Fic: Alternate Hypotheses (5/5)
Title: Alternate Hypotheses
Rating: T
Genres: Romance, Crack
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Wordcount: 3,592 (this chapter); 13,400 total
Beta: percygranger
Apparently, Sherlock is experimenting on John without his consent. John is going to kill him. Right after he makes a cup of tea.
Chapter 1: John, Guinea Pig
Chapter 2: Uncooperative Test Subjects
Chapter 3: Experimental Error
Chapter 4: The Inappropriate Sofa Incident
Chapter 5: Results
On the third day of being faced with a petulant flatmate, John decided enough was enough. Sherlock knew, and John knew that Sherlock knew, so it was about time that Sherlock knew that John knew that... Well. It couldn't get any worse, right?
John tried not to think about the many ways it could, in fact, get worse.
"So, are you going to tell me what's wrong?"
Sherlock stopped pacing a hole in the sitting room floor and just stared at John in horror. "What?"
Didn't think John would notice his incessant pouting, then. For being a genius, how did Sherlock manage to be so thick?
Instead of being a mature adult, Sherlock snapped at John and fled to the safety of his room. Well, that could have been worse, thought John cheerily. He could have just shoved me down the stairs.
A confession of undying love might've been nice, though.
John snorted, tamping down the ache in his chest that flared up at the thought, and started up the tea kettle. He'd have to make some sort of peace offering if he wanted to lure Sherlock back out of his room.
While the kettle was heating, John walked over to Sherlock's room and knocked tentatively on the door. "Sherlock, I'm sorry I pried. Just... Come out, will you? I'll make you some tea."
Right. That didn't sound desperate at all.
Except... instead of the biting retort John was expecting, Sherlock sort of... moaned.
John's name.
Oh, sweet Jesus.
Was it John's (admittedly lust-ridden and overactive) imagination, or was Sherlock actually touching himself in there?
John turned the whimper he emitted into a hasty cough and prepared his retreat. "Sorry, I didn't - um. I'll come back later, yeah?"
Come. Bad word choice. Or maybe good word choice. Fuck. Bollocks. Bugger.
And when John sat down heavily in his armchair, he was saddled with a massive erection and some very lewd images of exactly what Sherlock Holmes might be doing in his bedroom.
He was in the process of undoing his zip when a flushed and irritated consulting detective burst out of his room and practically ripped his coat from the stand by the door.
"I'm going out."
It was all John could do to mutter a faint "Um," without squeaking. Sherlock didn't turn to look. Thank God for small miracles.
When the door slammed shut behind Sherlock, John's problem hadn't gone away. It looked like Sherlock wouldn't be coming back for a while, so John ran upstairs to his bedroom before he could change his mind and see sense.
***
John was feeling considerably more cheerful after dumping his soiled pants in the hamper, taking a nice hot shower, shaving, and drinking a mug of tea. And eating a number of biscuits. There was still no sign of Sherlock, and John needed to keep his mind from wandering back to him every five minutes, so he put in Die Hard (the first one, of course; Alan Rickman was the best villain of the lot, in John's opinion) and stretched out on the sofa in his jimjams.
And then Sherlock came back and John's composure was shot to hell.
"Oh," he said intelligently. Yeah, real smooth, Watson. "I thought you would be gone longer, so I put on Die Hard."
And had a wank. Good thing you weren't there for that. Not that I would have minded. Christ. Not a good time for this...
John tucked his legs underneath himself and tried to occupy as little space on the sofa as possible. Maybe he could hide in the sofa cushions.
Instead, Sherlock apparently took John's mortification for an invitation to join him.
Well, fuck me. ...God, I wish he would. Great, now I'm probably blushing like a ruddy secondary student.
"How long have you known?" Sherlock asked, interrupting John's internal debate. He was almost too quiet to hear.
Oh, just great. They were going to have "the talk." John steeled himself. "What do you mean, Sherlock?"
"It was when you read that article on limerence, wasn't it?"
Bloody hell.
John just managed a nod before tearing his gaze away from Sherlock.
He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him even as he was looking resolutely elsewhere... Not Sherlock's bedroom door! Oh bugger.
Time to apply diversionary tactics. "How long have you known, then?"
"Since Tuesday."
As if that weren't bloody obvious, considering how he'd started pouting on Wednesday morning. John gritted his teeth and refused to meet Sherlock's eyes. "Strange," he said, aiming for nonchalance but probably getting something closer to constipation, "that I knew something before you did."
"You know I'm not good with emotion."
John turned back to look at Sherlock. How had he let this man get so far under his skin?
The look in Sherlock's eyes was indecipherable, but John could have sworn he saw fear. It was the same look he'd seen at the pool. He didn't want to be the cause of that look. "I can go to Harry's," he said. "If you need. I'd like to stay tonight, since I'm knackered, but I can pack up tomorrow morning."
