When John had woken up that morning, Sherlock had been softly sleeping by his side and had been still holding his hand. The light seeping through the window backlit his soft features and contoured his black hair, and John had thought that he wanted to wake up every morning of his life like that. He had slowly untangled his fingers from the young man's, careful to not wake him up, and had gone to the kitchen to prepare some food.
Sherlock had appeared ten minutes later in the kitchen, full dressed with the black suit. John had glanced down at his lousy pyjama and had blushed immediately.
"Morning.", Sherlock had said.
John had noticed that the young man was keeping at distance from him and had the eyes pointing down. John had smiled, knowing that, although they had just slept together, the day was putting the whole matter in a complete new light. He had eventually understood that Sherlock was more comfortable clad by the darkness, and more doubtful in daylight. Not that John hadn't felt nervous at all, for he had been still unsure of himself and of everything.
"Morning.", had answered John with a brighter smile, trying to not sound nervous "Have you slept well?"
Sherlock had simply nodded.
John had moved around the kitchen, taken the kettle and asked:
"What do you like for breakfast? I haven't got much: tea, milk, biscuits and eggs. Also some ham."
"I don't eat breakfast.", Sherlock had replied.
"Don't start already with the 'eating slows me down' nonsense. You will eat and I don't want to hear excuses. Not a puff of air.", John had grinned.
Sherlock had shrugged his shoulders. John had put on the tea and placed a packet of biscuits on the table. Coconut biscuits, his favourites. Sherlock had smirked.
"I was right, then."
"About what?"
"The biscuits, John. It was a shot in the dark, but it seems I got it right."
Oh, yes, had thought John, remembering that once Sherlock had ordered coconut biscuits for him for breakfast that day of December when they had chased that murderous surgeon in Bexley. He had looked at Sherlock agape.
"And you remember that?"
"Of course I do.", had said the young man "I seldom forget important things. And that day is rather sculpted in my mind."
"For other reasons.", had replied John "I'm still sorry for that."
"You have already apologised enough. I'm sorry I haven't understood your reasons back then."
John had smiled.
"Should we just stop apologising to each other and just eat breakfast?", he had asked, serving the tea.
Sherlock had taken one single biscuit under John's gaze and had played with it. He had just kept on crumbling it into smaller crumbs and picking them up one by one with his fingers to eat them. The whole operation had taken ages. John had amusedly watched the scene. Then Sherlock had started to sip his tea, long, lean pale fingers around the handle. There couldn't have been a better image for the typical Englishman.
"John?"
"Uh?"
"I think I have just found another more than remarkable quality of you."
John had furrowed.
"Your tea. It's brilliant. You're the best tea-maker I've ever known."
"And I suppose that this is one of the weirdest compliment I have ever received.", he had smirked, but flushing.
When their unusual breakfast had finished, Sherlock had said he had to go.
"I think it's time for me to go home. My brother should come visit me at eleven this morning. I'd rather avoid it, but I think I'm obliged to attend the meeting.", he had dryly said.
"Well,", had replied John, shyly "It had been…a pleasure."
Sherlock had smiled.
"Formalities!", he had huffed.
And had placed a soft, sweet kiss on John's lips. John hadn't quite expected it.
"I've never slept so well in my entire life, John. Thanks.", he had whispered.
John hadn't replied but kissed Sherlock back.
Now one month had passed since that Wednesday morning and John and Sherlock were properly dating, even if dating with Sherlock hadn't anything proper at all in it. John was sitting on his armchair and was thinking about taking Sherlock out for their first month together. It was a lovely Friday afternoon of April and John was rereading all the messages they had exchanged during the last month. They were funny, romantic and heart-warming. Sherlock didn't like to call, John had learnt that rather early in their relationship, but he definitely loved to text John, whatever the occasion was.
Wednesday, 23rd March, 11.00
I'm bored. And my brother is pissing me off. –SH.
Be nice with him, Sherlock. –John.
He's the one who's not nice with me. He wants me to go to see a physiotherapist. –SH.
It's a good idea. Your arm will surely benefit from it. –John.
… -SH.
I thought that you were by my side. –SH.
Oh, god. Obviously I am. That's why you should go to that physiotherapist. –John.
I care about your health. –John.
…ok. I'll go. –SH.
Love you. –John.
Don't you dare! –SH.
Wednesday, 23rd March, 13.02
How did it go? –John.
Awfully. I hate her. –SH.
You could be my physiotherapist. –SH.
I can't, you know. I'm not specialised in that. –John.
You're thousand times better than her. –SH.
