It was midnight in 221B. Most of the city was asleep, tucked warm in their beds and dreaming. Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consultant detective, was not. Generally, he was up into the early hours of the morning, pacing and deducing facts for his current case. This night, there was no case and he threw papers and chemistry equipment around the flat in annoyance. He groaned to himself, his temper getting the best of him. He was just about to dash upstairs and wake his flat mate from his slumber out of pure boredom, when he heard a buzz coming from the vibrations rolling across the kitchen counter. It was 12:17 when the phone rang.
Sherlock threw himself at it, snatching it up and pressing TALK. "Holmes." he choked out, trying to contain his excitement and retain his arrogant air. The caller ID had read Lestrade. The captain of the Scotland Yard was calling him in the middle of the night, oh he must be desperate. Sherlock grinned broadly at the phone as Lestrade spoke.
"Sherlock. It's Lestrade. They found a body 'round 11:30 tonight, some celebrity. We need answers and we have none. We need some before tomorrow, before the tabloids find out and drive the people bonkers. You coming in?"
Sherlock smirked, barely able to contain his glee. "Oh please. I'm already out the door."
John opened his eyes when he heard a door slam shut. He groaned aloud, rolling over onto his side. Sherlock woke him up with his bloody tantrum, and John grimaced as he realized that he would be the one to clean up his mess in the morning. His head was pounding, he hadn't slept a wink all week, his nightmares haunting his subconscious and keeping him an insomniac. The one night he finally dozed off for a few hours Sherlock had to go slamming things around! John Watson cursed the nerve of the man and closed his eyes once again. Sherlock had left for a case, he presumed that had been Lestrade phoning, and there was no telling when he would return. John might as well sleep and regain his energy before he launched into Sherlock for being a self-centered, inconsiderate flat mate. Despite that, John had to smile to himself. He had never been happier since that first day, when he and Sherlock went traipsing around London like a pair of mad coppers. He sighed, his features deflating, and let the darkness consume him once again.
It was early in the morning when Sherlock returned to the flat, the sun had barely risen, and his workspace was cloaked in a grey half-light glowing in from the windows, as well as being cloaked in piles of clutter, as always. Sherlock threw off his coat, and flung his scarf onto John's armchair. He raced over to the table, shoving things aside to lay down the evidence files Lestrade had given him. The case was for a male celebrity named Jonathan Christopher. He had gone out for the night to a few exclusive clubs with his girlfriend and his costar. They had gotten drunk, and the girl and friend had stumbled out of the club in a drunken stupor, not realizing they had left Christopher until they recovered from their hangover the next night. When they returned to the club, they found him sprawled on the lounge chairs just where they had left him when he passed out the night before. The only difference from their hectic adventure the previous night was that the actor was cold, still, lifeless and most definitely dead.
The autopsy told them that the cause of death had been poison, slipped into his mouth. A small tablet of cyanide that dissolved on contact, enough dosage crammed into one pill to be lethal. The main suspect was the girlfriend, but the costar was brought in for questioning as well. Sherlock had spoken to both at the Yard. The girlfriend had seemed genuinely upset over her partner's death. Sherlock was made to wait several minutes before she could compose herself enough to speak without being racked by sobs. Sherlock hoped he never stooped so low, to become so attached to another human being. The only things he could deduce off her were that she had not eaten in a few months, and that she had strange scars up and down her arms before her crying had given him a headache. Christopher's costar was a different story. Holmes had deduced that he was unhappy with his girlfriend, had lost any interest in her really, that his childhood had been scarring and that he was not on speaking terms with either of his two brothers or his parents, all of which were strict Catholics. He had become much attached to Jonathan very quickly, he had only known the man a little over eight months, but he was grieving none the less. He seemed a bit shifty and nervous, but then again most people got nervous in police stations. It didn't matter much. First Sherlock had to prove that one could successfully murder another person through the use of the cyanide pill. He needed to test it for himself...there were only two people available to kiss at this hour, and Mrs. Hudson was too far away, she most likely wouldn't hear him downstairs. Plus, she was old.
"John?" the detective called up the stairs into the silence of the morning. A clock ticked heartily in the distance, putting off Sherlock's thinking, and he wondered why there was a bothersome clock in the flat at all.
"What?" John slurred. He had fallen asleep reading another one of those dreadful self help books Mrs. Hudson continuously placed on his nightstand. He tossed the book in what he hoped was the direction of the bookshelf, his senses disoriented. He heard his flat mate call up the stairs for him to come down. He rolled out of the bed, his shirt rumpled and his hair mussed. He loped down the stairs, and sauntered up to the table where Sherlock was working. Immediately the detective could tell by his bleary eyes and haggard face that his doctor had not been getting his full 8 hours, and it was affecting him.
