Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It began, as most of Sherlock Holmes’s worst ideas did, with boredom.

Sherlock Holmes was pacing. Not striding, not gliding, pacing, like a caged animal mapping every inch of his confinement. His dressing gown hung open, his shirt was half-buttoned, and there were five cold cups of tea on the table, none of them drunken.

John Watson watched from the kitchen, stirring his own cup. “You’ve been at this for forty-eight hours,” he said, not looking up. “You’ll drive yourself mental.”

“Already there,” Sherlock snapped, fingers dragging through his hair. “Three dead, no pattern, no connection, no logic. Each one sends a declaration of love moments before death, as if emotion itself is the trigger. But emotion isn’t quantifiable!”

“Right…” John said, staring at Sherlock with a slightly judging look. “Why don’t I go get Miss Hudson to get you some herbal soothers?”

There was a pause. A long, quiet, still, and ear deafening pause.

“Unless… it could,” Sherlock said quickly, eyes brightening.

“What? Could what?” John asked, but Sherlock completely ignored him.

“We have measurable signs. Heart rate. Microexpressions. Proximity. Behavioral change under controlled conditions. If I could create a controlled environment, an exp—”

John slammed his mug down on the counter so hard the tea sloshed over the edge. “No! Absolutely not! No bloody experiments!”

Sherlock froze mid-step, eyebrows lifting. “Experiment?”

“Yes! Experiment!” John barked, stepping closer, his patience finally snapped. “Do you have any idea what a disaster your last experiment was? I just finished scrubbing that carpet, Sherlock! Scrubbing! You left it a sticky, half-burned, chemical nightmare! And don’t even get me started on the—”

“The—?” Sherlock prompted, genuinely curious.

“The entire whatever-that-was! The thing you set up in the sitting room! You nearly electrocuted yourself! And me! And I swear, if I ever see another one of your ‘controlled conditions’ in this flat…” John’s voice cracked with exasperation. He threw up his hands. “I’ll leave! I’ll go live somewhere safe where the floor doesn’t smell like burnt shite!”

Sherlock tilted his head, processing. “I fail to see why this is… a problem. The data was—”

“Data? Data doesn’t clean itself!” John exploded. “Data doesn’t mop up melted carpet fibers! Data doesn’t calm down a screaming tea kettle when your ‘variables’ go rogue! I’m not your lab assistant, Sherlock! Not this time!”

Sherlock’s lips twitched, almost a smirk. “You are, however, an ideal subject—”
John threw his hands up again. “I am not! No experiments, Sherlock. None!”

Sherlock paused, briefly caught between irritation and fascination, the beginnings of a plan forming in that brilliant, chaotic mind. “Very well,” he said finally. “We will… discuss alternatives.”

John narrowed his eyes. “’Discuss alternatives’ is Sherlock-speak for ‘I’m already doing it and you can’t stop me.’”

Sherlock said nothing, but the faint curl of a grin betrayed him.

John sighed. He’d seen that grin before, right before something exploded, usually in or around his breakfast.

“Sherlock,” he warned. “Whatever you’re thinking, don’t.”

But Sherlock was already moving, that dangerous, purposeful glint in his eyes. “Hypothetically,” he began, voice deceptively calm, “if one wished to determine whether love could be induced or regulated, one would need a baseline.”

“I said don’t!”

“Heart rate, cortisol, dopamine, oxytocin…” Sherlock’s hands moved as he spoke, tracing equations in the air. “All measurable. All observable. All—”

“None of your business,” John interrupted sharply. “You can’t just—what—measure love like it’s blood pressure!”

“Of course I can,” Sherlock said, as if insulted by the suggestion otherwise. “With enough control, any variable becomes predictable.”

John groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You can’t control love.”

Sherlock’s gaze snapped to him then, sharp, unflinching, assessing. “Can’t I?”

John froze under the weight of it. There it was again, that strange intensity that sometimes crept into Sherlock’s stare when cases got too personal. The air thickened, and John felt something twist uncomfortably in his chest.

Sherlock stepped closer, his tone softening, almost curious. “You said I couldn’t measure it. But if we accept that love manifests physically, accelerated pulse, pupil dilation, altered voice pitch, then surely it could be mapped. And if mapped, then influenced.”

John tried to scoff, but his voice came out weaker than intended. “You’re talking about turning people into lab rats.”

Sherlock hummed. “Just one person would suffice.”

There was a silence.

John blinked. “You’re not serious.”

Sherlock didn’t answer. He just tilted his head slightly, studying John as though he were already under glass.

“Sherlock,” John said again, quieter now. “You can’t experiment on love. It’s not… It’s not a science project.”

Sherlock’s mouth curved. “Everything is a science project.”

He turned abruptly, sweeping toward his desk. “I’ll need controls. A baseline measurement, a variable input, an observable outcome…”

John followed, exasperated but, God help him, also a little intrigued. “And what exactly would your ‘variable input’ be, then?”

Sherlock didn’t turn around. His voice was low, thoughtful.

“You.”

The word hit like a detonation. John blinked once. Then again. Surely he’d misheard.

“Me?”

Sherlock didn’t look up from the papers he was already rearranging with manic precision. “Yes. You. You’re ideal, familiar, emotionally expressive, and statistically reliable. Your physiology has been recorded extensively under stress, anger, fatigue, and boredom. Love would be the logical next data point.”

John opened his mouth, closed it again, then finally managed: “You’ve lost it.”

Sherlock paused mid-motion, head turning slightly. “On the contrary. I may have just found it.”

John stared. “You want to experiment on me to see if you can… what? Create love? Induce it? Like it’s a bloody allergy?”

“Not create,” Sherlock corrected. “Elicit. Measure. Define its parameters. Understand its contagion. Three people dead, each professing love seconds before death, something triggered it, John. Something chemical. External. If I can find the pattern—”

“You’ll what? Bottleneck the human heart into a formula?”

“Precisely.”

Without letting John interrupt, Sherlock continued. “We begin with a baseline ECG,” he murmured, scribbling notes. “Then hormonal sampling, controlled stimuli, images, scents, sounds, and finally, direct interaction.”

“Interaction,” John repeated flatly. “As in, what, talking?”

Sherlock looked up at him then, eyes sharp and unreadable. “Talking. Touch. Proximity.”

John felt his ears burn. “You’re out of your bloody mind.”

“Am I?” Sherlock stepped closer, slow and deliberate. “You said love couldn’t be controlled. I say it can. Perhaps not easily. Perhaps not without time. But what if that’s the connection? What if the killer, or whatever force is at play, learned how to weaponize emotion itself?”

John’s jaw worked soundlessly for a moment. “All right,” he said at last, his voice rising. “Say…. say I even entertain this for five seconds. How would it even work, Sherlock? What, you’re going to strap me to an ECG and show me puppy photos until my heart rate spikes? Feed me chocolates? Whisper sweet nothings into my ear?!”

