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Chapter Text

#1: Molly Hooper

Sherlock nods faintly as she leaves the room, empty mugs clinking in her hands. John offered to help her carry them, but she didn't want to make a bigger deal about it than it already was; it's obvious Sherlock knew what she was doing. It's also obvious the type of affection she holds for him isn't returned in the slightest.

The fact stings a bit, but she knows there was only a slim chance of her attraction being mutual; how could a couple mugs of coffee change Sherlock's whole perspective of her? She hadn't even been considering John, either, which is probably a no-no if she ever wants a relationship with the detective.

Pushing open the office door, she sets the mugs in the sink, slinking over to the office desk in the back of the room. She supposes she really needs to clean a bit if she's to find anything; Sherlock had requested the autopsy of the man she promised him he could take a look at.

Sighing slightly as she grabs the file and folds it beneath her arm, she turns for the doorway. Sauntering down the hallway, she stops suddenly, hearing the doctor and detective's voices increase suddenly in volume, echoing throughout the corridor.

"You have to be more careful with this stuff!" She hears the faucet hastily being turned on, something underneath the pour of water.

A hiss in response. "The tray fell over; it wasn't my fault!"

"What were you even doing with the stuff?" Another snarl of pain.

"It isn't merely "stuff", John; it's hydrocloric acid. I was trying to see whether human fingers or human toes corrode faster." She hears a heavy sigh, from John, she presumes.

"You and your bloody experiments are getting out of hand. You're bound to get hurt much worse one of these days..." Molly notices the concerned undertone through the thick layer of exasperation.

"Nonsense, John." A confident tone.

"No, not nonsense, you git. You just don't have any common sense." The fondness sneaks through his sentence, now, despite the scolding.

"What's the use of retaining common sense when I have you to retain it for me?"

Molly finally makes her way to the door, glancing through the glass at the odd tenderness of Sherlock's voice. Through the glare of lights, she sees the slight flush of the tips of John's ears as he dampens Sherlock's hand with a paper towel.

"Yeah, but..." A long pause, almost too long. "I won't always be there to tell you what makes sense and what doesn't."

"Why not?" Molly sees Sherlock smirk as he chances a glance at the doctor's smiling face.

A fond sigh before he responds,"Now you're just acting like a child."

The pathologist stands awkwardly as a beat of silence passes, the only noise being the water still pouring from the sink and the gulp of her throat. She notices the change of distance between both of them, the way Sherlock is leaning in slightly and how John isn't backing away. She clears her throat uncomfortably, although she knows the sound won't permeate the room.

Molly opens the door suddenly, drawing Sherlock and the doctor out of whatever stupor they were previously in. The detective quickly glances to her, small smile wiped off of his face as John visibly tenses beside him.

"Uh...I have the autopsy here...for you...," she mumbles, glancing to the burn along the purlicue of Sherlock's left hand.

"Ah, thank you, Molly," he replies, taking the situation in his stride as he pulls out of John's grip and starts for the table. The soldier turns off the faucet as Sherlock shakes the water off of his hands, quickly grabbing the manilla folder from her outstretched hand.

"Yeah...welcome..." She breathes a little shallowly as she turns on her heel for the door. Her hand raises in a meek attempt at a wave as she hurriedly rushes a goodbye and scurries out of the room.

So much for any chance at anything above a one-sided friendship. She saw the way Sherlock kept looking down at John's lips, the way John's head was tilted up to meet his.

If she can't have Sherlock, at least she knows he'll be happy with John.

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#2: Greg Lestrade

"Ligature marks here, around the bulk of her throat. About the width of her purse's strap, hence the murder weapon has been right under your noses." Sherlock flicks his coat collar up with a dramatic flourish, looking to Lestrade's frowning face.

Sherlock always makes the lot of them sound like utter idiots; couldn't he make it a little less obvious how dumb he finds all of Greg's workers? The D.I. shakes his head slightly as he glances down to the woman and remembers why he deals with Holmes' insults in the first place; because he needs him. Because they're friends.

"Just because you may be a "proper genius" doesn't mean you get to insult the rest of us like our IQs are equivalent to that of chimpanzees."