"Sit down." he stated, feeling a slight pang of guilt for waking him. "I need you," he began, steepling his fingers under his chin and tapping them against his lips. John gazed at him expectantly, and he faltered. He wet his cupid's bow lips and tried again. When had things become so awkward for him? It was an innocent inquiry necessary to the outcome of the case. "I need you...to kiss me." John's eyes widened, he was clearly awake now.
"I'm sorry, what?" the doctor sputtered. What sort of request was this? And why was John for some reason not surprise, but almost hopeful? He shook his head to clear his thoughts.
"Not good?" Sherlock asked in a low voice.
"A bit not good, yea." John mumbled. He rubbed a hand over his face, sighing. He knew he was going to give into his flat mate's wishes as he always did, not matter how ludicrous they were. John chose to ignore the fact that he somewhat did not want to question Sherlock's request, and follow through with the task. "What is it exactly you want me to do?"
" Kiss me." the detective shrugged. He wondered why John was reacting this way. Did people usually become so flustered when asked to kiss someone, or was it that John simply did not want to kiss him? Sherlock stopped himself, why would he care whether or not John wished to kiss him? He peered into John's face, trying to read his reaction and deduce what it meant. "Look, it's for the case, obviously, John. I need to know the effects of lip contact and whether or not it could be used as a means of murder, I mentioned already that I'm married to my work-"
John cut him off. "No. No. I wasn't...fine. I suppose if it'll help you solve this case you've been absolved in since you got home, I'll do it."
Sherlock brightened. "Fine. Excellent. Hold on." he turned and slipped a small sugar tablet under his tongue. It would serve as the "poison" in this reenactment. If he could transfer it into John's mouth without him noticing, he could prove his theory on the victim's cause of death. He licked his lips. He had never kissed anyone before, and he felt a flutter of nerves in his abdomen. Ridiculous. He was Sherlock Holmes! If he wanted to kiss a man he would kiss a man. He doubted that John would be able to surmise his inexperience in the field. He most likely wouldn't even know the difference. He swiveled around to face John yet again, moving closer to the other man. John looked up at him, feeling his cheeks redden. Sherlock was always making judgments about others, and he hoped his friend would not judge him for never having kissed a man before. Would this be awkward? Would it change anything between them? Sherlock muttered something incomprehensible before suddenly lurching forward, grabbing John's face in his hands and catching the doctor's lips with his. He felt John stiffen in surprise, but slowly relax into the detective's touch. He kissed back, parting his lips just as Sherlock hoped he would. Using his tongue, he pushed the tablet half way into John's mouth, forcing it under John's tongue with his bottom lip, where it instantly dissolved. When Sherlock released his grip on his flat mate's jaw moments later, he said nothing of a foreign object being inserted into his mouth. Sherlock smirked in triumph, and John exhaled softly, before curtly nodding to Sherlock and heading up to his room.
If John thought he couldn't sleep before, he certainly could not sleep now. He had kissed his flat mate, he had kissed Sherlock Holmes. "More importantly", John thought, "Sherlock Holmes has kissed me," The doctor wondered how this would affect their relationship now. He wondered if it had helped at all in the case, if the kiss had been acceptable. He wondered how his flat mate felt about the kiss, he wondered if he thought anything of it at all. He wondered what the consulting detective was doing right now, as it was unusually silent downstairs. Normally, Sherlock would be pacing about thinking, picking clutter up and moving it around, crashing about in the kitchen, or making some other form of noise. He wasn't even close to a breakthrough, when he lay unmoving on the couch, silent, sometimes for a matter of days, so John knew there should be some noise reaching his ears from below. He scratched his head, and then returned his hands to their place, clasped, on his stomach. He lay on the outside of the covers, still clothed in his jumper and jeans, staring up at the ceiling. He thought of so many things pertaining to their kiss, but he avoided his most important thought that he was in denying to himself, which was that he had enjoyed their kiss immensely, and he almost wished that Sherlock felt the same way.