Sherlock blinked at him once, slow and deliberate. “If necessary.”

John froze. “You’re joking.”

“I never joke about data,” Sherlock said crisply, folding his hands behind his back. His eyes glinted with something unreadable. “Pheromones. Verbal suggestion. Eye contact. Sustained proximity. Touch. All proven to elicit measurable physiological responses. Controlled flirtation could provide the necessary variables.”

John sputtered. “Controlled… controlled what?”

“Flirtation,” Sherlock repeated as if it were the most obvious word in the world. “I would… flirt with you. For science.”

The room went silent. The sound of the fridge humming felt suddenly deafening.

“You’d—what.”

“Flirt,” Sherlock said again, slower this time, as though explaining to a particularly dense witness. “Smile at you. Compliment you. Initiate minor touches. Observe the reactions. Record the changes. A logical progression of stimuli. It’s not complicated.”

John just stared at him. “You… you’re bloody serious.”

“Of course I’m serious.” Sherlock’s expression tightened, his voice lowering. “I can’t trust anyone else. A stranger would introduce uncontrolled variables. A colleague might leak the findings. This requires someone whose baseline I already understand, someone who won’t be compromised by outside influence. Someone—”

“Someone like me,” John said flatly.

“Yes.”

John exhaled hard, rubbing his temples. “You want to, God, Sherlock, you want to woo me so you can measure love? That’s your plan?”

Sherlock stepped closer, the faintest hint of a smirk touching his lips. “That is the plan.”

John stared at him for a long, silent beat, torn between outrage, disbelief, and something he refused to name. “You’re insane.”

“Brilliant,” Sherlock corrected softly. “And perhaps insane.”

John took a step back, palms open as though warding off a physical blow. “No,” he said flatly. “Absolutely not.”

Sherlock blinked, taken aback by the steel in his voice. “No?”

“No,” John repeated, louder now. “I’m not doing this. Not for you. Not for the bloody case. Not for anything.”

Sherlock tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing. “Why?”

“Because everyone already thinks I’m gay, Sherlock!” John snapped. “Every bloody person we meet! Every witness, every cop, every cabbie, every bloody fan! You think I don’t notice the looks? You think I don’t hear the jokes? You think it doesn’t get old?”

Sherlock’s mouth opened, then shut again. His face, normally so quick with a retort, was blank.
“I’ve spent months, years, telling people no, we’re not together, no, I’m not your boyfriend, no, I’m not interested. And now you’re standing there telling me you want to, what, flirt with me? As an experiment? For science?” John’s fists clenched at his sides. His face had gone red, but his eyes were cold.

Sherlock stared at him, uncharacteristically silent.

“I am not your bloody lab rat,” John said, voice low now but trembling with fury. “I’m not a variable, I’m not a data point, and I am sure as hell not another excuse for you to test your theories about feelings you don’t even understand.”

He took a breath, the air sharp in his lungs. “You want a baseline? Find someone else. Because I’m done. No.”

The room went very still. The only sound was the slow tick of the clock above the mantel.

Sherlock’s eyes flickered, not confusion, but something softer, something John couldn’t read. “John…”

“No.” John cut him off. “I’ve been through fire with you, Sherlock. Gunmen. Bombs. Snipers. I’ve been kidnapped, beaten, nearly shot, God, more times than I can count. But this? This is where I draw the line.”

Sherlock’s throat worked as though he were about to speak, but no sound came out.

John snatched his coat off the back of the chair, pulling it on with jerky motions. “Sort your own case out,” he muttered. “I’m not doing this one with you.”

And with that, he strode out, the slam of the front door echoing through the flat like a gunshot, well, not really a gun shot, Sherlock already studied the sound of gunshots enough to know the difference between the front door slamming and a gun going off..

About an hour later John returned from the grocery store, bags in hand, and noticed immediately that the flat was… different. Quiet. Too quiet.

He set the bags down and called over his shoulder, “Sherlock?”

No answer. He frowned, rubbing the back of his neck. Something felt off.

From the corner of his eye, he saw movement in the doorway. Sherlock leaned casually against the frame, hands in his pockets, expression perfectly neutral.

“You’re back,” Sherlock said, voice flat. “I assumed the trip was successful. Groceries intact?”

John blinked. “Yeah… fine. Did you… clean?”

“Somewhat,” Sherlock replied, tilting his head.

John set the bags on the counter and studied Sherlock more carefully. There was something about the way he was standing, so deliberately still, so pointedly casual, that made a warning bell ring in John’s head. His sharp instincts, honed through years of military and medical experience, kicked in immediately.

“You haven’t been waiting for me, have you?” John asked, voice clipped.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to him, calm, but that subtle glint of calculation John knew too well was there. “Waiting? For what, exactly?”

John’s jaw tightened. He crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t play games, Sherlock. I know that look. The one you get when you’ve already started thinking about… experiments.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow quirked, as if pleased by John’s insight. “Experiments,” he repeated softly. “A loaded term, isn’t it?”

John took a step closer, scanning the flat with practiced caution. Everything looked normal on the surface, the kettle, the cups, the faint smell of tea, but the details were all wrong. The papers on the desk were arranged in perfect symmetry, the pens lined up like soldiers, and the open laptop faced him, as though inviting inspection.

“You’ve set up something,” John said flatly. “I can feel it. And I swear, Sherlock, if you even think about strapping me into some contraption, measuring my pulse, my cortisol, or whatever else you think proves your ridiculous theories… I will leave, permanently. No more flat, no more cases, no more—”

Sherlock held up a hand, a mock gesture of surrender. “Calm, John. I don’t intend to force anything. I am merely… observing.”

John’s hands clenched at his sides. He had trained himself to read Sherlock’s pauses, his flickers of attention, the small movements of his hands and eyes. That “merely observing” phrasing? Classic prelude to an active experiment. And then Sherlock tilted his head slightly, almost imperceptibly, watching John as if calculating, no, plotting, his next reaction.

“Let me be very clear,” John said, his voice low and steady. “I am aware of your methods. I know how you operate. I see what you’re trying to do, and it ends now. No baseline, no stimuli, no controlled exposure to me. You touch nothing, you say nothing, and you leave me out of it.”

Sherlock’s nostrils flared. For a long moment, he stood still, head cocked, hands clasped behind his back as if restraining a very visible storm. Then, with a sharp exhale, he threw his hands into the air. Papers scattered across the desk like startled birds.

“Fine!” he barked, his voice cracking with frustration. “No baseline! No stimuli! No controlled exposure!” He spun around in a tight circle, gesturing at the neatly ordered flat. “I shall sit here, idle, while three people die for reasons I cannot quantify! Is that better, John? Is that what you prefer?”