Sherlock's reaction was immediate. He lunged for John, shouting "No!" and gripping his arm painfully. What the bleeding hell? Sherlock was so close now. If John just leaned the tiniest bit forward, their lips would brush, and -
And Sherlock's eyes flared wide as he flinched back, letting go of John's arm as though it had burned him. "Sorry," he gasped out. John's heart was still pounding in his chest.
Well, at least John had established one thing. "So you don't want me to move out?"
"Stay. Please," Sherlock pleaded, shaking his head.
John fidgeted. He couldn't keep getting jerked around like this. Sherlock wanted him, then he ignored him. He flirted with him over texts, only to treat him like rubbish when he saw him. He subjected him to scientific experiments as though he was some sort of guinea pig. He smiled at John, and John felt his heart breaking.
Oh, he might be attracted to John. But it was fairly clear, by now, that Sherlock was incapable of deeper emotion.
That was thing about falling in love, wasn't it? John had read it on that bloody article.
...an overwhelming, obsessive need to have one's feelings reciprocated...
And Sherlock never would.
"It's just... It's going to be so much harder now."
Sherlock's face fell. "It doesn't have to be..."
"For you, maybe." Sherlock visibly recoiled, and John sighed, flustered, and it all just came tumbling out of him. "Look, it's just... I can't just ignore this and pretend that it's nothing. I've tried. God, I really have tried, Sherlock, but - do you have any idea how hard this is for me? How uncomfortable I am when I'm alone with you? When you get into my personal space?"
Sherlock looked at John as though he had been personally betrayed. The git. Like he was the one in pain here.
John shook his head, forced himself to get the words out. "You send me these text messages, and they feel like flirting, and for a while, it's okay. I can pretend..." John broke off, struggling to maintain his composure.
"Do you want to leave, then? Would it be easier?" Sherlock asked, voice impossibly soft.
Would it? John considered it, briefly. But... he couldn't. He'd thought about it, plenty of times, but... Sherlock just made everything feel real. He'd rather die than go back to his old life, staggering about the city on his cane, going home to a frigid little bedsit, and having nothing to look forward to. No one to come home to.
No. He wouldn't leave. "I'm not leaving unless you make me. You're still my best friend. It's just - don't pretend that this is somehow going to be okay, that I don't..." love you. John took a deep breath. He couldn't say the words out loud. "It was fine before. Before you knew. The past few days... I can't live like this, Sherlock. If we could just go back to the way we were before..."
He would lose the flirtatious texts, the cuddling on the couch, the looks of wonderment, and the sharp focus of Sherlock's entire attention, fastened on him. John would miss those things. But at least he wouldn't lose everything.
"Right then. I think I need some sleep. It's been a long day." Without daring to look back at Sherlock, John shoved off the sofa and trudged up the stairs to his room. He lay awake on his bed for a long time after, listening to the mournful strains of a violin echoing from the sitting room below.
***
John did not want to go downstairs.
He knew it was childish, but he lay in bed for a good forty minutes after waking, staring at the ceiling and wondering just how irritating Sherlock was going to be this morning, and all the mornings after, for that matter.
His stomach was rumbling menacingly for the fifth time when a sharp rap sounded on his bedroom door.
"I made tea. Stop hiding."
John buried his face in the pillow and tried to pretend he didn't exist.
"I expect you to be down before the toast gets cold," Sherlock said, voice slightly muffled by the closed door. He thundered down the stairs, clearly making as much noise as possible to get a rise out of John.
"Wanker," John mumbled into the pillow.
Well, it seemed Sherlock was back to his normal, infuriating self, which was a relief. The bit about the toast was odd, though.
John rolled out of bed and trudged reluctantly down the stairs. Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, using John's laptop (bollocks) and sipping a mug of Earl Grey absently.
Sherlock's eyes were still transfixed on whatever he was reading. Probably something about serial killers. Or tobacco ash. Or ways to annoy your flatmate. "Toast is in the kitchen."
There were two slightly burnt pieces of toast sitting on a plate on the kitchen table, still warm. Next to them was an unopened jar of marmalade, a steak knife, and John's mug of tea.
"Um, thanks," John called out.
Sherlock just grunted.
John put the steak knife back (on second thought, best put it in the sink, no telling what Sherlock had done to it), grabbed a butter knife from the drawer, and slathered his toast with a thick layer of marmalade before trooping over to his armchair.
"Um. Why did you make me toast, exactly?"
Sherlock smirked as he glanced over at John, flicking his hand in dismissal. "Bribe. I expect future favours."