Sherlock sat at the downstairs kitchen table. He had thought that he would have millions of deductions and thoughts racing through his mind about the case, now that he had the correct proof about the murder method, but for once the consulting detective had one thought, and one thought only, racing through his mind. John, John, John. Sherlock had kissed ex-army doctor John Watson. He had felt it went well, as far as first kisses go, if not a bit awkward in the beginning. This, of course, was understandable, as he assumed it was both their first time kissing a man, and also each other. Sherlock leaned back in his chair, listening for the sound of John's snores from his bedroom. He heard none, and sighed. He knew that when John couldn't sleep it affected him poorly, and he nursed the idea that his friend's insomnia was his fault. He felt a brief flash of pride that his kiss was what was keeping the doctor awake, but he quickly banished the idea from his mind. Obviously something else much more important was keeping his blogger up, and still Sherlock felt sad, because as he had deduced of himself, Sherlock had enjoyed the kiss. He almost wished that John felt the same, because he wanted it to happen again. His mouth still tingled with the ghostly remnant of John's warm lips against his. Sherlock's whole body felt electrified, yet calm and peaceful. He was content just to sit quietly in his chair, dreaming of his flat mates lips. He wanted them again; he needed them again, not for research, but for himself. His mind went into overdrive, he couldn't handle this desire...it was as bad as any addiction he'd ever had. "Think, Sherlock!" he commanded of himself, his mind turning over ideas. If only it hadn't been for this bloody case he never would have needed to kiss John and-wait. Oh. That was how he would get his John to kiss him again. Sherlock grinned to himself, his mind already making plans for the evening when John returned from work.
John trudged home around 10:00 that night, opening the creaky flat door with shaky hands and closing it behind him. He was exhausted from working eight hours, and all he wanted to do was collapse onto his bed and try to sleep. He hadn't eaten anything all day, but he had no energy for food, so he walked right by the kitchen, where Sherlock was crouched around his equipment. He ducked down, not wanting to meet John's eyes, pretending to study something under his microscope very seriously, when in all actuality the slides where empty, the light not even on. John passed by his flat mate, wearily stumbling up the stairs. Sherlock stood and silently followed him. When he crept up to John's room, he lingered in the doorway without saying a word. John looked up, shirtless, and saw the detective slumped against his wall. He started, dropping the jumper he'd just pulled over his head, cursing.
"What is it, Sherlock?" he inquired tiredly. Sherlock grinned at him; John was obviously embarrassed and caught off guard. It was almost...cute. But he too flushed as he began to ask John, "W-would you mind helping me again? I need to do more...err, research for the case." John smirked at him, leaning one hand on the bed. "Sherlock, what are you asking of me?" he said, hoping the sociopath couldn't catch the glint of hope in his voice. "Because I'm very tired, and I was hoping that perhaps I could try to get some sleep tonight."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I need to study lip contact in further depth." He had caught the hope in his friend's voice. "Would you like to help me?"
John wordlessly nodded, sitting on the edge of his bed now. He grabbed a night shirt, throwing it on. Sherlock smirked, moving to sit beside him. The two men leaned against each other awkwardly. Neither wanted to be the one to instigate the kissing. "This is ridiculous." Sherlock thought. He turned to face John, who looked up at him nervously. Sherlock noted this, and whispered, "Close your eyes." John did and this made it easier for both of them. Sherlock placed his hand atop John's encircling their fingertips. He leaned forward, pressing his lips tentatively against John's. The doctor kissed back, parting his lips to deepen their contact. Sherlock boldly slipped his tongue into John's mouth halfway, seeing how the doctor would react. He responded by peeping his own tongue out and meeting Sherlock's. John fell back against the bed, and Sherlock leaned over him, not breaking their contact. John brought his arms up, laying his hands on his flat mate's back. They kissed for what seemed like ages, before they released each other, breathless. Their cheeks glowed bright and Sherlock smiled down at John.
"Hi." John mumbled, setting them both off giggling.
"Hello." Sherlock responded.
"Was that enough for your research?" John laughed.
"Quite adequate, thank you John." said Sherlock, smiling to himself. His plan had worked perfectly, his need for John sustained for now. John yawned, his eyelids fluttering. "You're tired." the consulting detective observed.
"I'm fine." John protested. Sherlock stopped him, gently pushing him down and drawing back the blankets. He tucked them sloppily around John, he wasn't much for sleeping properly in a bed. "You're tired." he insisted. "You should sleep now."
The doctor sighed, relenting to his friend's wishes. He shut his eyes obediently, rolling over onto his side. Sherlock watched him approvingly. He went to get up and let John sleep, but his flat mate's eyes snapped open at the creak of the mattress.
"Sher-sherlock?" he called out to the departing man. "Would you stay?" Sherlock turned in the doorway to stare quizzically at John. "It's just...I just...can't sleep as of late." He looked up to find Sherlock already there at the foot of his bed. John smiled softly. Sherlock would stay.