The detective scoffs. "Like there's much of a difference between the two!"

"Sherlock!" John scolds, rising from his crouched position. The doctor looks sternly at his flatmate before turning to Greg apologetically.

"Nah, nah, it's quite alright, John. I've had to deal with this for more than five years. Anyway, I have to go talk to some people," Lestrade says, turning to open the door before glancing back at them. "If either of you need me, I'll be outside."

Sherlock just dismissively gestures for him to leave, then turns to John and starts prattling on about a list of possible motives. The last Lestrade sees is the detective pointing wildly at something before the door clicks shut behind him.

He continues down the front steps before Sally stops him with a call of,"Hey, Greg?!" Honestly, can his employees give him a break for upwards of two minutes before they have to ask him something? He winces; he supposes he's being a bit of a hypocrite, considering how often he goes running to consult Sherlock.

"Where's the Freak? Got a call from a...Mycroft Holmes?" Donovan covers the phone speaker as she says, quieter,"I didn't know Holmes had a brother. Probably a twat, as well."

Greg shakes his head slightly, sighing as he reaches for the device. "Here; I'll give it to him. I don't need you riling him up. He's already wound up enough as it is." He really needs to get Donovan and Anderson to take some sensitivity lessons, at least, because this whole 'Freak' thing is getting out of hand.

She snorts derisively. "I'll gladly give it to you. Don't want to see that Freak anyway," she replies, swiftly handing him the phone and practically hurtling herself down the steps, despite her heels. Greg stares after her for a moment before turning back to whence he came.

Twisting the door handle, phone cradled in his left arm, he calls into the room,"Oi, Sherlock? Got a call from your brother."

It's only then that he notices the pair are pressed flush together, John pinned against the wall. There are merely a few inches between their lips, and Lestrade suddenly wishes Sally had brought the phone in.

He clears his throat awkwardly, and Sherlock's head snaps to him. His and John's eyes both light with recognition as the detective practically leaps away and a scant flood of red dusts the doctor's cheeks.

"Ah...should I tell him to call you back?" Greg shifts slightly as he holds the phone in front of his face, gaze lingering on the curtains above the couch.

"Give me that!" Sherlock growls, and he looks none too happy as he snatches the phone from the D.I.'s hand and shoves it against his ear.

"What do you bloody want?!" John scratches the back of his head momentarily before rocking on the balls of his feet. Lestrade makes a motion to ask if this is the right time for him to leave; he gets an affirmative in response.

He bolts for the door, wrenching it open as he sees Anderson and Sally approaching. Gulping a little, he glances back into the room, seeing Sherlock and John still speaking into the phone at quite a close proximity.

"You might not want to go in there...," he murmurs, fidgeting, pulling slightly at his collar. Anderson gives him a look as Donovan raises an eyebrow, but he merely pushes past them.

He doesn't get paid enough for this.

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#3: Mrs. Hudson

Just because she cleans up a bit doesn't mean she's Sherlock's housekeeper, yet she finds herself making tea for both him and John for the third day in a row. She doesn't mind as much as she lets on, but it gets exhausting making three cups instead of her one.

She idly stirs two scoops of sugar into Sherlock's mug, taking care not to put any into John's. Scampering to the fridge and pulling out the carton of milk, she pours a bit into hers.

Registering the significant loss of weight, she recognizes that it's empty; another thing she'll have to do. Buy their milk for them. Or maybe not; she's sure she has an extra carton in her refrigerator. She can just give that one to the boys, for now.

Smiling fondly, she sets the mugs on two saucers and carries her own with her as she trots down the stairs; the pair should be home any minute.

Before she even makes it to her door, the detective and doctor barge in. Sherlock takes the steps two at a time as Mrs. Hudson tries in vain to shout after him.

She turns to John, who gives her an apologetic smile and shrug, as she says,"The tea Sherlock requested is on the counter for you boys. Just made it."

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson. I'll be sure to get him to thank you," he replies, grinning as he nods at her before ascending the stairs.

 She waves after him before stating fondly,"Last time this week, boys. I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper."