John munched on the cold, crunchy, blackened toast. Whether it could even still be called "toast" was debatable. "You get an A for effort, I suppose."
Sherlock glared at John over his laptop. "And you wonder why I don't do nice things."
John bit back a smile. "Kidding! It's lovely, really, I'm quite touched." He took a taste of his tea and was pleasantly surprised.
"I'm not entirely incompetent, then?" Sherlock said, one eyebrow raised and his mouth twisted in that ridiculously adorable smirk of his. John did not want to think about Sherlock's smirk right now.
"I do... appreciate this," John said, "but... it's just the tiniest bit suspicious, you know, making me tea and toast, right after suggesting I move out and treating me like shite for three days."
Sherlock's gaze flicked back down to John's laptop. "Well, you didn't move out, did you? Perhaps I am simply trying to convey my gratitude."
Now that was an entertaining thought. Sherlock, grateful?
"Could you stop by the shops when you've finished?" Sherlock asked, almost as an afterthought.
Of course Sherlock wanted something. Probably more cantaloupes for some stupid bloody experiment. Or maybe he'd used all the milk. Again.
"Are we out of milk?" John felt a surge of relief at the thought. Strange, to think that after the torture of the past three days, Sherlock was back to being a completely selfish git, who performed experiments in the bathtub and used all the milk just to get John out of the house so he could plant security cameras.
"Oh, yes, you should pick that up too."
Bloody presumptuous git. John struggled to bite back his smile. "Well, what did you want me to get, then?"
"Condoms," Sherlock said, eyes still directed at the laptop screen, rather than John.
"Condoms?" Why would Sherlock, of all people, need condoms?
Must be for some experiment.
"So we can have sex."
John really shouldn't have chosen that moment to take another mouthful of tea.
It took him a moment to process the words, and when he finally did, his tea ended up going into his lungs, and he choked and coughed. His mouthful sprayed all over Sherlock, John's laptop, and their sofa in the process.
"John!" Sherlock leapt from the sofa, heedless of John's beleaguered laptop, which he let drop in his haste. "Do try to keep your tea in your mouth, would you? Swallow, don't spit."
"Jesus! Sherlock, what?" John was vaguely aware of setting his toast on the table, but really, he had more important things on his mind right now. Sherlock Holmes was using innuendo, for God's sake! "Are you taking the piss? I don't-"
"I would think it obvious, John. Even to you."
Sherlock was so close now, long fingers curled around John's, his breath whispering against John's cheek...
And John finally came to his senses and flinched back from his impossibly smug flatmate. Said smugness rapidly turned to annoyance, followed by concern.
"Perhaps my initial hypothesis was incorrect. Do you, or do you not, wish to engage in intercourse?"
Oh God.
"With me," Sherlock clarified.
John had the feeling he should close his mouth. Any second now.
Sherlock frowned. "Never mind. It appears that my hypothesis has, once again, been disproved." His voice was a low rumble, his face blank.
Wait, what?
"I..." John attempted to clear his throat with a cough. "That wasn't a no."
Sherlock startled, his eyes flicking up from his careful examination of the floor. He didn't lift his head, just gazed at John intently from under his eyelashes. "Oh?"
Seeing Sherlock's eyes focused on him, his head still bowed, caused something inside John's stomach to flutter. He pictured Sherlock kneeling in front of him, head bowed, fingers pulling at John's zip...
John tried to gather his thoughts before he could say something truly idiotic. "Actually, that was more like a... Who the hell are you, and what have you done with Sherlock?" He was still trying to wrap his brain around Do you wish to engage in intercourse with me?
"I don't have the faintest," Sherlock said, finally looking John straight on, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Are you going to pick up some condoms, or not?"
It was all John could do to not burst out into hysterical giggling. "No."
The expression of hurt on Sherlock's face was quickly replaced by a dispassionate mask. "Right."
"I have some upstairs," John said, and suddenly Sherlock looked both incredibly relieved and appallingly self-satisfied.
"Your room or mine?"
Sherlock really need to work on his chat up lines. For that matter, he needed to work on his priorities.
He'd known that Sherlock was attracted to him, of course he had, but now, he was... What, exactly, was Sherlock offering? John couldn't help but think that agreeing to be Sherlock's fuck-buddy would be simultaneously the best and worst decision of his adult life.
"Look, Sherlock, can we… I don't know, talk about this first? I mean."
Sherlock grimaced, his eyebrows furrowing and his lower lip protruding in a slight pout. "What's there to talk about?"
Trust Sherlock to not see the point of talking.
Well, it was clear that Sherlock didn't want him to move out. That he'd - mostly - gone back to being his cheerfully irritating self was a step in the right direction. But why the toast? In order to make John more amenable to his "suggestion"? And why was Sherlock talking about sex in the first place? Did he think that was what John wanted? Oh, God.
