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"This is ridiculous," Sherlock scoffed, pale fingers squeezing around the murder weapon he was escorting home.
A flag. A British flag.
How to hide murder behind patriotism.
"It's going to take us ages to get back, and for what? Ten miles? Whoever designed Bakerloo line was a complete idiot." He flew through the gates with a quick touch of his Oyster, very subtly checking that John was actually following him.
It was vaguely disturbing how often he felt the need to check on his flatmate.
"We would have been able to avoid traffic at this time, how inconvenient."
John was frowning, gritting his teeth as he moved gingerly in and around the other people in the station, trying not to get his foot stepped on.
He tapped his card, giving the metal beneath his feet a quick glance before moving through the gate after Sherlock the Bloody Whirlwind.
"Could you stand to slow down for just one second? Getting my feet trampled on isn't going to get us home any faster."
Sherlock hesitated in front of the escalators, and then decided it was acceptable for him to wait for John.
"Very well... we are already wasting precious time anyway."
He had a sixth sense to guide him through crowded places, he was able to avoid touching every one else, a skill he had acquired after years of avoiding contact to nurture his lonesome nature.
John was different though, John’s feet were in peril.
"Dare I ask what happened to your shoes?" Of course he hadn't noticed, he had been too busy deducing things, and running.
Running was always a big part of their days.
"I took them off so I could come up behind him when you were still inside. You can't hear socks on pavement, not that it ended up helping anyway." They finally came up even, and John looked up into Sherlock's face as they both stepped on the escalator.
"Thanks for waiting. Finally," he looked around at the crowd, and then down at his socks to make sure they were in no danger of being snagged.
"Of course I waited, you always seem to imply I have no regards for good manners." As Sherlock was slowly transported to the lower level, he noticed he had to look up at John. For the first time he was taller than him, and it distracted him for long moment.
Peculiar.
He nodded, the suspect’s delay quickly adding up in his mind.
"Regardless of what you say, it was rather helpful," he muttered, tapping his chin briefly. "I was able to grab hold of this, thanks to your... diversion."
That was as close as he was going to get to gratitude and he hoped John would be satisfied by it, because no other words were going to be spent on the matter.
He continued to contemplate John’s eyes relative to his.
"What happened to your cheek?”
Sherlock blinked. "Right." He thought about it. "Most likely a piece of glass... I had to open the window somehow. It’s true that the best way to hide a murder weapon is under everyone's nose."
"Or above their heads. I can't believe it was fluttering up there with none the wiser. Clever of you really. As always." John tilted his head, his eyes glancing down to their destination and back again. "You should let me put something on it. You don't want a scar on that face."
There was an half-smile on Sherlock's lips when he heard the soft compliment.
He was always clever, he knew, but it was oddly heart-warming to hear John say it.
And everyone thinks he has no heart! How silly of them, really.
"Nonsense. I shall not waste your time on a scratch." It did sting quite a bit though, now that he thought about it.
They both stepped off the escalator and began to follow the signs towards the platform they needed, quiet in their thoughts.
John frowned as he continued to avoid gum, sticky spots, and what was unavoidably urine. "You're buying me new socks. Scratch that, you're buying me a lot of new socks."
Sherlock watched him avoid the perils with an arched eyebrow. He had to admit it was amusing to see him like that.
"Why do you have to blame me for your poor thinking, John?" he said, looking at the departures panel. Three minutes.
"I don't believe you truly want me to choose socks for you anyway. We clearly do not have the same taste in clothes." As harmless as socks went, he still put a lot of thought in choosing. Sherlock put a lot of thought into anything really.
"Can’t you deduce my sock preference?" John tried to say it with a straight face, but the corners of his mouth were lifting.
"Of course I can!" he said quickly, deadly serious, as if affronted. "That doesn't mean I would allow myself to buy anything like that."
John smiled, also glancing up at the departure board and then letting his eyes take in the people as they came up to wait around them.
Sherlock made quite an image standing there with a Union Jack fluttering about in the warm breeze blowing through the Tube.
He rocked back on his heels, which was more like just flexing his feet without the stability of a sole, and nodded down towards the tracks.
"Have you ever been down there?"
Sherlock was grimacing in disgust, so many smells mixing under his nose, it was horrible. "Of course John, I do live in London after all," he said dryly, watching the panel again, he wanted to be home, and quickly.
"I do not like it in the least, if that was your actual question. It is alarmingly overwhelming for my senses."
John could see Sherlock's distress, and he glanced up at the board, fruitlessly trying to get them home fast by just thinking about it. He tried to distract him.
"I mean the tube itself, the tracks. Do you have it mapped in your head? Is your homeless network underground at all? I imagine you've wandered down here a lot, finding the abandoned routes, knowing where to reach the street..." he trailed off, leaving it as both a compliment and a question.
Sherlock blinked at the question, realizing very quickly John had been able to expose another one of his blank spots. "I do not need to come down here to know about how the tube works," he said quickly, looking away. Clearly John had no idea how dreadful it was for him to be here at all.
"Abandoned routes!" he scoffed. "This is not a film, John."