I take the compliment. Anyway I'm sure she's good. –John.
Whatever. –SH.
Yes, whatever. –John.
Wednesday, 23rd March, 22.15
Are you sleeping? –SH.
No, watching telly. –John.
Television. –SH.
What?-John.
Don't use 'telly'. –SH.
Telly. Telly. Telly. –John.
You are NOT funny at all. –SH.
I can hear your chuckles. –John.
You're too far away to hear that. –SH.
So you ARE actually chuckling! –John.
It seems that my company does you good. Your deducting skills are improving. –SH.
Love you. –John.
Love you too. –SH.
Goodnight, John. –SH.
Goodnight, Sherlock. –John.
John smiled and went on reading.
Thursday 24th March, 7.30
Good morning. –John.
Do you really wake up this late? –SH.
Have you even slept tonight? –John.
Thursday 24th March, 8.30
I take it as a 'no'. –John.
You weren't here. Couldn't sleep. –SH.
That's sweet of you. –John.
It's not sweet, it's a matter-of-fact observation. –SH.
Good morning, John. –John.
Why are you writing that? –SH.
Because you didn't say it. –John.
Oh. Sorry. You know. Not good at it. –SH.
Good morning, John. –SH.
Love you. –SH.
You're learning quickly. –John.
I've got a good teacher. –SH.
Love you too. –John.
Thursday 24th March, 15.00
What are you doing? –SH.
Shopping. Fridge was empty. You? –John.
Not doing the physiotherapist exercises. –SH.
Don't you dare to not do them! Or I'll come there and force you. –John.
Make me. –SH.
You said that on purpose. –John.
I don't know what you're talking about. –SH.
And you're grinning. –John.
So? Coming or not? –SH.
Let me pay. –John.
Paying is boring. –SH.
You don't want me in jail, do you? –John.
Hurry up, you're wasting time by typing. –SH.
And John, now sitting on his armchair one month later, remembered himself helping Sherlock lift up his arm, move his fingers, stretch the muscles a bit. He had seen the pain in the young man's eyes with every movement they had done, but Sherlock hadn't let a groan escape his mouth. He had put every effort in it, even pushed himself to the limit. John had tried to explain it wasn't a good thing to do. Sherlock hadn't listened and John had given up. They had chatted a bit and then John had returned to his flat.
Thursday 24th March, 21.24
It's burning. –SH.
What? –John.
The shoulder. –SH.
I knew that. I told you. You shouldn't have worked that hard. –John.
You told me I should have done the exercises. –SH.
Not to the point you were almost panting in pain. –John.
Anyway, take an aspirin and go to sleep. Sleep will do you good. –John.
You aren't here. Can't sleep. –SH.
You can and you will. –John.
Huff. –SH.
Goodnight. Love you. –John.
Yes, yes. You still aren't here. –SH.
We've already discussed about it. I can't sleep in your flat. Or do you want me to resign by tomorrow? –John.
Don't you dare. –SH.
Then sleep. –John.
Goodnight, John. Love you. –SH.
Friday 25th March, 10.13
Good morning. –SH.
Good morning. –John.
Wait. Have you really slept this much? –John.
Seems so. –SH.
Wanted to make you happy and proud of me. –SH.
I'm happy and proud. –John.
Good to know. –SH.
Has the pain soothed? –John.
Yes. It's just a bit stiff, but definitely better. –SH.
Dinner tonight? –SH.
Starving! –John.
You're so predictable. –SH.
And you're impossible. –John.
Already falling out of love? –SH.
Don't you even dare to think that. –John.
Love you. –John.
I guess so. –SH.
Git. –John.
See? –SH.
See what? –John.
You hate me. –SH.
Should I come to you and snog that thought out of your brilliant, stupid brain? –John.
Can't now. Working on a cold case. –SH.
I'll gladly do it tonight. Angelo's? –John.
20.00. –SH.
The evening had been overly good. They had eaten together, smiled the whole time, held hands, gone for a walk and kissed for a good quarter of hour on a bench in a park like a teenage couple. And John hadn't given a damn about it. Being with Sherlock the whole time had been just…fantastic.
Saturday 26th March, 00.45
Are you awake? –SH.
Saturday 26th March, 1.05
Guess not. –SH.
I'm bored. –SH.
Saturday 26th March, 2.03
Miss you. –SH.
Saturday 26th March, 3.16
Still sleeping? –SH.
Was. –John.
You woke me up. –John.
Go to sleep, Sherlock. –John.
Miss you. –SH.
I miss you too. But, please, sleep. –John.