"Oh, I don't know, maybe the fact that yesterday we were talking about me leaving the flat and now you're trying to get me into bed with you?"
Sherlock didn't indicate that he had even heard what John had said, much less understood it.
"Dear lord," John said, disbelieving. No wonder the man was married to his work. "For being a genius, how do you manage…"
Maybe Sherlock was high. That would explain the bizarre attempt at seduction. And the good mood, after days of sulking. "No, look. I have no idea what you've been doing this morning but I suspect it involves some sort of drug, and I'm not going to just… leap under the covers, just because…"
Sherlock actually had the good grace to look affronted. "I'm not under the influence of any mind-altering substance, John. You wound me. Do you really think I would need to be in an altered state to desire more intimate relations?"
"Yes!" John hadn't realised he'd shouted until he saw Sherlock instinctively jerk back, nearly losing his balance as he collided with the table. "You must be out of your mind, as there's no other reasonable explanation for your behaviour! I don't understand. I don't know why you've pulled a complete 180, and suddenly you want to have sex!"
Sherlock cocked his head to the side. "I simply thought it would be the most efficient way to illustrate that I feel the same way about you as you do me."
Wait, what?
"I... do you?"
"Not yet, apparently. I was hoping to correct that."
Was that a terrible attempt at innuendo? Because Sherlock really needed to work on his timing. John felt a surge of irritation and he practically snapped, "Sherlock. Use your words. I'm an idiot, and I need to have things explained to me. So explain."
"I'm in love with you."
Well. John hadn't seen that one coming.
Sherlock almost looked nervous now. "And I am assuming you feel similarly?"
"What?"
"Do. You. Feel. The. Same."
Wait, Sherlock didn't know?
"What? Oh! Yes."
Real smooth, there.
Sherlock was still looking expectant, his eyebrows raised high, although the smile hovering about his lips made him appear considerably more amused. "Yes?"
Right. John should probably... say something. Yes. He could feel himself blushing. "I... ah. Yes. I'm fairly sure I'm in love with you."
"Would you like to have sex?"
John tried to ignore the mental images that conjured up. This was going to be weird enough as is. No need to rush into his first sexual encounter with a man on top of everything else.
"No."
Sherlock looked on the verge of a tantrum, as if John had taken away his mould samples or hidden his cigarettes. "Why not?"
So many reasons. None of which he wanted to tell Sherlock. "Not yet."
Sherlock seemed taken aback. "Ah."
John could get used to this. He smiled up at Sherlock, not bothering to hide his amusement. "Yes."
Sherlock hesitated. "Is... there anything you would like to do? Now?"
"Yes."
Sherlock would catch up eventually. John just waited, trying not to smile and failing.
"What?" Sherlock asked, looking adorably puzzled, and John couldn't help but break into a giddy grin as he placed his hands on Sherlock's jaw and guided his lips down to meet John's.
It was, John was embarrassed to admit, not a terribly good first kiss. For one thing, Sherlock's hands remained twitching by his sides. John ended up jostling with Sherlock uncomfortably before tilting his face so their noses wouldn't collide. After their initial enthusiasm led to uncomfortably clacking teeth, they kept their mouths closed, which resulted (in John's opinion) in entirely too much spittle and not enough tongue.
Still, this was Sherlock. When John pulled away, Sherlock kept following him, only reluctantly pulling back and opening his eyes dazedly.
"So. What did you think?"
Sherlock stood there, blinking for a few moments, before his eyes brightened and a sly smile crossed his features. "Any proper experiment requires multiple iterations." His smile widened. "It is only through repetition that we can validate our results."
John resisted the urge to giggle. "Oh?"
Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut at the first brush of his lips against John's, and John quickly followed suit, letting himself get lost in the sensation of Sherlock's mouth pressed firmly against his. They stayed like that for a few moments, just a careful brushing of closed mouths. John's hands rested lightly on Sherlock's hips, and he catalogued the feel of skin and barely noticeable stubble, the smell of Sherlock's aftershave and hints of coconut from his shampoo.
Feeling brave, John opened his mouth and darted his tongue out to swipe against Sherlock's upper lip. Sherlock shuddered and his fists tightened, one clutching John's jumper and the other gripping his shoulder. He repeated the motion John had just made, swiping his own tongue against John's lip.
Sherlock buried his hands in John's hair as John dragged his tongue across Sherlock's lower lip. The gasp the other man uttered was obscene.
Something nagged at the back of John's mind as he licked his way into Sherlock's mouth. There was something off; Sherlock seemed hesitant. He kept letting John make the first move, often just echoing what John had done.
If John didn't know any better, he'd guess that Sherlock had never kissed anyone before.