John pouted a little, off-put, but quickly recovered. "So you won't be saving England by popping out of sewer hole covers or riding on top of the metro system?" he grinned, refusing to budge on his joke.
He gave up after a moment, and sighed.
“Don't be ridiculous!" exclaimed the detective, but then he was hit by the hilarity of it, and his lips turned in a soft smirk as he looked at John companionably.
"So what is it? You usually don't mind people, they're data. Is it the smell? The idea of being trapped under meters of rock?"
Sherlock turned towards the black tunnel at the question, wishing and dreading for the train to arrive. "Smell, data, all of it, too much all in one place... people touching me... people watching me... I do not want to know what they have been doing or what they think, but I can't help it," he explained simply, as if he was just talking about the weather. He refused to be emotional about this.
John glanced up. "Just another minute. You'll hear it any second now. Hey," he said softly, waiting for Sherlock to turn back towards him, "Just focus on me. Don't look around, just stay here on me. You can tell me what I had for lunch last week." He smiled again, joking, reassuring.
Sherlock frowned, his jaw clenching, but he turned to John nonetheless, looking at his face with feigned indifference. "Very well," he said and concentrated on him.
He looked surprised after a moment. "Are you aware of the fact that you are very handsome in that jumper, John?" he said before actually thinking it through.
John had smiled when he realized Sherlock would let himself be helped through this, and just as suddenly the smile froze in place.
"Um. Um no, I mean yes, I mean I like it. The jumper. Wait what did you say?"
Bad move, Sherlock realized, but he wasn't one to back out of things just because they were awkward.
"There is nothing to be embarrassed about," he commented coldly, and waved his hand a bit. "It does really nice things to your eyes, I imagine it's the colour. Your best one stays the striped one, though."
John nodded, the precious few seconds giving him time to recover. Sherlock just... this was just another series of facts. Like the time Sherlock had criticized his choice of jeans because they made him run slower, and then went on to dump out all the clothes in John's chest of drawers and separate them into Case Clothes and Doomed to Fail Date Clothes.
His words, not John's.
"Well thanks. Striped jumper, eh? Should I wear that on my next Date Doomed to Fail?"
Sherlock's eyes darkened at the mention of dating. "Just because I find it appealing, it does not mean someone else will. I am renowned to have a unique taste," he said, tugging his coat a bit. "If you truly wish for your dates to be successful, then I suggest a whole new set of clothes, it is common knowledge women prefer more elegant garments."
Those words lingered, while the veiled insult just went straight past him. I find it appealing...
"Sherlock... do you--"
"Train!" Sherlock yelled, cutting over John and sounding a bit manic.
A few heads on the platform turned to look, but Sherlock ignored them in favour of staring down the tunnel to where John could hear the squeaking wheels of Sherlock's way out of the Tube.
John's instincts were telling him to ask something, and he still wasn't sure what.
In any case, the moment had passed.
Sherlock composed himself as the train came to a halt, and waited in silence as the sliding doors opened.
He stepped inside and looked at the passengers sitting and standing in the small space, not suppressing the grimace that formed on his lips.
He was quick to hide away from the gaze of a young woman that rolled over his whole body, and turned to John instead, standing closer to him than necessary, just so he would not touch the coat of the man standing beside him.
He concentrated on John, just on him. "I don't think elegant clothes would be as fitting to your character however," because their previous conversation was surely much better than thinking about the pit of information he was drowning in.
John cleared his throat, happy to go on as if they hadn't just stumbled past an awkward moment.
"I would prefer a woman know me for who I am, yeah. Putting on airs when you're dating only makes things more complicated down the line. One day they look at you and say, 'Where's that posh bloke who used to wear dress shoes to dinner?' and 'Why don't you take me dancing anymore?' and then you're through."
Sherlock's gaze drew more intense as the train started moving, he was trying to keep his whole focus on John, and it was quite unusual for him. The train was more crowded than he expected and he did not like it.
"One would say you should peak their interest at the beginning so at least they give you a chance to show your real self at all," he said, stepping even closer when the man beside him moved.
“However I do not pretend to know what I am talking about. I never try to get anyone to like me, it's useless and disappointing."
John stared up at him, and swallowed. "You know, you really wouldn't have to try. You're pretty amazing anyway."
He quickly looked away, and the woman who had been standing near them on the platform was giving him a strange look from over Sherlock's shoulder.
"'Amazing' and 'fantastic' for you seem to equal to 'dreadful' for the rest of this world's population," he said simply, an almost invisible twitch of his lips. "I do appreciate your thoughts and encouragement though. I find this part of your personality quite lovely."
There was a slight pause between them as they both absorbed the respective compliments.
"Alright?" John asked to Sherlock's collar, avoiding his eyes. He wiggled his toes in his socks and tried not to get smacked in the head with the flagpole as it swayed in Sherlock's hand.
Sherlock grew nervous when he lost the contact of John's eyes; he was fair prey to the rest of the compartment then, and he did not know where to look.
"No. Look at me, John," he whispered, bending his neck to hide his gaze and talk in the other's ear. "I need you to look at me."
John blew out a quick breath of surprise. They were coming to another stop, and more people were going to get into the car, forcing them closer together, making Sherlock panic, making John panic.