John stared at him, heart hammering. Sherlock’s outburst hung in the air, sharp as broken glass. The papers drifted down slowly, some landing on the floor, others on the desk in uneven piles.

“Good,” John said finally, voice tight. “Glad we understand each other.”

He bent to pick up the grocery bags again, his knuckles white against the plastic. Without another word, he turned back to the kitchen and began putting things away one by one. The sound of jars clinking against the shelf was the only noise in the flat.

Behind him, Sherlock sank into his chair like a marionette with its strings cut. He clasped his hands under his chin and stared at the far wall.

For the rest of the day, he didn’t move.

Chapter Text

A week passed.

The case of the “love confessions” had gone cold. Or at least, that’s what Lestrade said on the phone before hanging up. Three dead, no leads, no suspects, no answers. For most people, that would have meant a dead end. For Sherlock Holmes, it meant something else entirely.

He had gone silent. Not the angry, pacing silence John knew, but the quieter, sharper one, the one that meant he would erupt soon.

John noticed it but said nothing. He had learned long ago that pushing Sherlock in this state was like poking a sleeping wolf. So he kept his distance. They still shared meals, still moved around each other in the flat, they even worked another case, a small one, stolen jewels, faked insurance claims, mundane, easy, and over in two days. It should have felt normal.

It didn’t.

On Thursday evening, John was seated at the kitchen table, filling out his clinic paperwork while Sherlock sat opposite him, pretending to skim through a folder of photographs. The photographs were upside down.

John glanced up. “You’re awfully quiet.”

“Am I?” Sherlock’s tone was mild.

“Yeah. Usually by now you’re monologuing about ash samples or the ‘psychology of a mediocre liar.’” John scribbled another note. “It’s unnerving when you’re this… domesticated.”

Sherlock tilted his head slightly, his eyes flicking over John’s face, pausing just a fraction too long. “Do you prefer me unruly?”

John blinked at him. “What?”

“Unruly,” Sherlock repeated, leaning back in his chair. “The chaos. The experiments. The shouting. The… explosions. That’s what you’re used to. Perhaps this calm unsettles you more than the alternative.”

John snorted softly. “You’re giving me too much credit. I’ve just had a long week.”

Sherlock hummed and let the silence stretch again.

John returned to his paperwork. His pen scratched against the paper, steady and quick, until he felt it: a faint brush of warmth across his hand. He looked down. Sherlock’s fingers were resting lightly against the back of his, a barely-there touch.

John froze.

“Paperwork,” Sherlock said casually, as if nothing had happened. “You’ve written the same word three times.”

John blinked at the page. He had. He pulled his hand back, a quick, unconscious movement. “Right. Just distracted.”

“No need to apologize.” Sherlock’s voice was low, smooth. “It’s only an observation.”

John tried to laugh it off, and managed a small, awkward sound. “Right. Well… Thanks.”

Sherlock’s lips curved, but only slightly, not a smile exactly, more like the shadow of one. “You’re welcome.”

John went back to his paperwork, forcing himself to focus on the lines and numbers. He didn’t notice the faint flicker in Sherlock’s eyes, the quick note he jotted in the margin of his folder with a pencil: Tactile response, baseline deviation: 0.8 sec.

Later on, when John had finished his paperwork and was sat on the nearby sofa, solving a crossword puzzle. He was half-distractedly trying to find A1–A5) "Runs fast, but not on legs" when Sherlock finally spoke.

“John,” he said suddenly.

John looked up, wary. “What now?”

Sherlock stood by the window, one hand in his pocket, the other drumming lightly against the glass. “We should go out.”

John blinked. “…Out?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, turning with a surprising brightness in his eyes. “Out. Away from the flat. Somewhere public. Somewhere… normal.” He said the last word as though it were a foreign term he’d read in a dictionary once but never actually pronounced.

John set down his pen slowly. “Right. What’s this about? A case?”

“No,” Sherlock replied, almost too quickly. “Not a case. Recreation.”

John frowned. “Recreation.”

“Yes.” Sherlock began pacing again, gesturing as if making a formal presentation. “People engage in recreation to refresh their cognitive function. A change of setting stimulates the frontal cortex, improves memory, reduces irritability—”

“Sherlock,” John interrupted, leaning back in his chair. “Are you actually suggesting we… go out for fun?”

Sherlock stopped pacing. “Fun,” he repeated thoughtfully, as if testing the word for flavor. “Yes. If that is the colloquial term.”

John blinked, utterly at a loss. “You hate fun.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “I dislike wasted time. There is a difference.”

John narrowed his eyes. “And this sudden craving for leisure wouldn’t have anything to do with, oh, I don’t know, the fact that you’ve been stewing over the case for a week, would it?”

Sherlock ignored the jab, crossing to the coatrack instead. “I thought dinner might suffice. Or perhaps the theatre. You enjoy the theatre, don’t you?”

John nearly choked on a laugh. “You can’t stand the theatre.”

“True,” Sherlock conceded, slipping on his scarf. “But you do. And I require somebody who won’t bore me to death.”

John stared at him, half amused, half suspicious. “You’re serious.”

“Entirely.” Sherlock grabbed his coat with a kind of determined elegance. “Seven o’clock. Dress appropriately. The evening air can be unpredictable.”

John looked down at his paperwork, then back up at him. “Hold on—why are you planning this? Since when do you initiate a night out?”

“Since I decided boredom was a greater threat to my health than social exposure,” Sherlock replied smoothly, looping his scarf once around his neck. “Besides, if I am to observe the subtleties of human emotion, one must occasionally… participate.”

John groaned. “Observation again. Knew it.”

“Purely incidental,” Sherlock said, already halfway to the door. “But yes, observation. Of others. Not you.”

John squinted at him. “Promise?”

Sherlock paused, coat half-buttoned. “John,” he said evenly, “if I were planning an experiment, do you think I’d announce it beforehand?”

“That’s exactly why I’m asking,” John shot back.

“Seven o’clock,” Sherlock repeated. “Don’t be late.” He added before leaving the flat, leaving John utterly confused.

Later that evening

John found himself regretting every decision that had led to this moment.

He stood outside Angelo’s, hands stuffed in his pockets, watching through the window as Sherlock sat already at a corner table, posture perfect, attention fixed on the door.

“Dinner,” John muttered under his breath. “He says it like it’s normal.”

He took a steadying breath and pushed inside. The low hum of conversation and clinking cutlery filled the air. Angelo spotted him immediately, grinning from behind the counter.

“Dr. Watson! Long time!”

“Angelo,” John greeted with a polite nod, already bracing himself.

“And Mr. Holmes, he called ahead!” Angelo’s grin widened conspiratorially. “Said it was a special occasion!”