 John yells back a curt yes as she opens her door and starts for the kitchen. Taking a small sip of her tea, she flicks through the refrigerator, scouring for the unopened carton of milk she swore she had.

 "Oh, dear. I'll have to go out for some," she mumbles, glancing to the clock hung over the doorway.

 12:37 AM.

 "Shouldn't be too much trouble." She retrieves her purse from its place on the sofa, unzipping her wallet to see a crisp twenty dollar bill, along with two quarters.

 "I'll be at the Tesco's, boys!" Mrs. Hudson shouts, pushing open her door before shutting it promptly. She receives no response, but isn't deterred as she merely shrugs and goes to open 221's front door.

 "I used up the rest of your milk for tea, so I went to get some for you," she explains, unearthing the carton from the pools of plastic bag. Glancing around at the lack of response, she notices both Sherlock and John's mugs forgotten on the little table beside the doctor's characteristic chair.

 She frowns thinly as she ambles into the kitchen. After setting the milk on the fridge shelf, she makes her way towards Sherlock's bedroom.

 "Sherlock?" she calls, knocking softly before twisting the handle. Gaze locked on the disorganized floor, she flicks her eyes up just for them to widen at the sight.

 The detective and soldier are sitting on the end of his bed, both of their body's impossibly close, shoulders brushing with every breath. They look almost as if they're relishing in the feel of the closeness, inhaling the other's air.

 Mrs. Hudson smiles knowingly. "Dears, I just thought you'd like to know that the milk is in your refrigerator." The boffin's head snaps up hastily, John still looking at him through half-lidded eyes. Only after Sherlock makes an uncomfortable noise in his throat does the doctor turn his gaze to the landlady.

 John seems like he's finally embarrassed as he says thickly,"Uh...thanks, Mrs. H. I was just going out to get some, but I needed to have a talk with Sherlock about...what is and isn't acceptable behavior." His stare shifts to Sherlock's.

 "You're welcome. I'll be downstairs if you ever need me." She continues to smile, closing the door gently before turning on her heel and starting for the exit.

 She would pay to see what was about to happen in that room.

Chapter Text

#4: Mycroft Holmes

It's no secret that Mycroft enjoys, possibly a little too much, the way he irritates his brother. Mostly, he actually is worried about what Sherlock does, and his brother merely acts overdramatically, but on the occasion that he does find an opportunity to annoy, he doesn't pass it up.

Like now, for instance, peering at the live feed of the CCTV cameras perched in his brother and Dr. Watson's flat. Some may call it snooping, but Mycroft prefers the more formal 'eavesdropping' as a pleasant alternative. Either way, he certainly won't deny that he does, indeed, snoop on his brother dear.

"Dance with me, John." Sherlock directs the phrase at his companion, who is settled into his chair with a cuppa. Oh, and here is a delightfully snoop-worthy moment! Mycroft isn't ashamed as he, with an amused smirk, watches the scene intently.

"Sorry?" he coughs, almost choking on his tea. He's quiet for a moment before asking, incredulous,"You want me to dance with you?" Ah; Dr. Watson does have such a propensity for repeating things. "Do you even hear yourself?" He hears the rustle of John's morning newspaper as he folds it into thirds, like he always does.

"Currently, I am not deaf, so yes, I did hear myself, but I assume you rather are asking if I know just how ridiculous of a notion it is, correct?" Allow Sherlock to give the longest and most thorough answer possible while still ending with a question.

At John's nod, Sherlock continues,"In that light, I don't find it ridiculous at all. I would like a dance with 'Three Continents Watson'". Mycroft doesn't even hide his amusement at the soldier's embarrassment, a blush creeping up the back of his neck and settling on his face.

"If you really want a dance, you will not call me that insufferable nickname." Mycroft thinks his scowling is only minimally effective when he's blushing so much. Sherlock seems to think the same and just holds out his hands invitingly. The doctor lets out an obliging sigh, leaving his mug and paper on the chair's arm to grip Sherlock's hand.

It is no secret, either, that he does worry about his brother and Dr. Watson's relationship at times. One day, it will be verging on romantic, the next it will be intimately platonic, and then they will have little contact on the morrow, but come back full circle to start again. It is as worrying as it is humorous.