Oh, bollocks.
Rating: T
Genres: Romance, Crack
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Wordcount: 3,592 (this chapter); 13,400 total
Beta: percygranger
Apparently, Sherlock is experimenting on John without his consent. John is going to kill him. Right after he makes a cup of tea.
Chapter 1: John, Guinea Pig
Chapter 2: Uncooperative Test Subjects
Chapter 3: Experimental Error
Chapter 4: The Inappropriate Sofa Incident
Chapter 5: Results
On the third day of being faced with a petulant flatmate, John decided enough was enough. Sherlock knew, and John knew that Sherlock knew, so it was about time that Sherlock knew that John knew that... Well. It couldn't get any worse, right?
John tried not to think about the many ways it could, in fact, get worse.
"So, are you going to tell me what's wrong?"
Sherlock stopped pacing a hole in the sitting room floor and just stared at John in horror. "What?"
Didn't think John would notice his incessant pouting, then. For being a genius, how did Sherlock manage to be so thick?
Instead of being a mature adult, Sherlock snapped at John and fled to the safety of his room. Well, that could have been worse, thought John cheerily. He could have just shoved me down the stairs.
A confession of undying love might've been nice, though.
John snorted, tamping down the ache in his chest that flared up at the thought, and started up the tea kettle. He'd have to make some sort of peace offering if he wanted to lure Sherlock back out of his room.
While the kettle was heating, John walked over to Sherlock's room and knocked tentatively on the door. "Sherlock, I'm sorry I pried. Just... Come out, will you? I'll make you some tea."
Right. That didn't sound desperate at all.
Except... instead of the biting retort John was expecting, Sherlock sort of... moaned.
John's name.
Oh, sweet Jesus.
Was it John's (admittedly lust-ridden and overactive) imagination, or was Sherlock actually touching himself in there?
John turned the whimper he emitted into a hasty cough and prepared his retreat. "Sorry, I didn't - um. I'll come back later, yeah?"
Come. Bad word choice. Or maybe good word choice. Fuck. Bollocks. Bugger.
And when John sat down heavily in his armchair, he was saddled with a massive erection and some very lewd images of exactly what Sherlock Holmes might be doing in his bedroom.
He was in the process of undoing his zip when a flushed and irritated consulting detective burst out of his room and practically ripped his coat from the stand by the door.
"I'm going out."
It was all John could do to mutter a faint "Um," without squeaking. Sherlock didn't turn to look. Thank God for small miracles.
When the door slammed shut behind Sherlock, John's problem hadn't gone away. It looked like Sherlock wouldn't be coming back for a while, so John ran upstairs to his bedroom before he could change his mind and see sense.
***
John was feeling considerably more cheerful after dumping his soiled pants in the hamper, taking a nice hot shower, shaving, and drinking a mug of tea. And eating a number of biscuits. There was still no sign of Sherlock, and John needed to keep his mind from wandering back to him every five minutes, so he put in Die Hard (the first one, of course; Alan Rickman was the best villain of the lot, in John's opinion) and stretched out on the sofa in his jimjams.
And then Sherlock came back and John's composure was shot to hell.
"Oh," he said intelligently. Yeah, real smooth, Watson. "I thought you would be gone longer, so I put on Die Hard."
And had a wank. Good thing you weren't there for that. Not that I would have minded. Christ. Not a good time for this...
John tucked his legs underneath himself and tried to occupy as little space on the sofa as possible. Maybe he could hide in the sofa cushions.
Instead, Sherlock apparently took John's mortification for an invitation to join him.
Well, fuck me. ...God, I wish he would. Great, now I'm probably blushing like a ruddy secondary student.
"How long have you known?" Sherlock asked, interrupting John's internal debate. He was almost too quiet to hear.
Oh, just great. They were going to have "the talk." John steeled himself. "What do you mean, Sherlock?"
"It was when you read that article on limerence, wasn't it?"
Bloody hell.
John just managed a nod before tearing his gaze away from Sherlock.
He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him even as he was looking resolutely elsewhere... Not Sherlock's bedroom door! Oh bugger.
Time to apply diversionary tactics. "How long have you known, then?"
"Since Tuesday."
As if that weren't bloody obvious, considering how he'd started pouting on Wednesday morning. John gritted his teeth and refused to meet Sherlock's eyes. "Strange," he said, aiming for nonchalance but probably getting something closer to constipation, "that I knew something before you did."
"You know I'm not good with emotion."
John turned back to look at Sherlock. How had he let this man get so far under his skin?
The look in Sherlock's eyes was indecipherable, but John could have sworn he saw fear. It was the same look he'd seen at the pool. He didn't want to be the cause of that look. "I can go to Harry's," he said. "If you need. I'd like to stay tonight, since I'm knackered, but I can pack up tomorrow morning."