John froze. “He said what?”

But Angelo was already waving him toward the table.

Sherlock, of course, was utterly composed. He gestured at the empty seat opposite him as if this were any ordinary dinner between friends. “John.”

John sat, cautiously. “Special occasion?”

Sherlock blinked. “That’s what he said?”

“Yes, that’s what he said,” John replied, narrowing his eyes.

Sherlock tilted his head, feigning mild surprise. “Ah. A misunderstanding, clearly. I simply mentioned that this was the first time we had left the flat for something not work related.”

“Right,” John said, skeptical.

The waiter arrived, interrupting them with menus. Sherlock waved his away. “No need. Two portions of the house special. No wine.”

John frowned. “You hate the house special.”

“I’m aware,” Sherlock said evenly. “But Angelo takes offense if one orders the risotto twice in a month.”

John blinked, unsure whether to laugh or stare. “You’re keeping track of how often we order risotto?”

“I keep track of everything,” Sherlock replied, then leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. “Including you.”

The words hung there a moment too long.

John felt the back of his neck heat. “Not a day goes by where you don’t become more and more obsessed.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched. “Observation, John. Not obsession.”

“Feels the same from this side,” John muttered, reaching for his water.

Sherlock watched him over the rim of his glass, expression unreadable. “You’re tense.”

“I’m having dinner with a man who once suggested flirting with me for science. You tell me.”

Sherlock’s gaze softened, fractionally. “Still offended, then.”

“I’m not offended,” John said automatically, though the sharpness of his tone betrayed him.

“I’m… tired, that’s all. The case. The week. You.”

“Me?” Sherlock asked, voice deceptively light.

“Yes, you,” John said, setting his glass down with a thud. “You and your bloody experiments and your inability to just… let things be.”

Sherlock’s fingers tapped once against the tablecloth. “I don’t ‘let things be,’ John. That’s precisely the point.”

“Yeah, I know.” John leaned back, crossing his arms. “You poke, prod, analyze, deconstruct, until the world fits neatly into one of your equations.”

Sherlock’s expression flickered, hurt? Amusement? John couldn’t tell. “And you’d prefer I stop thinking?”

“I’d prefer you remember people aren’t data points.”

“People are data points,” Sherlock said quietly. “They just refuse to admit it.”

John stared at him for a long moment. Then, before he could stop himself, he laughed, short and sharp. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed. “Get what?”

“That love isn’t logic,” John said simply. “You can’t measure it, you can’t predict it, and you sure as hell can’t weaponize it.”

Sherlock didn’t answer right away. He sat back, the faint candlelight flickering over his face, casting shadows across his cheekbones. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, almost weary. “Then how do you explain them?”

“The victims?”

“Yes.” His eyes found John’s again, piercing and unrelenting. “Three separate people, no prior connection, all expressing love seconds before death. Heart rate spike, adrenaline surge, identical phrasing. That is not coincidence, John. Something triggered it.”

John’s frown deepened. “You think it’s chemical.”

“I think it’s controlled,” Sherlock corrected. “Artificial. And if emotion can be manipulated to that degree, then understanding it becomes essential.”

John exhaled, rubbing his temple. “And that’s why you wanted to experiment.”

Sherlock nodded once. “Knowledge is safety.”

John stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head and let out a humorless laugh. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?”

Sherlock’s gaze flickered. “Help myself?”

“Work,” John said flatly, stabbing a piece of bread with his fork. “You can dress it up however you like, dinner, recreation, a ‘change of setting’, but it always circles back to the same thing. The case. The data. The bloody puzzle.”

Sherlock didn’t reply. His fingers stilled against the tablecloth, his expression unreadable.

John sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair. “You know, I actually thought tonight we wouldn’t mention work. Just once. A normal evening, no corpses, no heart rate graphs, no talk about chemicals or emotional contagion. Just… dinner.” His voice softened, but the edge of frustration still clung to it. “Was that really too much to ask?”

For a moment, Sherlock said nothing. Then he inclined his head slightly, as though acknowledging a fair point. “Perhaps it was,” he admitted quietly.

John huffed, picking up his glass again. “Of course it was.”

Sherlock didn’t answer. Instead, he glanced out the window, where the faint glow of streetlamps painted gold lines across the damp pavement. Then, abruptly, he rose to his feet, coat swinging around him like a dark wave.

“Come,” he said.

John blinked. “What—now? We haven’t even finished dinner.”

“We’re going to the theatre.” Sherlock replied, already reaching for his gloves.

John groaned, pushing back his chair. “Sherlock, it’s nearly nine. You can’t just—”

“I can,” Sherlock interrupted, tone brisk. “I’ve already secured tickets.”

John stared at him. “Of course you have.”

Within minutes, they were outside, the London air cool and sharp. The city buzzed around them, car horns, footsteps, a faint drizzle beginning to mist the pavement. Sherlock hailed a cab with one sharp whistle, and within moments, they were inside, the glass fogging lightly from the warmth of their breath.

The cab lurched forward. Sherlock sat angled toward the window, but John could feel his gaze flicker back occasionally, brief and deliberate.

John cleared his throat. “So… theatre, huh?”

Sherlock’s mouth quirked. “You once said you missed the theatre. Something about ‘real culture’ amidst the chaos.”

“That was sarcasm,” John muttered.

“I know,” Sherlock said, unbothered. “But you meant it.”

John rolled his eyes. “What are we seeing, then?”

“A modern adaptation of Othello.”

John raised a brow. “You hate Shakespeare.”

Sherlock’s lips curved faintly. “Not hate. I simply find the average performance predictable.”

John huffed a quiet laugh. “Then why bring me?”

Sherlock finally turned to look at him, the corner of his mouth softening into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Because unpredictability often occurs in the audience.”

John frowned. “Meaning what, exactly?”

“Meaning,” Sherlock said smoothly, “you are far more interesting to observe than the actors.”

John froze for half a heartbeat, unsure if that was meant as teasing, insult, or something else entirely. “Right. Well. Glad to know I’m tonight’s entertainment.”

“Not entertainment,” Sherlock said quietly. “Focus.”

John glanced over, meeting Sherlock’s gaze fully for the first time since dinner. The cab’s dim yellow light caught in his eyes, sharp, pale, calculating, but something else flickered there too. Not just curiosity. Something quieter, heavier.

The air thickened. The cab’s rattle faded to background noise.

Sherlock shifted, the fabric of his sleeve brushing lightly against John’s arm. Not accidental. Too precise for that. Just a fraction of contact, enough to register warmth through the wool of John’s coat.

John’s pulse betrayed him, quickening before he could mask it.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked down, just once, to the point of contact, then back up again. “You’re tense,” he said softly.

