Chapters 2 and 3 are setting up for what's to come... Hope you will stick to to my story. I mentioned it before somewhere, I don't buy Sherlock being asexual, so this is my take on it. Enjoy!
3. Musings
It was Sunday and John was relaxed. They had finished a case and his surgery closed on weekends. Mercifully, Sherlock's noise the previous night had been actual violin playing, so it wasn't as bad and he had a good night of sleep for a change. He showered and, after some debating, decided it was best to shave, just in case. You never knew when a potential client might show up, better to look respectable. Or when Lestrade might call compelling Sherlock to drag him out of the flat without much notice. He put on an old pair of jeans, a long sleeved shirt, leaving it untucked, and went downstairs, barefoot. He knew it was a bit risky to be barefoot around the flat (who knows what Sherlock might have thrown around – a tissue sample, a knife, chemicals), but he had learned to always scan the floors as he walked. He went straight to the kitchen to get some breakfast. It was a coffee kind of day today, being dark and rainy. He had a small start upon seeing Sherlock at the table, looking into his microscope.
'Oh, good morning, Sherlock.' he said, receiving only a small grunt in reply.
He tried not to slow down his pace, but he glanced at Sherlock's neck as he walked by. Busying himself with the coffeemaker he thought about Sherlock peering into the microscope. He thought the thin neck coming out of his clothes (or gown), framed by his black hair looked quite elegant. He liked his profile; the shapely nose, the mouth looking smaller from the side, the light of the microscope shining into his eyes, making them bluer than ever. Sherlock had a bit of a receding chin, which was compensated by the fact that it was also long. At moments like these, he looked peaceful - or at least, most of the times he did. His face was at rest, just concentrating on what he was seeing, absorbed in the task.
'Black with two sugars,' said the familiar voice, without moving away from the microscope.
Once in a while, 'please' would be nice, John thought, resigned.
...
Sherlock glanced as John busied himself with the coffee. He had been a puzzle from the start. Who in their right mind would've trusted Sherlock right away, from the beginning? So much so as to kill to protect him when even the police had started to suspect him? How had this happened in less than 24 hours? What was it that John saw in him - aside his brilliant mind?
Or, more startling, what did I see in him? What made me choose him as a flatmate from the start? A man coming from war, accustomed to violence and danger might've understood my passion towards solving mysteries. But that had not been all. To this day he still didn't know what had possessed him to pick John Watson. He was just glad he did.
Most people loathed, disliked, hated or feared him. Or, at the very least, were uncomfortable around him. Not John. Oh, he would get mad at him sometimes, for trivial things on their day to day lives (body parts, destruction of property, invasion of privacy, lack of empathy, etc). But he had never acted like the others. He cared for him, treated his injuries, looked out for him. John always tried to watch his back, always tried to make sure he ate, stayed hydrated, got enough rest. And he praised Sherlock constantly.
He had quickly chosen John on a whim to circumvent Mycroft from hand-picking his next flatmate. His brother had established this condition for Sherlock to have his own flat long ago, after the drug years. He would have to have a flatmate, so there'd always be someone watching over him and, preferably, reporting to Mycroft. Someone to make sure he didn't go back to drugs. A nanny-bodyguard-nurse. He always knew when someone worked for his brother. And if they didn't work for him in the beginning, Sherlock made sure to send them running the moment he knew Mycroft had bought them. To his brother's annoyance, this time Sherlock came up with someone who refused the bribe. He hadn't expected any flatmate to last, but he could at the very least stall (and annoy) Mycroft until the next one, and the next one, and so on. But John had not only refused the bribe, he had stayed.
Yet it wasn't only on a whim. John had... something about him, something that gave Sherlock the push to give him the address. All that he was presented itself very clearly within a minute. But only the external, superficial things. When he first allowed himself a sideways glance, he noticed the hair colour and the limp. He had always liked blond hair. It always drew his eyes, like a magnet. Then, when John offered his phone, it gave him a chance to look into his eyes and read him. He saw mistrust; John clearly didn't want a flatmate and was there only because he didn't want to be rude to Stamford. He noticed the eyes, blue, very dark and inscrutable that day. Hm, a mystery... this might be interesting. So he showed off a bit with what he gathered from his first glance and the phone, to intrigue John into coming to see the flat. He even turned on his charm, winking mischievously when giving him the address and his name as his parting words.
Their first case together was a whirlwind of fun. John had made it a memorable one. As they got to know each other, he discovered that there was more beneath the surface to John Watson. And that 'more' was something he had yet to define.
At first, he thought John is always - justifiably so - in awe of me. He worships my mind, always telling me how brilliant I am. The first person to actually recognise my skills. He's almost like a puppy dog paying attention to its master. It was satisfying to finally have his brilliant mind dully acknowledged. It was his right to be revered for his superior intellect.
But over time he realised that John was not simply a puppy dog. He had slowly wormed himself into a very unique position, one that only one person had ever come close to in the past. He had become his friend. Not a light word in itself, Sherlock didn't have friends. But then he became more than that. He became Sherlock's best friend. He would have scoffed at such a ridiculous idea years ago. Now he found out that he liked having and being someone else's best friend.
He had experienced his own shifts as time passed. It started from day one, but he hadn't noticed until recently. One of the things he thought endearing about John was how expressive his face was. For the most part, it was very easy to read his emotions. His brow and lips were always very mobile, making his micro expressions more like a giant advert. Except, there were occasions when Sherlock detected buried feelings, thoughts, all undefined and elusive. Sherlock could always read others, but now and then John would still puzzle him. Maybe it was part of the military training, but on occasion John could be very inscrutable. He enjoyed John's laughter, and one of Sherlock's greatest pleasures was when he was the one who had made his friend laugh. It made him happy to know John was happy with him, proud of him, on his side, by his side. He enjoyed looking into those blue eyes and see all that flowed from within, towards him.
Usually physical contact did not appeal to him. His sexual history had been enough to satisfy his quest for knowledge and to write it off from his life. Despite the fleetingly satisfying physical sensations of any sexual act, no one had been interesting enough to make him want a relationship. He didn't have a problem with sex, he had a problem with people. He was as much a virgin as Mycroft was fat. But those were the things that the brothers used to spite each other. Because it worked.
Except... No. No one had ever been as close to him as John. For the first time in his life, he finally understood the appeal of a relationship with someone else. He had been happy alone. Now he was happy not having to be alone anymore.
He enjoyed watching how John moved and oftentimes had tried to imagine the body under those unflattering clothes he wore. He liked when John wore his terrycloth gown around the flat after showering, with his hair still wet. It felt intimate, as if he were comfortable around Sherlock. A couple of weeks ago, John was relaxed, sitting down on his chair with a mug of tea and the paper, letting his hair dry a bit. Sherlock had been lounging on the sofa, when he did a subtle double take, seeing his friend in profile. Like most males, John sat with his legs wide apart when relaxed. The gown opened enough to show the inside of his left thigh, quite high up. Also, with his body curved in a relaxed position, it hung loose, showing more of his torso. Nothing more, but the idea of seeing a little further than allowed stirred his senses. Tantalising. Is he wearing anything underneath the gown?
And last week's indiscretion of listening in. That had sparked his own sexuality to re-awaken, after so many years. The most skin John ever showed was when he wore (loose) t-shirts with (loose) pyjama bottoms to sleep or a (loose) t-shirt and (very long) shorts to work out.
Yet, he still hadn't seen his scar. John was always too self conscious to walk around shirtless.
Following his internal train of thought, without looking away from the microscope, he asked, 'John, can I see your scar?'