John, on his armchair, smiled. He loved him so much. He skipped some messages, mostly containing good mornings and good nights.
Monday 28th March, 7.05
Good morning and have a nice day at the university. –SH.
Good morning, Sherlock. –John.
Back after three weeks. It will be hard. –John.
You're great. It will be easy. –SH.
Especially because you won't be there. –John.
Oh. –SH.
I'm going to miss your curly head in the last row. –John.
Too much flattery. I'm getting glycaemia from all this sweetness. –SH.
You can't get glycaemia from sweet words. –John.
I can. –SH.
Who's the doctor here? –John.
Bossy. –SH.
Love you. –SH.
Don't t turn the tables. –John.
Love you too. –John.
Monday 28th March, 9.45
Bored. –SH.
Come to university then. –John.
You know I can't. –SH.
You could just find a ridiculous excuse. –John.
Brother said 'no'. For once I agree. –SH.
I don't want to mess up the cover story. And I'm not reliable enough to keep my mouth shut. –SH.
I agree. –John.
You should have said 'no, Sherlock, you're the most reliable person I know'. –SH.
That's how a relationship works. –SH.
Are you lecturing me about relationships? –John.
Not even trying. –SH.
Better. –John.
Got to go now, lesson. –John.
Have fun. –SH.
John skipped some others and arrived to the series he preferred.
Saturday 9th April, 10.36
Morning, love. –John.
How did your visit to the hospital go? –John.
Nightmare. –SH.
You should have come with me. –SH.
May I remind you that it was you that didn't want me to come? –John.
You should have insisted. –SH.
I did. But you said you could do that alone. That you didn't need a nanny. –John.
You should have insisted more. –SH.
Does it cost you that much to say 'sorry, I was wrong'?-John.
Sorry, I was wrong. –SH.
Good. –John.
Thank you. –SH.
Saturday 9th April, 12.05
What are you eating? –SH.
How can you possibly know I'm eating right now? –John.
Look through the café's window. –SH.
Stalker. –John.
I thought you might have liked a surprise. –SH.
I do. And if you aren't sitting at my table in 30 seconds I'm going to kill you. –John.
Too many witnesses. You won't. –SH.
They had eaten a salad together and then decided to go for a stroll in the park. April had proven to be particularly warm that day and Sherlock had worn only the purple shirt John loved so much. John had enjoyed the view so much that he had thought Sherlock would have slapped him for too much gazing. Instead he had just said:
"Have you found anything you don't like of my body?"
"Seriously, do you really think that I could find anything I don't like? You're…perfection."
And he had kissed him hard and passionately in the middle of a crowded park, oblivious of everything around. It had been heaven. And John had felt a hot familiar sensation between his tights. He had had to breathe hard to control himself, for he didn't want to spoil anything.
Indeed he wanted to make love with Sherlock, but the young man didn't seem much sure of himself still. And John was happy, so sex wasn't really something that he was missing that much. He knew that it would have eventually come, naturally as it should be.
Saturday 9th April, 16.40
Cinema tonight? –SH.
Sherlock, I'm right beside you at the moment. Why the hell are you sending me a message? –John.
Why are you answering, then? –SH.
You're nuts. –John.
Yes, anyway. –John.
Saturday 9th April, 21.27
Bored. –SH.
Sherlock, I'm sitting in the chair next to you at the cinema. –John.
You can just talk to me directly. –John.
Didn't want to disturb the other people in the cinema. –SH.
You're already doing it by spoiling every single plot twist. –John.
Not my fault if it's so obvious. –SH.
It's not obvious for them. They haven't got your brain. –John.
I'm just filling the gaps in the script. –SH.
I swear I'm never coming with you at the cinema again. –John.
Why? –SH.
Am I doing something wrong? –SH.
I give up. –John.
John, on his armchair three weeks later, was still laughing. Sherlock had literally spoiled every single damn line of the script, had yelled against the protagonist because he had been dumb to not accept the help he had been given, had quarrelled with a young boy about don't-know-what-other-film and, cherry on top, had managed to make the ticket clerk burst into tears because he had told her that her husband was sleeping with her sister.
At the time John hadn't known if he was supposed to laugh, to scold him or to call Lestrade so that he could arrest him.
Saturday 9th April, 23.53
Are you mad at me? –SH.
I'm not. I just think that going to the cinema with you is…madness. –John.
I've disappointed you. –SH.
Sorry, John. I'm truly sorry. –SH.
You don't have to be sorry, you daft. –John.
You haven't disappointed me. –John.
Oh. –SH.
I actually found it…funny. –John.
Oh. –SH.