John drew in a steady breath. “Because you’re sitting too close.”

“Proximity often influences perception,” Sherlock murmured. “I’m verifying that.”

John gave a short, incredulous laugh. “Verifying what, exactly?”

“That human response is context-dependent.” His voice was steady, almost clinical, but his gaze never wavered. “That emotion can be observed even without intent.”

John turned to the window, jaw tight. “I told you, no bloody experiments.”

Sherlock’s tone softened. “And yet you haven’t moved away.”

John shut his eyes briefly. “Sherlock…”

“Yes?”

“Stop.” The word came out quieter than intended, not angry, but tired. Honest.

Sherlock’s gaze lingered on him for a few seconds more, then he leaned back, gaze flicking out the window again. “As you wish.”

The cab slowed, merging into the line of cars before the theatre. Outside, a cluster of people huddled under umbrellas, the marquee lights gleaming off wet cobblestones.

Inside, the theatre was warm, the air thick with perfume and old velvet. They took their seats, box seats, of course; Sherlock never did anything halfway.

As the lights dimmed, John found himself glancing sideways. Sherlock sat motionless, eyes fixed on the stage. But every so often, between lines, between silences, his gaze would drift, landing not on the actors, but on John. Not studying, not quite. Just watching.

At intermission, John leaned toward him, voice low. “You haven’t looked at the stage once.”

“I have,” Sherlock murmured, lips barely moving. “I simply find the subplot more engaging.”

John huffed out an unsteady breath. “What subplot?”

Sherlock met his eyes, his expression unreadable. “Ours.”

Chapter Text

The rain had started hours ago. By the time they finally left the crime scene of their new case, the drizzle had escalated to a steady, soaking downpour. The streets glistened under the lamplight, the cold seeping through their coats, wetting collars. Sherlock’s umbrella had been left in a cab, forgotten in the rush, and John’s only partially shielded himself with his collar turned up.

By the time they reached Baker Street, they were both exhausted, Sherlock wasn’t moving as briskly as he usually did, and John was trudging, shivering, teeth lightly chattering. Their steps echoed faintly in the stairwell, wet footprints marking the otherwise pristine carpet.

“Tea?” John suggested weakly as they stepped into the flat, shrugging off his sodden coat.

“No.” Sherlock responded curtly before continuing. “Takeaway,” He said decisively, shrugging off his dripping scarf and letting it fall onto the chair.

John blinked. “You want… takeaway? At this hour?”

“Why not?” Sherlock replied, tone clipped but eyes restless. “Sodium, carbohydrates, precisely the chemical balance the body requires after prolonged exposure to cold.”

John huffed a small laugh, hanging his coat. “Right. Not hunger, then. Just chemistry.”

He crossed to the desk, tugging off his gloves with sharp, deliberate movements. “Besides, Mrs. Hudson’s asleep. The kettle would wake her.”

John pushed himself away from the table, rubbing his hands together against the chill in the flat. “Right. So… what are you in the mood for, then?” he asked, glancing at Sherlock, who was standing by the counter.

Sherlock didn’t answer immediately. He was sprawled on the sofa, half-buried under a blanket, eyes fixed on the ceiling as though something were written there.

“Sherlock?” John prompted.

Without moving his gaze, Sherlock muttered, “Edible. Preferably warm.”

John rolled his eyes. “That narrows it down.”

“I trust your judgement,” Sherlock said, still staring upwards. “As long as it’s not one of those tragic salads you pretend count as dinner.”

“I like salads,” John said defensively.

“Yes. You also like paying taxes and ironing your shirts. You have an unfortunate fondness for unnecessary suffering.”

John sighed. “Right. So, takeaway. Chinese?”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked over at that. “Hm. Fine.”

John frowned. “That’s it? Just ‘fine’? You’re not going to demand some obscure Georgian dish only served during a lunar eclipse?”

Sherlock waved a hand absently from the sofa. “Surprise me, John. I’m certain you’ll choose something… edible enough.”

John shook his head with a tired smile and picked up his phone. “Alright then. Chinese it is.”

He dialed, placed the order, and set the phone down on the table. “They’ll be twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes,” Sherlock repeated flatly. “An eternity.”

“Try not to implode in the meantime,” John said dryly, grabbing a towel from the rack to dry his hair. The flat was warm, dimly lit, the rain drumming softly against the windows. For the first time that night, it almost felt peaceful.

Almost.

When the knock finally came, Sherlock didn’t move.

“Could you—?” John began.

“Can’t you see I’m busy?” Sherlock asked without even bothering to glance up from where he was sitting, and doing, what appeared to John at least, as nothing.

John sighed, grabbed his wallet, and went to the door. “Yeah, thanks for the help, mate.”

The delivery man handed over the bags, the smell of warm noodles and spices instantly filling the hall. John paid, offered a quick “cheers,” and shut the door behind him. The aroma was comforting, soy sauce, ginger, the faint sweetness of duck. His stomach growled.

He carried the bags into the kitchen, setting them down. “Right, Sherlock—”

But Sherlock was gone from the sofa.

John frowned. “Sherlock?”

A voice came from the hallway. “In the bedroom. Changing.”

“Changing what?”

“Into dry clothes,” Sherlock called back, matter-of-fact. “Unlike you, I dislike hypothermia.”

John huffed a laugh and began unpacking the food. “Fair enough.” He grabbed two bowls and poured out the soup first. hot, fragrant wonton broth. The steam curled up in soft ribbons. “Alright, yours is ready—”

And that’s when it happened.

John turned too quickly, elbow caught the edge of the counter, and one of the bowls tipped forward. The scalding soup cascaded down the front of his shirt, soaking through the fabric in seconds.

“Bloody hell!” he shouted, jerking backward. The heat bit into his skin, sharp and immediate.

From the hallway came a thud, then fast footsteps. “John?” Sherlock’s voice, sharper now. “What happened?”

“Hot soup,” John hissed through his teeth, fumbling at his buttons. “Ow—bloody hell, it’s boiling—”

Sherlock was at his side in seconds, only wearing his boxer briefs, assessing the scene with quick precision. “You’re burning yourself—stop—”

“I’m trying!” John snapped, fingers slipping uselessly against the wet fabric. “It’s too, damn it, I can’t—”

Sherlock’s hands closed over John’s, steady, cool, firm. “Hold still.” Sherlock’s fingers moved deftly, undoing the buttons one by one. John only noticed now that Sherlock had been standing in front of him only wearing a pair of tight boxer briefs that hugged his manhood in a rather… appealing way.

The shirt clung stubbornly to John’s chest, and when Sherlock peeled it back, John winced. The skin beneath was red but not blistered, thankfully.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked over the area quickly. “Superficial burn,” he said, tone slipping into that calm, diagnostic register. “First degree, at most.”