"Just so you know, I might step on your toes a bit," John informs, waiting as Sherlock searches for a song in his endless playlist, some of them his own recorded compositions.

"There," Sherlock pronounces, returning to John's outstretched arms. "If you don't have as good a grasp at dancing as you do with killing," Mycroft sees the soldier flinch, and he does so wish Sherlock could be a bit less insensitive,"then I will have to lead."

In time with the beat, John obediently tries to follow Sherlock's lead. Much to Mycroft's entertainment, 'tries' being the operative word. John was right about the toe-stepping. The good doctor surely means well, he muses, but giving Sherlock broken toes will certainly be the outcome if this continues. Maybe he can buy his brother ironclad shoes if they persist in holding dancing sessions.

"Step away with your left, John! Otherwise, you will continue to crush my toes," Sherlock admonishes, stopping his movements to glower at his counterpart. John mutters another 'sorry', and Mycroft is positive that John has apologized 53 times.

Over the course of the next 10 minutes, the soldier finally falls into step, almost perfectly in sync with the detective. They wheel around the Baker Street living room, and Mycroft looks on with some sort of happiness. Just because he has said caring is not an advantage, it doesn't mean he isn't prone to moments of tenderness as every other human being undoubtedly is.

The atmospheric shift is tangible, even through Mycroft's screen. Sherlock allows one elegant, admittedly dramatic bow, but it drags on to a point where he doesn't even pull the soldier up. The doctor is held only by the boffin's lingering hand, and when his brother dear leans in ever the slightest, Mycroft sees a viable opportunity to annoy, and gladly takes it.

A ping from the side of the camera's parameter startles the pair, and Sherlock almost drops the doctor in his hysterical fit to pull away. Gliding to his mobile, Mycroft watches in mirth as Sherlock's face sours into an almost snarl.

Not bringing your boyfriend home for Mummy to inspect him first? Such a heinous crime, wouldn't you agree?-MH

And Mycroft would never tell Sherlock this, but the way his brother bellows his name and looks pointedly at the camera makes up for the less than pleasant day he's been having. The way the good doctor scolds the detective afterwards only adds to his bettering mood, and so he believes he has bothered them enough for today.

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#5: Sally Donovan

There are a few things Sally expects tonight- loud, probably obnoxious music- terrible punch and stale gingerbreadmen- nosy questions and idle gossip- a heavy supply of lights and mistletoe- maybe even a few employees shagging in the toilets. The Met Christmas party is nearly the same every year, and she sure as hell doesn't know why she keeps coming.

However, the one thing she doesn't expect is to see the Freak and his lapdog at the snack table, looking pointedly at the dance floor with growing bouts of laughter.

"Did the Freak's lapdog drag him here, or what?" she scoffs, turning to Lestrade. He glares at her from the corner of his eyes; it's strangely intimidating.

"There's another sensitivity lesson next Friday, if you need it," he threatens, gesturing to a clipboard on the wall. "I've already signed Anderson up for it, and the next two after that."

"And if you must know, I was the one that forced Sherlock to come," he says, giving a little shrug as an afterthought. "Thought he could use some help."

Donovan can't help but snort. "What could he possibly need help with? Not his ego, that's for-" She pauses at the tense line of his jaw and simply forgets the rest of her sentence. "What kind of help does he need?" she repeats instead.

"Well, I don't want to call it 'relationship help', but...relationship help," he grins, glancing at the Freak and his sidekick pointing at other Yarders dispersed around the open room. "Figured the mistletoe hanging everywhere could be useful to him and John."

And suddenly, Sally understands his motive. "You want them to kiss?" she asks, startled by the smile he sends her way. He doesn't nod, but she knows she's right; the almost ridiculously wide grin is proof enough.

"Why?" she sneers, chancing a glance at the 'dynamic duo'. The Freak has a sour look on his face from the glass of punch held in his hand, and the doctor chuckles warmly at him. She frowns again; this isn't, can't be right. Their relationship can't be like this: he's supposed to be a psychopath.

