happening. All in spontaneous instances as well: once when John was in the middle of doing crunches, once when they were watching Star Trek, once when John was on the phone with Harry, twice when John was just getting out of the shower, three times in the back of a cab, once in an elevator, once on his way back from groceries, once just before John was leaving for a date (rather ruining it, actually), and even once right in front of a delighted Mrs. Hudson. Not that John was keeping track or anything. And every time, without fail, if John asked Sherlock would say, "An experiment, John. Do keep up." What he would not say, however, was just what kind of experiment would require this.

Needless to say, John was beginning to get suspicious. Sherlock was an oddball, granted. John had long accepted that – he put up with violin at three in the morning and human appendages beside the jam without batting an eye at this point. But Sherlock knew (he must know) that people couldn't just go around kissing other people and not have it mean anything. It was weirding John out, to be frank. More so because, against every effort to the contrary, John was almost starting to look forward to the impromptu smooches. John did his best to convince himself the anticipation was just because the encounters were always so out of the blue, but it was getting harder to prove to even himself. Every kiss was getting increasingly intimate, transitioning from on the cheek to full on the mouth, from lasting a second to lasting a minute, from still and chaste to heated and probing. And if John said he never kissed back, well, he'd be lying. But it was surely just heat of the moment or… something equally heterosexual.

Point was, it was starting to freak John out. When he told Sherlock as much the detective just scoffed at him ("Honestly, John, no need to have angst over the matter. Need I remind you that I am much thinner than you? With your army training there is no doubt that you could easily push me away if you wanted to.") so it was clear that using reason as means to an end was out of the question. For a while, though, John opted to suffer in silence – Sherlock's quirks were usually sorted out on their own, and there were worse things than kisses.

The first breaking point – and, in many ways, the last – was on a Thursday. (John never did get the hang of Thursdays.)

It was a fairly typical, run of the mill murder really, if murder can be called typical. But Lestrade had Sherlock called in anyway, an effort to encourage him not to cause any trouble out of boredom. John couldn't say he wasn't grateful, even if he was missing yet another date with what's-her-name-Hailey-or-something for this. At that particular moment Sherlock was exchanging snark with Sally Donovan and John, more or less to hide his own snickers at Sherlock's unending wit than anything else, bent down to examine the body. However seemingly run of the mill this case really was, the tactic was still brutal enough. The killer had stabbed the victim at least twenty times before disposing of the body in a back alley, where it had been found a good time later by a dog-walker.

John was just checking the victim's head for signs of trauma when he was suddenly being yanked to his feet by the collar of his shirt. Struggling to clear his throat John stumbled around, shaking the grasp off his shirt and moving into a defensive stance automatically at the disturbance. He didn't know just what he'd been expecting, really. It hadn't been for Sherlock to fling his arms around his neck and pull him into a kiss, definitely.

For an (admittedly bloated) instant the time and place flew from John's mind, as did any reticence, and John tilted his head and parting his lips to grant Sherlock's demands, eyes falling shut. Sherlock pulled him close, tongue sliding into John's mouth and running against the back of his teeth. John very nearly moaned.

Then the moment was gone and reality snapped into place.

The first thing John registered was Anderson, shouting at the top of his lungs: "Ha! Ha! Fuck you guys, because I called it! I called it! Cough up the dough, Donovan!" And Lestrade, red faced and staring in the corner of his eye as Sally threw a wad of cash at both him and a victory-dancing Anderson.

The second thing John registered was that he hadn't done anything about it. Perhaps a bit more roughly than strictly necessary John pushed Sherlock away, heat rising to his feet. Sherlock stumbled backwards, bruise-lipped and assumingly as unaffected as ever by the turn of events.

"What in the hell, Sherlock!" John cried, gesturing wildly.

Sherlock cast him a bored look. "An experiment, John. We have been over this."

John gaped at him, disbelief evident. "Sherlock, we—!" He halted, eyes darting to the Yarders. They were all carrying on as you might think from their places a few yards away: Sally looking disgusted, Anderson gloating, Lestrade blatantly staring, and various Others doing their best to appear as if they hadn't even observed at all. Grabbing Sherlock by the shoulder he pulled him aside, absolutely seething with anger and, more importantly, embarrassment. "We are at a crime scene," he hissed.