John exhaled, half a laugh. “Fantastic. Another scar for the collection.”

“Not if treated properly.” Sherlock disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a small jar of ointment and a clean towel. “Sit.”

John obeyed, too tired to argue. He sat on the edge of the sofa, shirt half-off, while Sherlock knelt beside him, dabbing the cooled cloth gently against the reddened skin.

John grunted softly. “You’d make a decent nurse.”

Sherlock arched a brow. “I’d make an exceptional surgeon.” (Do you get my reference? Doctor Strange, heh, get it? Pls laugh 💔)

John smiled faintly. “Course you would.”

Sherlock didn’t answer. He dabbed the last of the water away and applied the ointment in slow, even strokes. When Sherlock finally leaned back, satisfied, he said simply, “You’ll live.”

“Good to know,” John said dryly, tugging his now-unbuttoned shirt aside. “Appreciate the assist.”

Sherlock rose fluidly, retrieving a fresh towel and tossing it over John’s shoulders. “Next time,” he said, “perhaps refrain from hurling boiling liquid at yourself.”

“Sound advice,” John muttered.

There was a short pause before both men realized what situation they were in. That situation being Sherlock practically naked, and John shirtless.

“Perhaps we should get dressed.” John said plainly.

“Good idea.” Sherlock replied before they both quickly went their separate ways.

Sherlock was already half-dressed by the time John emerged from the bathroom, towelling his hair dry.

John opened his wardrobe with a groan, bracing himself for the soggy aftermath of the day. But as he peered inside, his heart sank. The drawers were empty, save for a few lonely socks. He had meant to do laundry yesterday, he had really meant to, had derailed all plans. Every shirt, every pair of trousers, every neatly folded item of clothing was buried in a growing heap in the bathroom, damp and forgotten.

“…Brilliant,” John muttered, holding up a pair of jeans that had clearly seen better days. “Absolutely brilliant.”

From the bedroom, Sherlock’s voice called out, sharp and precise as ever. “Your problem, John, is not that you lack clothing. It is that you are a chronic procrastinator with limited foresight.”

John threw the jeans back into the heap. “Yes, Sherlock, because I could have predicted a last-minute case and the soup incident.” He rubbed his temples. “I have nothing to wear.”

“Nothing suitable, you mean,” Sherlock corrected, stepping into the doorway. His own attire was minimal, a slightly crumpled dress shirt, sleeves rolled, trousers dry. Sherlock moved closer, holding a single, crisply folded shirt in his hand. “Borrow mine.”

John blinked. “Your… shirt?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. “It is freshly laundered, and given its size, it will suffice.”

John stared at the shirt for a long moment, holding it awkwardly in his hands. It smelled faintly of Sherlock, sharp, clean, and unmistakably him. The scent was subtle, but it hit John unexpectedly, stirring a flush across his face. He could feel his cheeks warming.

“I—uh…” John stammered, suddenly aware that the shirt wasn’t just clothing. It carried Sherlock, in a way he couldn’t articulate.

Sherlock tilted his head, expression calm but eyes flickering with something John didn’t want to name. “It will fit. Put it on. You’ll be presentable, you, I mean, we don’t want Mrs. Hudson to get anymore ideas.”

John swallowed hard, hesitating. He slipped his arms through the sleeves. The fabric was thin, crisp, and smelled faintly of Sherlock’s cologne, or perhaps it was just him.

Immediately, heat crept up his neck, his face feeling hot. He tugged awkwardly at the cuffs, aware of how close the shirt felt against his skin. Every movement made him conscious of Sherlock standing there, just a few feet away, watching, waiting.

“There,” Sherlock said softly, almost approvingly. “Now let’s eat, before it gets cold.”

John exhaled, still tugging at the hem to straighten the shirt, trying to ignore how much Sherlock’s gaze lingered. “Right. Food,” he said, attempting a casual tone that sounded more like a croak.

John settled opposite to Sherlock, spoon in hand, the bowl of fragrant wonton soup steaming invitingly.

John picked up his spoon, taking a cautious sip. The broth was rich, soothing, the noodles perfectly tender.

 

“Pass the spring rolls,” John said after a moment, trying to restore normalcy. Sherlock obeyed silently, placing the plate carefully before him.

They ate in a companionable quiet, broken only by the soft clatter of chopsticks and the occasional distant rumble of the rain against the windows. John let himself enjoy it.

Once the plates were empty and the bowls cleared, John pushed back from the table. “Alright,” he said, reaching for the sink. “I’ll wash up.”

Sherlock didn’t protest, going to sit nearby, arms folded. The clink of plates and the hiss of running water filled the kitchen as John scrubbed, the mundane task oddly grounding after the surreal events of the night.

And then… A faint, familiar scent brushed past him, subtle but unmistakable: Sherlock’s cologne.

John froze mid-swipe, hand hovering over the soapy plate. He hadn’t noticed it at first, but now it was impossible to ignore. It was sharp, clean, lingering, wrapping around him like a memory he didn’t know he wanted to remember.

He blinked, hand stilling on the dish, heart skipping a fraction, and glanced toward Sherlock, who was lying on the couch, typing something on his computer.

Suddenly, John felt a stirring in his groin, he tried to focus on the task at hand, but his mind wandered back to when Sherlock stood to him close, wearing nothing but his boxer briefs.

John's erection grew, pressing against the fabric of his jeans, and he shifted uncomfortably, trying to discreetly adjust himself. The sensation was both pleasurable and awkward. His erection throbbed, aching for release, and he bit his lip to suppress a groan.

The sound of Sherlock's fingers tapping on the keyboard snapped him back to reality, and John forced himself to focus on the dishes, trying to ignore the growing need in his body. He rinsed the last plate, his hands trembling slightly, and turned to face the room.

Sherlock was still on the couch, oblivious to John's inner turmoil. John took a deep breath, trying to compose himself.

"All done," John said, his voice slightly hoarse. "I think I'm going to turn in for the night."

Sherlock didn’t even bother looking up from his computer when he responded, "Goodnight, John."

Chapter Text

John woke early. The rain had stopped sometime during the night, leaving the world outside washed clean and faintly silver. The city was quiet in that brief hour before dawn, too early for traffic, too late for drunks, and the only sound in the flat was the faint creak of old floorboards as he moved toward the kitchen.

He set the kettle to boil, waiting, staring blankly at the chipped counter. His reflection in the window looked older than he remembered, tired, pensive, and, worst of all, uncertain.

Uncertain about what, though, he didn’t want to admit.

He poured the tea, sat at the table, and tried not to think. But thinking was his curse, and lately, all thoughts led in the same direction.

Sherlock.