"Putting aside the one time I already saw them ready to snog each other senseless," he smiles again,"they're pretty obvious. I mean, look at the way they're looking at each other." He gestures subtly to the pair across the room.

"I didn't think he had it in him to feel things that way," the sergeant murmurs, trying to fend off her red hot jealousy; why does the Freak get someone so devoted and loyal, and she can't even keep someone as easy as Anderson?

Greg doesn't say anything back, and it's only when she sees where he's looking that she realizes exactly why almost every sound in the room has suddenly fizzled away.

The psychopath and his sidekick are standing right under a strand of mistletoe. The worst part, though, is that neither of them seem to notice; not the mistletoe, or the quieting chatter, or the crowd's indecent speculation. It's only when some loud-mouthed Yarder yells,"Oh, just bloody kiss already!" that the two of them seem to realize anything.

"For being the World's Only Consulting Detective, he can be incredibly thick," her boss murmurs, palming his face with an exasperated gasp. Seeing their mouths moving, Sally quietly walks around the DI to try and hear what the Freak and his sidekick are saying.

Blushing furiously, she hears the short doctor whisper,"We've got to be more careful." The Freak nods his head, whether in agreement or acknowledgement, she's not certain. They slowly inch away from one another, unable to find any shelter from prying eyes until they slip into the hallway.

Curious, Sally tails them further, barely hearing the click of door hinges down at the far end of the hall. She frowns; she's sure the room they're in is a custodial closet. She's even positive it's labeled as such.

The sergeant walks silently down the hallway, hearing the faint rustling of clothing and an obscene set of curses, followed by a deep chuckle. Then, there's nothing but a heavy breath, and she can't hear anything after that, even with her ear pressed into the white wood of the door.

Deciding she can't take the insufferable silence any longer, she swings the door open, and there's the petite doctor, practically straddling the Freak's lap, his small hands wound in his curls. The psychopath looks hot and bothered, his gangly arms wrapped around his lapdog's waist.

For a moment, everything is incredibly still, incredibly awkward, incredibly personal, and then she has the sudden desire to laugh, so she does: it's just that the two of them look so utterly scandalized and debauched, and this situation is just so ridiculous.

Not for the first time tonight, she wonders why she even came to this dreadful party.

And before the Freak can possibly try to justify their positions, or insult her, or have the last word, she slams the door shut.

Chapter Text

#6: Sherlock

"This is miserable."

Lips dragging over his china, Mycroft sets his cup and saucer on John's side table. "That's a product of your own doing, brother mine," he says, far too smugly for Sherlock's liking. "You've led a dangerous life formly, so what has caused such a monumental shift in your logic?"

The detective growls, because his bastard of a brother has an infinitely more important opportunity to use his annoying tact somewhere else. "Seventy-three, excluding the ones that needn't require fighting for Queen and Country, and you show up in my flat at 3 am with the predisposition to control my life?"

He smirks, which is utterly unacceptable in Sherlock's flat, especially since the British Government has already tainted the sanctity of his blogger's chair. "And you aren't wise enough to accept the advice of a man who cares for you and the chaos of the lifestyle you have chosen?" Another dainty, slow, painfully satisfied sip, yet Sherlock remains silent.

His archenemy's voice sounds measured. "Is it so farfetched to believe that you are attracted to John Watson?" Sherlock's toes curl uncomfortably against the chair cushion as he idly fluffs John's Union Jack pillow.

"No," he admits, because that notion is perfectly plausible, but the other is patently, terribly, utterly unthinkable. He cannot comprehend it, and he can comprehend anything, mind you. "It is so farfetched that John Watson is attracted to me."

His counterpart makes a thoughtful hum in his throat. "Simply fit the puzzle pieces together." He shuffles, smoothing his suit down in a way that reminds Sherlock of the expression 'ruffled feathers'. "Obvious mutual attraction. You notice the signs in everyone else."

He hesitates, because maybe his haughty brother is actually right. But then he sniffs pointedly and crosses his arms to cradle the pillow against his chest. "Preposterous," he scoffs, bypassing the fact that he must look like a complete child.