"What's stopping you?" he inquired politely, though he already knew the doctor had nightmares. John didn't answer him, so he changed the subject. "What do you think of the case?"
John blushed. "It's interesting. I'm glad I could...help out."
Sherlock laughed. "As am I." He leaned on one shoulder in an odd position in order to face John.
"You might as well get comfortable." he stated, so Sherlock slipped under the covers beside John, resting his head on a pillow, their eyes level, their faces inches apart. They ended up spending an hour reliving old memories and telling each other funny stories from their childhood. John laughed so hard at the story of when Sherlock deduced his fifth grade teacher had been secretly snogging the principal that he had to tell it twice. Even Sherlock broke into laughter when John told a story about the time he caught his first girlfriend kissing Harry in the hall closet. They drifted into a conversation about nothing in particular when John couldn't keep his eyes open any longer. He dozed off, Sherlock watching his facial features soften. He looked much younger when he slept, peaceful. Sherlock liked watching him breathe slowly, and wondered what he dreamed about as well as his nightmares. Sherlock thought back to John's horrible depression and sincerely hoped that he was not the cause of any of these nightmares, thought the obvious conclusion was that he most likely was. Before he knew it, he too had fallen asleep, his features calm and youthful.
Sherlock, inevitably, cuddled. John realized that when he awoke late in the night from a very pleasant dream, to find Sherlock's face against his shoulder, and his arms around his waist. He tried to shift his position, but was pinned down by his flat mate's strong grip. John sighed, this was not entirely unpleasant, besides his paralysis. It was almost comforting, knowing that if another nightmare set upon him that he wasn't alone tonight. In the morning he would have to shrug Sherlock off, if he didn't rise before John, but for now he was content to lay awake and ponder if Sherlock put his arms around anyone as he slept, or if he specifically meant to put his arms around John.
The kissing continued. Neither man had intended it to happen, but there was now an unspoken bond between them. Every night around 10:30, after John would return from work, Sherlock went up to his room to check on him. This was followed by John asking if he needed more help with research. At first, Sherlock would coyly respond, "Yes." but now he had reduced himself to promptly attacking John's mouth without a word, flinging himself at his blogger. They would kiss for however long they could manage without air, perhaps more than once if Sherlock was "really close to a breakthrough". Both men could not get enough of each other, and though they never discussed their need or feelings, both somehow just knew that this was their arrangement now. An arrangement which, normally, resulted in them talking until John fell asleep, followed by Sherlock. John found that somehow these sessions were aiding his sleep. His nightmares had all but vanished, Sherlock only waking once when he cried out, and he felt tired again. He no longer had to lay awake each night for hours until exhaustion finally forced his eyes shut. He didn't like to think that this was because he felt safe with Sherlock, or that his friend's presence at night reassured him that he was not gone, but inside John knew it was true. Briefly, Sherlock had stayed the whole night, waiting for John to wake before getting up himself, but now he returned to his old habits, only staying until John had fallen asleep, sometimes lingering for an hour or two before returning to his work. One particular night, he had not departed when John opened his eyes. He rubbed them with his fists, squinting to read that the time was 4:15 on the alarm clock beside his bed. He heard the intake of breath, felt the rise and fall of a chest against his back, and was surprised to see the consulting detective beside him in bed. He turned over to gaze at the raven haired man, brushing a stray curl back from his pale forehead. His light lips were parted slightly, to allow air to escape, as was heard in his soft exhales. Framed by the lights of London seeping in through the window behind him, he was a picture of serenity. John felt his heart swell as he observed his companion.
"You don't know it," he whispered to the sleeping form. "But it seems that I have fallen deeply in love with you." Sherlock's mouth rose at the corners as he smiled softly in his sleep. John smiled back, knowing the man was unconscious to what he had said, else he would not had said it, but he liked to fancy his flat mate's smile was just for him that night.
It was twenty-two days after their first kiss, and Sherlock and John were going through an old photo album they had found in Molly's bag the other day in the mortuary. Sherlock was doing some sort of chemistry experiment with a human toe and a green acidic liquid. John disproved of this very much, and was trying in vain to peak Sherlock's interest in this book so he could toss the whole solution out the window. He found a picture of Molly at some sort of evening event. She looked pretty, in a black strapless gown adored with a string of pearls and a white lace shawl. John grimaced, though, when he noticed her garish lipstick. It was bright red, and made her lips stick out too much. It was almost blinding the way it popped in your face. John made a small noise of disapproval, and Sherlock looked up. "What?"