Not in the usual way, not the way he’d always thought of him. Not the brilliant, infuriating, impossible genius who made chaos look elegant and arrogance seem like art. No, this was different. Quieter. He couldn’t say when it started, perhaps in the cab that night, the brush of a sleeve, a breath too close, a look too long. But ever since, something had been lodged beneath his skin like a splinter.

He wasn’t gay. He knew that. He’d told people as much, half his life it felt like. He’d said it so many times it had become reflex, a line rehearsed, repeated, believed.

I’m not gay.

He’d said it to friends, colleagues, reporters, victims, fans, even himself. Especially himself.

He liked women. He always had. There had been Mary, Sarah, Jeanette, Janine, and the other two that Sherlock liked to call “the one with the nose” and “the one with the spots”.

John took a slow sip of tea, wincing at the temperature, and set the mug down again.

It wasn’t attraction, he told himself. Not in that way. He wasn’t interested. He was just… invested. Sherlock had a way of consuming attention, of drawing everything toward him like gravity. It was normal, surely, to be caught up in it.

And yet… and yet he wasn’t sure.

Seeing the lean young man stand in front of him, wearing nothing but boxer briefs, it hit John differently.

Although he didn’t want to admit it, after last nights… excitement, the only thing on his mind was to give into his needs, his pleasures, his wants. He still remembered the ache in his prick, the throbbing, the pulsing. It practically begged him to give it a stroke, to just give in for a single moment, for a single touch.

But John refused to give in.

He was straight. That was that.

John spent most of the morning convincing himself that the best cure for confusion was normalcy. A proper night out, with proper conversations, with a woman. That was what he needed. Something simple. Something sane. Something not Sherlock Holmes.

He sat at the kitchen table, staring at his phone. The app store blinked up at him, hundreds of brightly coloured icons begging to be clicked. With a resigned sigh, he typed dating into the search bar.

“Desperate times,” he muttered.

A few swipes later, HeartsMeet was downloaded. He filled in the profile with minimal enthusiasm:
Name: John Watson.
Occupation: Doctor.
Hobbies: Reading, writing, trying not to get shot.

He almost deleted that last part, but then shrugged. “Honesty’s a virtue.”

By the time Sherlock emerged from his room, shirt half-buttoned, curls slightly dishevelled, John was swiping.

“New case?” John asked without looking up.

“No,” Sherlock replied curtly, heading for the fridge. “Lestrade hasn’t called. Apparently, the Metropolitan Police have decided that ignorance is preferable to competence this week.”

“Right,” John murmured, thumb flicking left, right, left again.

A pause. Then… “What are you doing?”

John glanced up. “Hmm?”

Sherlock was staring, eyes narrowed. “That expression. Slack jaw, glazed eyes, small smile… you look like a Labrador watching a tennis ball. Explain.”

John hesitated, then sighed. “A dating app.”

Sherlock blinked once. Then again. “You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

“You’re serious.”

“Completely.”

Sherlock crossed his arms. “You do realise the statistical improbability of finding a compatible partner through algorithmic matching? Human behaviour cannot be quantified into swipes and emojis.”

John rolled his eyes. “You’d be surprised, mate. People use it all the time.”

“Yes. And people also buy miracle diets and lottery tickets. Popularity isn’t evidence of efficacy.”

John ignored him, scrolling again. “Some of us like to try.”

“Try what?”

“To meet someone.”

Sherlock tilted his head. “You meet people constantly. Most of them end up handcuffed or dead, but technically, it counts.”

“Not that kind of meeting,” John muttered.

Sherlock fell silent, though the faintest flicker of disapproval tugged at his mouth.

Two hours later, they were at a crime scene, a dim, cluttered warehouse near the river, police tape flapping in the wind. Sherlock was in his element, stalking between crates and muttering deductions under his breath. John, on the other hand, was standing a few feet away, phone in hand, eyes fixed on the glowing screen.

“John,” Sherlock called, crouched beside a chalk outline. “Come here. I need you to confirm the lividity pattern.”

“Mm-hmm,” John murmured, not moving.

Sherlock frowned. “Now, please.”

“Yeah, in a second—”

Sherlock straightened. “In a second?”

John blinked, distracted. “Sorry, what?”

“You’re texting.”

“Messaging,” John corrected automatically. “Her name’s Amelia. She’s a teacher.”

“Fascinating,” Sherlock said dryly. “Does Amelia happen to specialise in post-mortem blood distribution?”

John pocketed his phone reluctantly. “You don’t need me for this bit.”

“I need you alert.”

“I am alert.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “You just stepped in evidence.”

John looked down, and froze. His boot was squarely planted in a smear of dust beside the outline. “Oh. Right.”

Sherlock sighed, pressing a hand to his temple. “Unbelievable.”

“Look, sorry, I—”

“Text your Amelia later. At present, we have an actual corpse.”

John grimaced, backing away. “Yes, fine. Corpse first, romance later.”

By the time they returned to Baker Street that evening, Sherlock’s patience had thinned to a wire. He dropped his coat on the chair. “You were distracted the entire day.”

“Was not.”

“You misheard Lestrade, misplaced your gloves, and nearly called a suspect ‘love’.”

John flushed. “It was a slip of the tongue.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the air tense but not hostile. Finally, John checked his phone again, a grin flickering across his face.

“What now?” Sherlock asked, suspicion dripping from every syllable.

“She said yes,” John said, trying not to sound too pleased. “Amelia. We’re meeting in about an hour.”

Sherlock stared at him. “You’re going out.”

“Yes.”

“With a woman you’ve never met.”

“That’s how dates work, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s lips thinned. “And where is this… encounter taking place?”

“Café in Marylebone. Public place. Relax.”

Sherlock turned away, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Ridiculous waste of time.”

John chuckled. “You’ll survive one evening without me.”

Sherlock did not reply. He simply stood by the window, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the rain-dark street below. His silence stretched so long that John finally looked up from his phone.

“What?” John asked, wary.

“Nothing,” Sherlock said, a fraction too quickly. “Merely noting the curious coincidence that you’ve chosen tonight of all nights to be... unavailable.”

John frowned. “What do you mean, ‘coincidence’?”

Sherlock turned toward him, expression unreadable. “You promised to help me this evening.”

“I—what? No, I didn’t.”

“You did.” Sherlock’s voice sharpened. “Yesterday morning. You agreed to assist me with the file transfers and field notes for the Vandon case. You said,nand I quote, ‘tomorrow evening should be fine.’”

John blinked. “That was before I had plans.”

“You made plans without consulting me?”

John let out a short laugh. “Sherlock, I don’t need your permission to go on a date.”

Sherlock’s jaw tightened. “You do when we have an arrangement.”

“It’s not an arrangement,” John said flatly. “It’s my life.”

The detective’s eyes darkened, but he said nothing. John sighed, pocketed his phone, and reached for his coat.