The British Government merely smiles, rises with his china in hand, and walks over to place it gently in the kitchen sink. Mycroft's precision strikes an odd cord in the detective as he swivels and makes his way to the window. If it's even possible, his smirk curls wider. "Oscillation on the pavement always means there's a love affair."

The bastard nods before turning silently and treading down the staircase, his leather shoes making a hollow sound as he descends and proceeds to open the door. It's only when his archenemy finally exits the building that he rushes from his chair and leans against the windowsill to see past the frilly curtains.

There John Watson is, roving back and forth between Baker Street and Speedy's, and suddenly Sherlock wants to ignore this altogether. Yet this light feeling in his stomach makes him wait with bated breath until finally, the doctor enters through the door.

"Sherlock?"

The sound is soft, carries across the floor and up the stairs and breaches a barrier so familiarly fitted that Sherlock can't breathe. He feels the need to respond, even if it's something scathing, but his throat is incredibly dry.

Next thing he knows, his good doctor, blogger, partner, friend, soldier is standing in the doorway with an expression between what Sherlock can only describe as distressed yet hopeful. He smiles, a small pull of lips that would usually elicit a smile of the detective's own, but is currently causing something like anxiety to build in his abdomen; ludicrous.

"You, ah, got a minute?" he says, pointing at his chair like it's some foreign thing, like he hadn't sat in that thing across from Sherlock just five hours, 34 minutes, and seven seconds ago. "Before a case gets in? Well, you could actually treat me as a client, if you like."

Sherlock shakes his head momentarily, then gestures to John's chair. "Be my guest," he welcomes, walking over to sit in his own chair. With what seems to be a grateful nod, he slowly sinks into his cushion, letting out a sigh that Sherlock recognizes as his 'keep going' sigh.

"I, ha," he trails off,"wanted to...look, I'm bloody awful at this stuff." He smiles. "I imagine you're probably just as bad, if not worse." Another sigh, a cock of the detective's head, then a low breath as John rises and heads into the kitchen; to make tea, Sherlock realizes.

"To put it plainly, I finally observed." Sherlock raises a suspicious eyebrow, circumspect in his inspection of John's form. "It started three months ago," he says, depositing a tea bag in both mugs as he starts the kettle. The detective notices a spasmodic twitch in his fingers as he goes to retrieve the sugar container.

A drab silence passes, what feels like infinity to Sherlock(which is utterly ridiculous) but has to have actually only been marked at three minutes as the kettle's characteristic whistle sounds. John slowly, with what looks to be forced calm, pours the boiling water in both cups.

"When we were in the morgue and you burnt your hand with hydrochloric acid," he smiles. One spoonful of sugar. "Then two weeks later when Greg interrupted us at a crime scene." Another scoop in Sherlock's mug. "Five weeks later when Mrs. Hudson bought us milk, then another 19 days later when Mycroft spied on us dancing. 24 more at the Christmas party in the closet."

"You felt it necessary to count the days between each occasion," he says, more of a statement than a question. John at least has the modesty to look embarrassed, scrubbing a hand along the back of his neck with a slight, almost imperceptible nod. "Were these moments so monumental as to require counting?"

His blogger bites his lip, sucks it, shifts his legs. His hands still over the mug's handles. "Well, we almost kissed each time."

The sentence is so stupidly, plainly, mundanely simple, so why, then, does it shake him to his very core? Why are John's eyes making him question himself so much? He's moved past these insecurities. He shouldn't be shaking, should he?

He swallows the lump in his throat. His Adam's apple bobs. He strokes his hands down his robe. "You disliked all of it."

John's falling face makes his heart do something that is decidedly not normal. "Is that what you think?" His voice is surprisingly gruff, even; flatlined. It's odd, seeing as Sherlock finds his voice to be overly expressive.

"Your frankly obvious displays of uncomfortableness point to such a conclusion," he says, quietly wishing that the good doctor would just leave him here to start the process of conversation deletion. It would be easier that way, for both of them.

He laughs, a hysterical sound that confuses and frustrates Sherlock, because what is so bloody funny about his suffering. Soon the mirth softens into something that seems to him a lot like sadness. "You're an idiot. Of course I didn't dislike it."