"Oh nothing," John replied. "Just Molly's awful lipstick in this picture."
"Yes...lipstick." the younger man muttered, before returning to his work. A moment later his head snapped up again, eyes wide. "Say that again!" he commanded John.
"Lipstick?"
"Yes! Lipstick, lipstick...the girlfriend always wore lipstick!" Sherlock cried.
"Whose girlfriend?" the doctor questioned.
Sherlock sighed, disappointed that John wasn't keeping up with him. "Christopher's girlfriend. Jonathan Christopher's!" John nodded, remembering now the case Sherlock had all but abandoned, so distracted was he with John at night. "His girlfriend," he continued. "Always wore the same maroon shade of lipstick when she came in for questioning. Now I'm no expert on lipsticks, but the shade seemed to match one that Molly had on her desk once." He pressed his fingers to his temples, searching his mind palace. "Brighton 32 if I recall correctly. And in every picture of the three from that night, she is wearing the lipstick! But there were no traces of it on Christopher's body. Any other man might have washed it off, but the poison would have killed him in half an hour or less...and they say he passed out drunk just before the alleged time of death, SO he would not have had time to wipe it off. Therefore, his girlfriend could not have murdered him. But he kissed someone, so who? The only other person with them...WAS HIS COSTAR!" Sherlock jumped up from his workspace. "The costar did it! It all makes sense now, the jealousy, the bad past, the nervousness in at the Yard, the disconnection from the Christian family. Jonathan Christopher's costar killed him because he was jealous and secretly in love with him." Sherlock grinned victoriously. John smiled back at him, his head starting to hurt.
Sherlock strode up to him. "John. My phone, it's beside you on the table. Text Lestrade and tell him I've solved the case." John did as he asked, typing, "Girlfriend not killer. Jealous costar was gay. Arrest him. -SH" He set the phone down, and Sherlock turned away from him. He paced around the flat in his excitement. His cell phone buzzed, and John picked it up. Lestrade had responded, "Took you long enough. Come down to Yard, will call in costar for arrest."
"He wants you to come in." John told Sherlock, who promptly set about putting on his coat and scarf. As he prepared to leave, John felt a pang in his heart. The case was solved...Sherlock would move on.
"So...the case is closed." the doctor remarked from his seat where he was reading the paper.
"The case is closed." echoed Sherlock happily. "Do you know what that means?" he asked, his voice deepening as he strode over to John.
"What does it mean Sherlock?" John said tiredly. He knew what it meant. The fun was over, Sherlock didn't need him for research anymore.
"It means," said Sherlock, stooping down to be level with John's profile. "That I have to ponder a new reason to kiss you every night." He cradled John's chin with one hand, pulling him closer to smack his lips against John's cheek before he dashed out the door to the Yard.
John reddened immediately, but he was shocked at his friend's confession. "Wha-what? Sherlock!" he cried, jumping up from his chair, rattling the items upon it to chase Sherlock down the stairs.
The tall man's laughter could be heard as he walked out onto the sidewalk. John jogged up to him, turning him roughly around, then seizing the collar of Sherlock's dark trench coat forcefully. "Don't tease me like that!" he grumbled, before looking the stunned Sherlock in his glasz eyes and crashing his lips against the younger man's hungrily. Their lips tugged at each other, and pressed close, warm flesh connecting with warm flesh multiple times. They didn't show any concern at all that they were standing in the middle of the public walkway, and in front of many surprised pedestrians, slipped their tongues greedily into each other's mouths. Their tongues intertwined, swirling around each other as John locked his fingers at the nape of Sherlock's neck and Sherlock's gloved hands settled tightly on the doctor's waist, drawing him closer to fit against Sherlock's body snuggly. John drew back after a moment, both men flushed pink and breathless from their heavy snogging. Their soft white puffs of exhale dissolved in the brisk London air, still chilly, the aftermath of the rainfall.
"Well," Sherlock stated. "I suppose my teasing you is...an adequate reason for you to kiss me...and trust me, I have my own reasons." He smiled slightly, surprised but pleased at John's bold audacity, entwining his fingers with his flat mate's. John's hand was shaking slightly, the back cold and the tips numb, so Sherlock ran his own fingers over John's knuckles and palm to warm them. The consultant detective and his army doctor ventured once again to the Scotland Yard, another case solved, but there was something different in the air, something stirring in the hearts of the two men, both of them now smiling for no reason at all.