Sherlock blinked at him with deliberate slowness, frowning. "You are right, John. We are at a crime scene." Sherlock glanced over John's shoulder at the body, eyes glinting. "What can you report to me was the cause of death?"

John's eyes widened, clear rage flashing through their depths. "That isn't the point and you know it!" he cried.

Sherlock blinked at him, repeatedly this time, and in rapid succession, as if actually backtracking to consider this. Then, tilting his head slightly to the side, he said, "You look like a tomato, John."

John released Sherlock's shoulder with a rough shove and spun halfway around, glaring at him over his shoulder. Sherlock hesitated, smug blankness dropping from his features.

"Oh," he said. "You really are upset. Why are you upset?"

"You…" John threw his hands up as if in surrender, scoffing. "You're actually unbelievable! Fucking unbelievable, Sherlock! Incredible!"

John made to march away at that, fully intending to box Anderson's ears on his way out, only to have Sherlock catch him by the elbow and drag him back again. John glared, nearly tripping over his own feet at the restraint. "What?" John snapped, jerking his arm away.

Sherlock's voice was at least three octaves too high for a moment – "Are you—"— but he cut off and lowered it, ducking to meet John's eyes. "You aren't going to leave me now, are you?" he whispered.

John froze. The unadulterated pleading in Sherlock's eyes was unexpected and overwhelming to the point that John felt all the fight go out of him. John groaned and let his shoulders sag, angry expression falling to a helpless half-smile.

"No, you giant two year old." John slid his arm around Sherlock's shoulders (awkward with the height difference, but Sherlock was crouching anyway), pulling him into a half-hug. "I'm not going anywhere," he said.

"You're certain?"

"Yes."

Sherlock's gaze dropped to the floor, then up to meet John's eyes again. "Cause of death?" he said.

The rest of that particular Thursday went without further incident, everyone more-or-less getting back to business. They solved the case quickly, or rather Sherlock announced "It was his secret lover – he's American and he eats a lot of sugar taffy. Enjoy the search and the credit, Lestrade" and they dropped off back to 221B without having actually closed anything. Far too boring for Sherlock's tastes. John was just glad to be away from the Yarders and their incessant gay-for-your-roommate suggestions and to put the entire "experiment" ordeal behind him.

The next day, however, on the way back from his shift at the surgery John suddenly found himself pinned to the wall in a back alley, Sherlock's lips sealed against his. John gasped and pushed Sherlock's face away, face burning. "I thought we cleared up!" he cried. "No more of this, remember?"

"The deal," Sherlock said, pushing John's hand away, "was 'not in public.' Correct me if I'm wrong, John…" Sherlock pressed his forehead to John's, gaze penetrating and unwavering "…but this is not public, and at the moment I am not open to renegotiation."

Any arguments John might have liked to claim to have had were swallowed in short order by Sherlock's impatient mouth. Sherlock pressed his lips to John's again and John's mouth open with his own, not that it took much effort. John shuddered and accepted his fate, tilting his head back and allowing his mouth to be plundered. It was only when Sherlock's hands were around his neck, thumbs pressed domineeringly against his throat that John tried to voice any argument again, but by then Sherlock had shoved off of him and taken off down the street. John stared after him, frazzled, and tried to pretend he hadn't felt anything pressing against his thigh. Just an experiment, after all. Harmless.

And they didn't talk about it. John very nearly had himself convinced there was nothing to talk about most days. It was just how things were after a while, expected and accepted without question. Just another Sherlockian quirk to add to the list that the Watsons of the world learned to deal with. No big deal.