He blinks, once, twice, thrice. Another five times just for good measure to shake the overwhelming confusion suffocating his Mind Palace. Lips agape, he swiftly closes his mouth, then reopens it, thinking how unflattering his case of 'fish face' must look in this moment. It continues, silence stretching on. The detective thinks he's never wanted his meddlesome brother to interfere more.

"I could kiss you if you like," John whispers, anxiously fisting his too-big jumper which Sherlock has such a fond weakness for, but that bias is ridiculous and stupid and he will never, ever use the word 'adorable' to describe his counterpart, ever. A grin stretches over his tanned face, a hesitant pull of lips.

"Oh, God, yes," Sherlock murmurs, neither caring nor asking why he felt the need to exclaim the name of a deity he has never once prayed to. In this moment, nothing else but the expression on John's face could ever matter.

His blogger rises from his chair, soft steps treading towards where the detective is still sat in his respective seat. "That's my line," he chuckles, looking more fond than his voice lets on.

Sherlock feels the overpowering, primal urge to pull John's lips onto his. He resists. "The moment seemed to warrant it," he shrugs, and his whatever-he-is descends into a fit of giggles that seemingly affects the chemical balance of his brain and contents of his stomach.

Then John leans in with a determined surge and presses their lips together. Sherlock thanks the deity he previously never acknowledged that John has a plethora of experience in this particular area. Otherwise this whole affair would be quite messy and uncomfortable(but still utterly, inexplicably, undeniably perfect.)

Sherlock is very clumsy, nipping where he probably shouldn't and using far too much tongue in the process, but the doctor doesn't pull away. He retailiates with an enthusiasm Sherlock is certain prevails his euphoria on even their finest cases. It is wonderful and perfect.

Hesitantly, slowly, finally, they pull apart, and all he can think to do is press his lips to John's again, yet this stare must not be broken. He has to seize the moment, squeeze it and hold it, because this minute is irrevocably golden.

"You forgot the tea," he whispers, and he supposes the way John laughs must mean he did something correctly to preserve this instant in his continuum. This lovely man, his soldier on the front line, simply pulls away and glances at the counter, then at his watch that Sherlock recognizes as a gift from his mother.

He smiles. "It's gone cold already."

That's good enough for Sherlock.

Chapter Text

#7: John

21 February

The Worst Kiss

The worst ever? Only one?

You know, that really makes me sound like a dick. He's not a bad kisser, per se. More like he seems to have an...I was going to put it lightly, but he has an awful kissing filter for when and where it makes sense to kiss and when and where it doesn't.

Like how he made us a candle lit dinner but missed my mouth directly over the flames. Needless to say, he singed quite a bit of our hair.

Or when we were on a case that he exclaimed was an 8.5. He must've thought snogging me overexcitedly with bloody latex gloves was sexy.

How about when we were doing that cliché movie kiss with spaghetti strung between our mouths. Somehow he managed to push his saliva covered noodles past my lips.

One time we both had been on the same case for three days straight, so he took us on a date to compensate, I suppose. But then I fell asleep and was woken up by Sherlock practically pulling the breath out of my mouth with his tongue. I couldn't breathe properly for a full five minutes. Luckily he paid the check.

He occasionally makes me tea in the morning, which in itself is surprising. One such morning, he brought it out to me and waited until I started drinking it to try and kiss me. I spilt all of the tea on Sherlock's coat and my jeans. He somehow made it out to be my fault his coat had hot Earl Grey all over it.

Another time we had been chasing a criminal downtown, and seeing as I'm not as young as I used to be, I was very out of breath once the police had finally intercepted him. The git thought it good to snog me when I could barely inhale, not to mention his mouth was covered by his scarf, so I received a full mouth of fabric.

Yet another time, I had bruised lips and other grazes littering my body. As much as it pains me to say it, no pun intended, I had a run for my money fighting against one of our suspects. I suppose Sherlock thought kissing me would be a good form of comfort. Yeah, it hurt like hell instead.

There was another time where he was sick and sneezed into my mouth...

Another time where he almost pushed me into the Thames...

Yet another time when he was experimenting with facial hair(luckily he's clean shaven again)...