So you don't hate me? –SH.
I love you, daft. –John.
And I love you even when you are brilliantly annoying. –John.
Oh. –SH.
Love you too. –SH.
Goodnight, love. –SH.
Sweet dreams. –John
Sunday 10th April, 2.15
John. –SH.
John, are you sleeping? –SH.
Sunday 10th April, 2.30
John, wake up. –SH.
Please, please, please. –SH.
Sunday 10th April, 2.45
John. –SH.
John. –SH.
John. –SH.
Sherlock, it's 2.45 in the middle of the night. –John.
I know what time it is. –SH.
I miss you. –SH.
It's still 2.45. –John.
And I was sleeping. –John.
I miss you. –SH.
Seriously. I miss you so much. –SH.
Sherlock, what's wrong? –John.
Nothing is wrong. I miss you. –SH.
Would you call me? –SH.
What for? –John.
Need to hear your voice. –SH.
John had picked up the phone that Sunday night and had called Sherlock, rather worried about his health, since the young man had never shown that much affection before.
"John!", had answered Sherlock.
"Sherlock, would you tell me what the hell going on? I'm quite worried."
"Miss you.", he had answered in a soft, sweet whisper.
John had goggled in the darkness of his room.
"And I'm sorry. I ruined an evening with you at the cinema."
"Are you still thinking about that? I said it was ok. I'm not angry."
"I'm an ass."
"You are not."
"You don't hate me, do you?"
"God, I don't, Sherlock."
"I love you, John."
"I love you too.", John had answered, astonished one more time about how vulnerable Sherlock could be.
"Can I come to your place?", Sherlock had asked.
"Wh…now?"
"Please."
"Yes, yes."
And Sherlock had appeared thirty minutes later from a taxi in nightgown and pyjama. The cabby had given both Sherlock and John the worst askance look ever and had driven away as fast as possible. They had slept in each other's arms the whole night.
John, on his armchair three weeks later, could still feel the scent of Sherlock against his skin, the warmth feeling it had given to him. He shivered with pleasure, smiling. He went on.
Thursday 14th April, 8.00
Good morning, professor Watson. –SH.
Thursday 14th April, 8.15
That jumper fits you. –SH.
Thursday 14th April, 8.30
Sherlock? Are you in the classroom? –John.
No. –SH.
And how can you possibly know what jumper I am wearing? –John.
The blonde girl in the third row is doing crosswords. –SH.
This is creepy. –John.
Go on with the lesson and stop messaging, they'll notice. –SH.
Even if you keep your hand under the board. –SH.
It's you who has started texting me. –John.
The brunette girl in the first row is writing a letter. –SH.
This is more than creepy. Where are you? –John.
The good-looking boy in the second row has a crush on you. –SH.
What? –John.
Actually, I think he loves you. –SH.
John had looked at the second row only to spot a red haired young man he had never seen before. He had had medium length straight hair pulled back parted in the middle, dark green eyes behind nerdy glasses. He had worn an electric blue t-shirt and had had a slightly tanned skin. And…(and John had gawked, mouth open at the discovery) had had his left harm bandaged around his neck. Sherlock.
Thursday 14th April, 8.35
You nuts. –John.
You said you weren't in the classroom. –John.
I am not. Marcus Larsson is. He is Swedish. He's here to see the university. –SH.
God, you are unrecognisable. –John.
I'm the best when it comes to disguises. –SH.
I've noticed. –John.
Go on with your lesson. They see you're texting under the table. –SH.
You are keeping on texting me. –John.
Not my fault if you are gorgeous in that jumper. –SH.
Shut up. –John.
Should I remind you how gorgeously sexy you are? –John.
Thursday 14th April, 9.06
Am I? – SH.
Thursday 14th April, 9.17
No, that message was supposed to be for the young girl behind you. –John.
Of course you are. –John.
So funny, John. –SH.
Really? –SH.
Sexiness made man. –John.
That was…unexpected. –SH.
Glad to have surprised you. –John.
Keep on lecturing, you're losing the thread. –SH.
Thursday 14th April, 9.47
Nice lesson. –SH.
I miss your black curls. –John.
Don't worry. They'll be back by this evening. –SH.
Why have you come? –John.
Missed you. –SH.
You're so sweet. –John.
Don't ever say that out loud. –SH.
Dinner tonight? –John.
Look who's turning the tables now. –SH.
Yes. –SH.
Angelo's? –John.
Why do you bother asking? –SH.
And they had gone to Angelo's once again, candle on their table, holding hands the whole evening.
John had returned home floating metres above the ground.