He told himself this even as things progressed. Even after Sherlock pinned him to the door of their cab and kissed him rougher than he'd ever been kissed and far longer than before and worked needy, shameless moans from the back of his throat. Even after Sherlock cornered him in his own surgery room one night and pressed his own stethoscope around his neck as he kissed him until he was quite literally breathless. Even when Bond night suddenly became Sherlock's lips moving from his mouth to his neck and Sherlock's hands sliding under his shirt to touch him and John giving in to the curiosity and returning the gesture. Even when Sherlock sank his teeth into his shoulder and marked him, whispered "mine" against his sweat-glossed skin after yet another criminal chase. Even after John missed a date with some woman because he was preoccupied with Sherlock's hand down his pants and hearing Sherlock pant his name against his lips and trying not to cry out in the Baker Street stairwell. Even after John might've reciprocated in the back booth at Angelo's and touched Sherlock in a place he'd only ever touched himself and drank in Sherlock's barely-muffled screams and wanton twist of face in the dim candlelight. Even when Sherlock very nearly snarled at any woman who approached John anymore and took to pointedly fucking him over before every potentially successful date. Even when Sherlock jumped into John's shower one morning and threw him against the glass door and touched him everywhere and anywhere and John slid soapy hands around to feel Sherlock's rear-end because what was stopping him really. Even when Sherlock very nearly went down on him in the back of one of Mycroft's cars, when John would have surely let him had "Anthea" not opened the door at the last moment.

Likewise, neither party said anything when it passed sexual into just intimate and even domestic. Even when Sherlock made surprise breakfast that wasn't poisoned or anything and kissed him on the forehead in that cheesy Kiss The Cook apron on Valentine's Day. Even when Sherlock started cuddling John's proclaimed Official Movie Night. Even when Sherlock held his hand under the desk in Lestrade's office and whenever he found the proper obscured opportunity. Even when Sherlock started making a habit of crawling in John's bed each case-free night and wrapped his long body up around his, even if Sherlock wasn't really tired, and it became such an expected thing that the bed started feeling empty without Sherlock in it with him. Even when John started having bursts of jealous rage, be it towards "Jim from I.T." and Miss Adler to random people who dared look approvingly in Sherlock's direction. Even when Sherlock gave him such deep, lost looks when John got ready to leave for dates with women that John eventually just stopped dating altogether. Even when Sherlock sometimes whispered sweet nothings in his ear as they touched, and sometimes John would whisper them back, and sometimes John swore his heart hurt when Sherlock left for international cases. Even when John quickly realized his first thoughts during a close-encounter-of-the-deadly-criminal-kind were of Sherlock, and when they made narrow escapes they'd collapse into relieved laughter and sometimes life-confirming cuddles and kisses and more. Even when one night they giggled and stumbled and fumbled their way home from a crime scene but didn't make it to the bed or even past the stairwell but that turned out to be OK since they were never normal anyway, and afterwards Sherlock laughed and he said, "The can't call me a virgin anymore, can they, John?" and they forgot to have the 'experiment' talk afterwards. Even when Sherlock started introducing John to people as his partner and both of them forgot to elaborate even when people gave them startled looks in response to the implications or glance knowingly at their comfortable stances beside each other. Always, always, they did not talk about it. Usually, they forgot there was anything to talk about.

But when Sherlock died John's heart broke, and he knew. He knew his life would be empty without him, pointless and aimless and hopeless and all other kinds of less than it should be. He knew that what had begun as an experiment had become his entire life, life with adventure and promise and Sherlock Holmes. It came to him in those last moments, those moments too late, far too late, and still John could not say it. He wanted to say it, to shout it, to shriek it at the top of his lungs until there was no air left for him to breathe, but instead he watched Sherlock fall with the words cold on his lips.

And when Sherlock came back to life and gathered John into his arms the first thing he said, before the apologies and the explanations and the pleas was a promise, he whispered, "I love you," and John wept and laughed and kissed Sherlock deeply and whispered, "I know."

Yet still, they did not talk about it, but they didn't really need to. It was all there on their lips, not spoken but sealed one to the other until they became so familiar that no words would suffice besides. That, John figured, was the closest thing to Happily Ever After he was bound to get, and it was the closest he'd ever care to have.

Reviews would be superb. Also, if you get the joke in the title, more brownie points are available; it's kind of obvious really but then, I have a strange sense of humor.

Additional Note of Semi-Importance: I'm probably going to end up compiling a oneshot collection for Supernatural as well, because I'm steamrolling through Season 7 and it's all coming to an end soon and I have needs, damn it. The only reason I'm including this little detail here, in a Sherlock fic, is because A) everyone should watch Supernatural and bask in its glory and B) adventuring deeper into this fandom is probably going to lead to more infrequent updates around here. I.e., Mycroft is going to get fat. Well, fatter. But no worries, I won't be abandoning this on any scale anytime soon. And… that's it! Toodleoo!