But okay, occasionally and usually quite by accident, we'll get it right.

42 comments

Publically insulting my kissing skills? I apologize for my lack of knowledge in this area, 'Three Continents Watson'.

Sherlock Holmes 21 February 11:48

Don't be a git. I even wrote a disclaimer saying you aren't a bad kisser. I thoroughly enjoy your kisses, when they're well timed.

John Watson 21 February 11:49

Apparently they're always ill timed.

Sherlock Holmes 21 February 11:49

You just need practice is all. You seem a bit tetchy. Why don't you text Lestrade for a case?

John Watson 21 February 11:50

If I must.

Sherlock Holmes 21 February 11:53

why does anyone request these things? this blog is for documenting cases, is it not? why do i always come here to find some romantic rubbish?

theimprobableone 21 February 11:55

JOHN! God, you're such a romantic x

Harry Watson 21 February 12:01

oh again with the capitals.

theimprobableone 21 February 12:03

Lighten up, mate. Seems like you need some capitals in your life.

Mike Stamford 21 February 12:07

Oh, you two boys are so precious!

Mrs Hudson 21 February 12:16

OMG! You guys are such a couple!

Jacob Sowersby 21 February 12:26

By the way, are you boys messaging each other while sitting in the same room?

Mrs Hudson 21 February 12:32

Yes. Sherlock's acting cross because I implied he's a bad kisser.

John Watson 21 February 12:47

So you admit you implied it?

Sherlock Holmes 21 February 12:49

Why would I be asking you to kiss me right now if I think you're bad at kissing?

John Watson 21 February 12:51

To pity me.

Sherlock Holmes 21 February 12:52

You two are such lovebirds!

Harry Watson 21 February 12:58

God why don't you two just elope already?

Anonymous 21 February 13:07

Oh you DARLINGS! The stories are adorable and the mental images are adorable and I wish I was there to see such absolute indicators of true love! Ah you two are such soul mates! Ted and I wish you both the best with a big group hug! Xxxxxxxx

Stella and Ted 21 February 13:15

Mrs Turner would like to know if you boys want some biscuits.

Mrs Hudson 21 February 13:21

Awh, this post is so lovely!

Donna Staveley 21 February 13:23

Tell her we would love some biscuits.

John Watson 21 February 13:30

Sherlock would prefer chocolate with raspberry jam, thanks.

John Watson 21 February 13:30

I'm not cross with you. Not really.

Sherlock Holmes 21 February 13:44

Oh? Seems quite like it, yet I'm not sure why. All I was doing was blogging like usual.

John Watson 21 February 13:45

What I mean to say is I'm sorry.

Sherlock Holmes 21 February 13:48

sherlock is saying sorry? dr watson must be special.

theimprobableone 21 February 13:51

Apology accepted, but you have to answer the door. It's Mrs. Hudson with the biscuits.

John Watson 21 February 13:52

Tedious.

Sherlock Holmes 21 February 13:53

And yet you got them anyway.

John Watson 21 February 13:56

Shut up.

Sherlock Holmes 21 February 13:58

Wow you guys. How were you not together until 2 weeks ago?

Harry Watson 21 February 14:03

Harry, do you always have to inject your two cents?

John Watson 21 February 14:07

Ya, you should know that by now xxx

Harry Watson 21 February 14:11

We're only happy for you, mate.

Mike Stamford 21 February 14:15

I can't stand this silly chat room any longer. Mrs. Hudson, don't be alarmed if you hear a gunshot.

Sherlock Holmes 21 February 14:17

Sherlock, dear, what are you doing? It's awfully quiet. I swear you're going to give me a heart attack.

Mrs Hudson 21 February 14:18

Nevermind. John says I was being rude.

Sherlock Holmes 21 February 14:25

Stop sulking.

John Watson 21 February 14:26

Please.

John Watson 21 February 14:31

Will a kiss change your mind?

John Watson 21 February 14:35

It changed his mind.

John Watson 21 February 14:38

UPDATE: We kissed today. We got it right.

Also, you guys have started asking for a post about our best kisses.

I'll save that for another day.