“Look, I’ll be out for a few hours. Try not to blow up the flat.” He left before Sherlock could respond.

Chapter Text

The café was warm, softly lit, and smelled faintly of cinnamon and fresh bread. John arrived ten minutes early, trying to decide if that made him keen or pathetic. Probably both.

He chose a corner table, back to the wall out of habit, and glanced at his reflection in the window. Clean-shaven, decent shirt, jacket pressed. Presentable. Normal. That was the goal tonight, normal.

Amelia arrived precisely on time. Blonde, kind eyes, easy smile. A teacher, just as she’d said. She greeted him with a handshake that turned into a laugh when he awkwardly bumped her cup.

“First dates,” she said, shaking her head. “Always a bit of a minefield.”

John smiled. “You’ve no idea.”

The conversation flowed better than he expected, talk of schools, travel, literature. She liked history, hated horror films, and had a cat named Byron. John found himself laughing more than he had in weeks. It felt good. Easy. Normal.

Then, inevitably, it didn’t.

It started small. A vibration in his pocket.

John ignored it. He didn’t need Sherlock right now. He needed to focus. Amelia was telling a story about her students, something about a class trip gone wrong, and he managed a smile, nodding at the right moments.

Then the phone buzzed again. Once. Twice. A third time.

He sighed. “Sorry,” he muttered, glancing down. SHERLOCK HOLMES flashed across the screen.

He turned it face-down on the table.

“Work?” Amelia asked lightly.

“Something like that,” John said, forcing a chuckle. “He’ll live.”

He set the phone aside. But less than a minute later, it buzzed again. Then again. Then—

CALL IN PROGRESS: SHERLOCK HOLMES.

John groaned. “Sorry. Just—give me one second?”

Amelia smiled politely, though the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Go ahead.”

He stood, pressing the phone to his ear as he stepped aside. “Sherlock, what?”

“Finally,” came the sharp reply. “Where are you?”

“On a date.”

“Yes, yes, with your statistically doomed match, listen, I need your medical expertise immediately. There’s a problem.”

“Sherlock, unless someone’s dying—”

“Possibly.”

John froze. “Possibly?”

“Well, technically, already dead, but the cause remains uncertain—”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sherlock, it’s been one evening. Can’t it wait?”

“Not if you want to prevent the next one.”

He exhaled through his teeth. “You’re unbelievable.”

“That’s been said.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

He hung up, stuffed the phone back into his pocket, and returned to the table with what he hoped was an apologetic smile.

“Sorry about that. My flatmate—he’s…” John hesitated, searching for a word that didn’t sound insane. “...high-maintenance.”

Amelia laughed. “I gathered.”

They tried to pick up where they’d left off, but something had shifted. The rhythm was gone. John found himself distracted, half-expecting the phone to buzz again. It did. Twice more. He ignored it, but Amelia noticed.

“Do you need to get that?” she asked, her tone mild but unmistakably cool.

“No,” John said quickly. “Absolutely not. I’m all yours.”

The evening went on surprisingly pleasantly, so pleasantly that they ended up at Amelia’s flat.

What began as simply making out, soon turned into touching. John’s right hand laid comfortably on Amelia’s breast, feeling it up once in a while as they made out. Amelia moaned, pushing herself closer to John, the doctor moved lower, his lips trailing to her neck, giving her small, but passionately messy hickeys .

Amelia’s hand lowered itself down to John’s crotch, feeling his rigid prick, giving it a small stroke through his trousers. John bit back a groan, he had missed his feeling.

They directed themselves towards the bedroom, Amelia got onto the bed, taking off her dress, revealing her red bra and knickers. Meanwhile John quickly undid his belt and shirt, taking off his trousers and boxer briefs, before getting onto bed with her, ontop.

He ripped the condom’s packaging with his teeth, quickly sliding onto his member before going back to making out with her, this time a little more sloppier than usual.

John’s fingers slipped to Amelia’s entrance, teasing her folds, she moaned, grabbing his shoulders as her hips rocked back and forth to his fingers. John kept his lips on her neck, going from gentle kisses to messy sloppy ones, all the way to small bites.

John’s fingers began to message Amelia’s clit, slowly entering her as she moaned and gasped. John then took his cock, which had been throbbing and rock solid for far too long, and rammed it inside of her. He moaned, feeling the warm flesh around his member, he began to thrust in and out of her, nothing too slow, but nothing too fast either.

He groaned as she began to give him hickeys on his neck, he went faster, making her legs tremble. Amelia let out a loud moan, her pelvic area pulsating as they finally finished, John came, before exiting her, gasping for air.

“S-Sherlock,” He moaned out, flopping next to Amelia.

Wait.

No.

John was horrified. Had he just moaned Sherlock’s name after he came?! No. That was impossible. When he looked at Amelia’s side, he noticed the woman glaring at him. John was not offered to stay the night.

John returned to 221B Baker Street at 2 AM, his face sore from the multiple slaps he had gotten from Amelia. When he opened the door, he was greeted by Sherlock, who was quietly working on his computer.

Sherlock didn’t even bother looking up at John. “The date didn’t go well, I suppose?” Sherlock asked, but he already knew the answer.

John grumbled something under his breath about “going to take a shower” before leaving to the loo.

John stood under the hot water, letting it wash away the remnants of the evening. The slaps still stung, but it was the humiliation that cut deeper. How could he have been so careless? So stupid?

He turned off the shower and wrapped a towel around himself, looking in the bathroom mirror at himself, sighing.

He opened the bathroom door to find Sherlock leaning against the wall, his arms crossed. "So, how bad was it?" Sherlock asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Bad. Very bad.” John answered plainly. “So bad, infact, that I was slapped 7 times across the bloody face.”

Sherlock looked like he had something to say. John waited, but there was nothing.

“What?” John asked, frowning.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “It was 9 times.” He corrected.

John looked at Sherlock blankly. “Right. That’s enough out of you.” He said before he stormed off to his bedroom.

Sherlock stood there for a moment longer, before trailing behind John. “You won’t bother asking me about how my case went?” He asked.

John, who was mid getting changed, held back an eye roll. “Fine, Sherlock, how was your case?”

The next hour was full of Sherlock babbling about his case, and how he had to replace John with Molly, which led to Sherlock complaining about her and how John needs to ‘figure out his priorities’.

When Sherlock finished, John was snapped out of his trance. He had been looking at Sherlock’s lips the entire time.

John felt heat rushing to his cheeks. He had an issue.

Chapter Text

Wsp gang, my mom has had a recent hip surgery. I am her primary caregiver during this time. Being her caregiver, going to school, caring for my bunny, doing chores, studying, and still wanting to properly socialize means that updates will be slowed down. Sorry guys.

Expect things to be back to normal in early/mid November.