Thursday 14th April, 23.15
Sexiness made man. –SH.
What? –John.
You said that. –SH.
I know. –John.
Did you really mean that? –SH.
Yes. Of course. –John.
You're sexy too. –SH.
Liar. –John.
Thursday 14th April, 23.32
We should have sex. –SH.
WHAT? –John.
Isn't that what people who like each other do? –SH.
I physically like you and you physically like me. –SH.
John, on his armchair one week later, clearly remembered he had almost died.
Thursday 14th April, 23.45
John, are you alive? –SH.
Have I said something wrong? –SH.
No. –John.
It was just…unexpected. Very unexpected. –John.
Why that? –SH.
Well, it was a bit out of the blue. It usually…doesn't happen that way. –John.
Just, it should come more naturally. It's not a bureaucratic thing. –John.
But it's fine. Really. –John.
Oh. –SH.
Friday 15th April, 00.13
What do you like about me? –SH.
Physically, I mean. –SH.
Sherlock, I'm sort of trying to sleep. –John.
I'm serious. –SH.
I'm serious too. –John.
What do you like? –SH.
Oh god. Everything. –John.
You're too vague. –SH.
Your porcelain skin, your darting aquamarine eyes, your black soft curls. –John.
And your lean body, your rosy lips, your long fingers, especially when tangled with mines. –John.
Is that enough? –John.
You're perfection. –John.
And I'm still asking myself what YOU like about ME. –John.
Me, with my dry, rough skin, with my hair turning grey, with my shortness. –John.
Are you joking, right? –SH.
No. –John.
John, you're amazingly handsome. –SH.
Your hands are warm and strong, your hair is of the colour of the sun and the moon. –SH.
Your soldier body can be seen under your clothes, lean, strong muscles, slightly tanned. –SH.
And your eyes are soft, caring and deep. I could lose myself for hours into them. –SH.
And your lips, John, your lips, so sweet to kiss. –SH.
I'm blushing. –John.
It's the truth. –SH.
I love you. –John.
I love you more. –SH.
Friday 15th April, 00.29
Imagine me naked on the bed. –SH.
Can you do it? –SH.
Sherlock? What are you trying to do? –John.
Imagine me naked on the bed. –SH.
Completely naked. –SH.
Head on the pillow, black curls ruffled. –SH.
Slightly panting. –SH.
Legs spread open. –SH.
Sherlock…oh, god. –John.
Imagine me touching myself and you over me, watching. –SH.
Slow touches, very slow. –SH.
Hands travelling across my body. –SH.
You leaning over, while I continue my job. –SH.
Would you take me? –SH.
Sherlock…god. –John.
Would you take me? –SH.
Yes, god. –John.
Touch yourself for me, John. Now. –SH.
And John's hands that night had travelled to his cock, hard as a rock as soon as Sherlock had written 'naked', had grabbed it and had started to stroke it slowly, languidly, then harder, fiercely.
Friday 15th April, 00.34
Come for me, John. –SH.
And he had come. Hard. Vision gone white in less than a second, his whole body shaking, his back arched, the image of Sherlock naked under him in his mind. He had never had such a powerful orgasm before and it had been only a wank. God.
Friday 15th April, 00.39
Had fun? –SH.
You're mad. –John.
It's your fault. –SH.
You made me this way. I can barely recognise myself. –SH.
Idiot. –John.
Impossible idiot. –John.
And I love you. –John.
I love you too. –SH.
I'm impossibly in love with you. That's why I'm impossible. –SH.
You nuts. –John.
Sweet dreams. –SH.
They will surely be. –John.
On his armchair, on that Friday afternoon one week later, John had to resist the urge to have a second wank, hard at the mere rereading of those texts. They hadn't had sex yet after that. Sherlock had been the usual Sherlock in his messages and John hadn't touched the topic anymore.
He tried to focus on his actual problem. One month had passed since they had been dating and he wanted to take Sherlock out. He didn't want to go to Angelo's and was looking for romantic restaurants. He wanted it to be special. Their special day. He had even bought new clothes for that.
In the end he had decided for Clos Maggiore and he was about to call to book a table for that evening, when his mobile buzzed in his hand.
John! Emergency! –SH.
John looked at the screen. It wasn't the first time in their relationship that he had texted 'emergency'. They had all resulted either in Mycroft in his flat for more than thirty minutes or the lack of milk in the fridge.
He was about to give a sassy answer, when he saw an incoming call. Sherlock. And Sherlock never called.
"John! Emergency! Come, please!"
"Coming!"
He said, already running down the stairs.