Sherlock's reaction was immediate. He lunged for John, shouting "No!" and gripping his arm painfully. What the bleeding hell? Sherlock was so close now. If John just leaned the tiniest bit forward, their lips would brush, and -
And Sherlock's eyes flared wide as he flinched back, letting go of John's arm as though it had burned him. "Sorry," he gasped out. John's heart was still pounding in his chest.
Well, at least John had established one thing. "So you don't want me to move out?"
"Stay. Please," Sherlock pleaded, shaking his head.
John fidgeted. He couldn't keep getting jerked around like this. Sherlock wanted him, then he ignored him. He flirted with him over texts, only to treat him like rubbish when he saw him. He subjected him to scientific experiments as though he was some sort of guinea pig. He smiled at John, and John felt his heart breaking.
Oh, he might be attracted to John. But it was fairly clear, by now, that Sherlock was incapable of deeper emotion.
That was thing about falling in love, wasn't it? John had read it on that bloody article.
...an overwhelming, obsessive need to have one's feelings reciprocated...
And Sherlock never would.
"It's just... It's going to be so much harder now."
Sherlock's face fell. "It doesn't have to be..."
"For you, maybe." Sherlock visibly recoiled, and John sighed, flustered, and it all just came tumbling out of him. "Look, it's just... I can't just ignore this and pretend that it's nothing. I've tried. God, I really have tried, Sherlock, but - do you have any idea how hard this is for me? How uncomfortable I am when I'm alone with you? When you get into my personal space?"
Sherlock looked at John as though he had been personally betrayed. The git. Like he was the one in pain here.
John shook his head, forced himself to get the words out. "You send me these text messages, and they feel like flirting, and for a while, it's okay. I can pretend..." John broke off, struggling to maintain his composure.
"Do you want to leave, then? Would it be easier?" Sherlock asked, voice impossibly soft.
Would it? John considered it, briefly. But... he couldn't. He'd thought about it, plenty of times, but... Sherlock just made everything feel real. He'd rather die than go back to his old life, staggering about the city on his cane, going home to a frigid little bedsit, and having nothing to look forward to. No one to come home to.
No. He wouldn't leave. "I'm not leaving unless you make me. You're still my best friend. It's just - don't pretend that this is somehow going to be okay, that I don't..." love you. John took a deep breath. He couldn't say the words out loud. "It was fine before. Before you knew. The past few days... I can't live like this, Sherlock. If we could just go back to the way we were before..."
He would lose the flirtatious texts, the cuddling on the couch, the looks of wonderment, and the sharp focus of Sherlock's entire attention, fastened on him. John would miss those things. But at least he wouldn't lose everything.
"Right then. I think I need some sleep. It's been a long day." Without daring to look back at Sherlock, John shoved off the sofa and trudged up the stairs to his room. He lay awake on his bed for a long time after, listening to the mournful strains of a violin echoing from the sitting room below.
***
John did not want to go downstairs.
He knew it was childish, but he lay in bed for a good forty minutes after waking, staring at the ceiling and wondering just how irritating Sherlock was going to be this morning, and all the mornings after, for that matter.
His stomach was rumbling menacingly for the fifth time when a sharp rap sounded on his bedroom door.
"I made tea. Stop hiding."
John buried his face in the pillow and tried to pretend he didn't exist.
"I expect you to be down before the toast gets cold," Sherlock said, voice slightly muffled by the closed door. He thundered down the stairs, clearly making as much noise as possible to get a rise out of John.
"Wanker," John mumbled into the pillow.
Well, it seemed Sherlock was back to his normal, infuriating self, which was a relief. The bit about the toast was odd, though.
John rolled out of bed and trudged reluctantly down the stairs. Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, using John's laptop (bollocks) and sipping a mug of Earl Grey absently.
Sherlock's eyes were still transfixed on whatever he was reading. Probably something about serial killers. Or tobacco ash. Or ways to annoy your flatmate. "Toast is in the kitchen."
There were two slightly burnt pieces of toast sitting on a plate on the kitchen table, still warm. Next to them was an unopened jar of marmalade, a steak knife, and John's mug of tea.
"Um, thanks," John called out.
Sherlock just grunted.
John put the steak knife back (on second thought, best put it in the sink, no telling what Sherlock had done to it), grabbed a butter knife from the drawer, and slathered his toast with a thick layer of marmalade before trooping over to his armchair.
"Um. Why did you make me toast, exactly?"
Sherlock smirked as he glanced over at John, flicking his hand in dismissal. "Bribe. I expect future favours."
John munched on the cold, crunchy, blackened toast. Whether it could even still be called "toast" was debatable. "You get an A for effort, I suppose."
Sherlock glared at John over his laptop. "And you wonder why I don't do nice things."
John bit back a smile. "Kidding! It's lovely, really, I'm quite touched." He took a taste of his tea and was pleasantly surprised.
"I'm not entirely incompetent, then?" Sherlock said, one eyebrow raised and his mouth twisted in that ridiculously adorable smirk of his. John did not want to think about Sherlock's smirk right now.
"I do... appreciate this," John said, "but... it's just the tiniest bit suspicious, you know, making me tea and toast, right after suggesting I move out and treating me like shite for three days."
Sherlock's gaze flicked back down to John's laptop. "Well, you didn't move out, did you? Perhaps I am simply trying to convey my gratitude."
Now that was an entertaining thought. Sherlock, grateful?
"Could you stop by the shops when you've finished?" Sherlock asked, almost as an afterthought.
Of course Sherlock wanted something. Probably more cantaloupes for some stupid bloody experiment. Or maybe he'd used all the milk. Again.
"Are we out of milk?" John felt a surge of relief at the thought. Strange, to think that after the torture of the past three days, Sherlock was back to being a completely selfish git, who performed experiments in the bathtub and used all the milk just to get John out of the house so he could plant security cameras.
"Oh, yes, you should pick that up too."
Bloody presumptuous git. John struggled to bite back his smile. "Well, what did you want me to get, then?"
"Condoms," Sherlock said, eyes still directed at the laptop screen, rather than John.
"Condoms?" Why would Sherlock, of all people, need condoms?
Must be for some experiment.
"So we can have sex."
John really shouldn't have chosen that moment to take another mouthful of tea.
It took him a moment to process the words, and when he finally did, his tea ended up going into his lungs, and he choked and coughed. His mouthful sprayed all over Sherlock, John's laptop, and their sofa in the process.
"John!" Sherlock leapt from the sofa, heedless of John's beleaguered laptop, which he let drop in his haste. "Do try to keep your tea in your mouth, would you? Swallow, don't spit."
"Jesus! Sherlock, what?" John was vaguely aware of setting his toast on the table, but really, he had more important things on his mind right now. Sherlock Holmes was using innuendo, for God's sake! "Are you taking the piss? I don't-"
"I would think it obvious, John. Even to you."
Sherlock was so close now, long fingers curled around John's, his breath whispering against John's cheek...
And John finally came to his senses and flinched back from his impossibly smug flatmate. Said smugness rapidly turned to annoyance, followed by concern.
"Perhaps my initial hypothesis was incorrect. Do you, or do you not, wish to engage in intercourse?"
Oh God.
"With me," Sherlock clarified.
John had the feeling he should close his mouth. Any second now.
Sherlock frowned. "Never mind. It appears that my hypothesis has, once again, been disproved." His voice was a low rumble, his face blank.
Wait, what?
"I..." John attempted to clear his throat with a cough. "That wasn't a no."
Sherlock startled, his eyes flicking up from his careful examination of the floor. He didn't lift his head, just gazed at John intently from under his eyelashes. "Oh?"
Seeing Sherlock's eyes focused on him, his head still bowed, caused something inside John's stomach to flutter. He pictured Sherlock kneeling in front of him, head bowed, fingers pulling at John's zip...
John tried to gather his thoughts before he could say something truly idiotic. "Actually, that was more like a... Who the hell are you, and what have you done with Sherlock?" He was still trying to wrap his brain around Do you wish to engage in intercourse with me?
"I don't have the faintest," Sherlock said, finally looking John straight on, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Are you going to pick up some condoms, or not?"
It was all John could do to not burst out into hysterical giggling. "No."
The expression of hurt on Sherlock's face was quickly replaced by a dispassionate mask. "Right."
"I have some upstairs," John said, and suddenly Sherlock looked both incredibly relieved and appallingly self-satisfied.
"Your room or mine?"
Sherlock really need to work on his chat up lines. For that matter, he needed to work on his priorities.
He'd known that Sherlock was attracted to him, of course he had, but now, he was... What, exactly, was Sherlock offering? John couldn't help but think that agreeing to be Sherlock's fuck-buddy would be simultaneously the best and worst decision of his adult life.
"Look, Sherlock, can we… I don't know, talk about this first? I mean."
Sherlock grimaced, his eyebrows furrowing and his lower lip protruding in a slight pout. "What's there to talk about?"
Trust Sherlock to not see the point of talking.
Well, it was clear that Sherlock didn't want him to move out. That he'd - mostly - gone back to being his cheerfully irritating self was a step in the right direction. But why the toast? In order to make John more amenable to his "suggestion"? And why was Sherlock talking about sex in the first place? Did he think that was what John wanted? Oh, God.
"Oh, I don't know, maybe the fact that yesterday we were talking about me leaving the flat and now you're trying to get me into bed with you?"
Sherlock didn't indicate that he had even heard what John had said, much less understood it.
"Dear lord," John said, disbelieving. No wonder the man was married to his work. "For being a genius, how do you manage…"
Maybe Sherlock was high. That would explain the bizarre attempt at seduction. And the good mood, after days of sulking. "No, look. I have no idea what you've been doing this morning but I suspect it involves some sort of drug, and I'm not going to just… leap under the covers, just because…"
Sherlock actually had the good grace to look affronted. "I'm not under the influence of any mind-altering substance, John. You wound me. Do you really think I would need to be in an altered state to desire more intimate relations?"
"Yes!" John hadn't realised he'd shouted until he saw Sherlock instinctively jerk back, nearly losing his balance as he collided with the table. "You must be out of your mind, as there's no other reasonable explanation for your behaviour! I don't understand. I don't know why you've pulled a complete 180, and suddenly you want to have sex!"
Sherlock cocked his head to the side. "I simply thought it would be the most efficient way to illustrate that I feel the same way about you as you do me."
Wait, what?
"I... do you?"
"Not yet, apparently. I was hoping to correct that."
Was that a terrible attempt at innuendo? Because Sherlock really needed to work on his timing. John felt a surge of irritation and he practically snapped, "Sherlock. Use your words. I'm an idiot, and I need to have things explained to me. So explain."
"I'm in love with you."
Well. John hadn't seen that one coming.
Sherlock almost looked nervous now. "And I am assuming you feel similarly?"
"What?"
"Do. You. Feel. The. Same."
Wait, Sherlock didn't know?
"What? Oh! Yes."
Real smooth, there.
Sherlock was still looking expectant, his eyebrows raised high, although the smile hovering about his lips made him appear considerably more amused. "Yes?"
Right. John should probably... say something. Yes. He could feel himself blushing. "I... ah. Yes. I'm fairly sure I'm in love with you."
"Would you like to have sex?"
John tried to ignore the mental images that conjured up. This was going to be weird enough as is. No need to rush into his first sexual encounter with a man on top of everything else.
"No."
Sherlock looked on the verge of a tantrum, as if John had taken away his mould samples or hidden his cigarettes. "Why not?"
So many reasons. None of which he wanted to tell Sherlock. "Not yet."
Sherlock seemed taken aback. "Ah."
John could get used to this. He smiled up at Sherlock, not bothering to hide his amusement. "Yes."
Sherlock hesitated. "Is... there anything you would like to do? Now?"
"Yes."
Sherlock would catch up eventually. John just waited, trying not to smile and failing.
"What?" Sherlock asked, looking adorably puzzled, and John couldn't help but break into a giddy grin as he placed his hands on Sherlock's jaw and guided his lips down to meet John's.
It was, John was embarrassed to admit, not a terribly good first kiss. For one thing, Sherlock's hands remained twitching by his sides. John ended up jostling with Sherlock uncomfortably before tilting his face so their noses wouldn't collide. After their initial enthusiasm led to uncomfortably clacking teeth, they kept their mouths closed, which resulted (in John's opinion) in entirely too much spittle and not enough tongue.
Still, this was Sherlock. When John pulled away, Sherlock kept following him, only reluctantly pulling back and opening his eyes dazedly.
"So. What did you think?"
Sherlock stood there, blinking for a few moments, before his eyes brightened and a sly smile crossed his features. "Any proper experiment requires multiple iterations." His smile widened. "It is only through repetition that we can validate our results."
John resisted the urge to giggle. "Oh?"
Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut at the first brush of his lips against John's, and John quickly followed suit, letting himself get lost in the sensation of Sherlock's mouth pressed firmly against his. They stayed like that for a few moments, just a careful brushing of closed mouths. John's hands rested lightly on Sherlock's hips, and he catalogued the feel of skin and barely noticeable stubble, the smell of Sherlock's aftershave and hints of coconut from his shampoo.
Feeling brave, John opened his mouth and darted his tongue out to swipe against Sherlock's upper lip. Sherlock shuddered and his fists tightened, one clutching John's jumper and the other gripping his shoulder. He repeated the motion John had just made, swiping his own tongue against John's lip.
Sherlock buried his hands in John's hair as John dragged his tongue across Sherlock's lower lip. The gasp the other man uttered was obscene.
Something nagged at the back of John's mind as he licked his way into Sherlock's mouth. There was something off; Sherlock seemed hesitant. He kept letting John make the first move, often just echoing what John had done.
If John didn't know any better, he'd guess that Sherlock had never kissed anyone before.
Oh, bollocks.