He looked up into Sherlock's face again. "Okay. I'm sorry, I'm here. And thank you. You're um. Anyway, that's what friends are for, right?"
He felt Sherlock's coat brushing against his front, felt the warmth between them, enhanced by the warm air of the tube.
He listened to the train slow down with a feeling of dread, knowing that more people were coming any moment.
"I wouldn't know," he replied simply, looking briefly at the door as it opened again. "I assume you are right."
Sherlock’s free hand moved without his initiative, finding its way in the opening of John's jacket, placing itself against his side, feeling the warmth through his jumper and shirt.
He was trying hard to keep a balance in his feelings as they were squished closer.
He hated people touching him, he hated it.
He looked at John though, and it calmed him down. He hated it unless it was John, he thought, gripping the pole of the flag tighter.
John felt Sherlock's hand press against his side and then shift them closer as people began filing in. His heart started beating faster because he thought he recognized the expression on Sherlock's face but it was Sherlock's face, which meant it didn't belong there at all.
But the man who didn't like to be stared at was making John stare at him, the man who didn't like to be touched had pulled John closer to him when strangers came around them.
Suddenly the wide open world came down to the three inches between these two men, trapped in a tube car, ten stops from home and maybe, possibly talking about...
"Sherlock," John said on a swallow, "What are we--"
And a bloke with what felt like huge, heavy boots stepped back HARD as the tube jerked forward into motion, smashing John's unprotected toe.
"OW! OY! Get off my foot!"
Sherlock’s reflexes acted faster than he could think, and he was pulling John against his chest, while his leg pushed the man's heavy one away, trying to save John's bare foot.
The man grumbled, glared at them, but eventually moved further in the carriage, away from them.
The blood still on their clothes clearly left an impression.
"Are you okay?" he breathed out then, looking down.
John nodded and then shuffled his feet between Sherlock's, nudging his legs to either side and then standing between the taller man's braced stance.
Sherlock moved willingly, knowing John was creating a barrier between his feet and others. Shifting his stance outward brought him down an inch or two, and suddenly they were the same height.
John stared into his curious eyes, and rallied himself.
"You don't make the usual kind of sense, so sometimes my weak little brain needs to point things out, okay?"
He didn't wait for Sherlock to respond, so from mere inches away he whispered, "You're holding me."
Sherlock blinked at the words, it was odd to have John at his eye level.
"Very observant, John," he said with a smirk, it quickly faded to a more serious expression. "I am sorry if it bothers you," he wasn't really, "but we are trying to salvage your feet after all, and my sanity. We are both gaining something from this," he pointed out, deciding it was better not to mention that he was enjoying it as well.
John nodded. "Right. You're also staring into my eyes. Do you see where I'm going with this yet?"
"I thought it was pretty clear that I need you to ground me here, John. I do not appreciate people touching me or looking at--" he stopped, feeling quite stupid actually.
"Oh."
He congratulated himself for confessing his feelings in such a silly way, he would have thought he would have done it during a fight, or maybe before dying in John's arms, something a bit more epic than a ride on the tube.
He looked at John, trying to school his features so to hide his troubled expression.
"What am I supposed to say?" He truly didn't know.
"I don't know," John whispered. "What am I supposed to do?"
They stared at each other a moment longer, and then John looked down and back up.
"I am truly dependent on you for this, John," Sherlock admitted with no shame whatsoever. He had gotten over his inexperience with relationships a long time ago.
"You surely are the one more wont to this kind of situation, I can settle for what you usually say to turn girls down--"
"I think you just seduced me on a tube platform just by complimenting my jumper."
Sherlock stopped, registering the words. "I did not try to seduce you!" he protested, quite affronted. "I was merely stating what was obvious for anyone who would look at you in that moment. I doubt that would ever count as sexual harassment."
John experienced then what Sherlock must have felt all those times that John so carelessly threw praises at him. To be handsome to Sherlock Holmes as obviously as if anyone had been looking at him. It meant more than Sherlock knew, even in his own words.
"Not sexual harassment, no," he nodded, his hand coming up as he felt the car slow for yet another stop. His fingers stopped just below Sherlock's collarbone, and without needing to look John knew they were just near his top button.
He let his fingers rest near the seam, and then slowly started touching him through his shirt, dragging his fingers down the fabric.
"But this... this might be."
Sherlock felt the world around them disappear with a pop, all his senses trained on John now, on the way he felt the other's hand through his shirt.
He did not understand this, but he had no questions in his head, too busy with feeling what was happening.
His muscles tensed, his heart started beating even faster and his hand fisted in the other's shirt under his jacket.
The warmth of that touch through the fabric of his clothes was torture somehow, but it was heaven as well.
"Mjuhgr," was supposed to be a reply, but he didn't know what he was trying to say.
Sherlock cleared his throat, closing his eyes for a short moment, then staring at him again: "I don't see it that way," he was able to say eventually.
"Good. Neither do I."
John's hands, confident in the way that only John could be, kept moving. The one trailed down his chest, the other came up to curl around Sherlock's hip as more people moved in and out.
This time John was the one who pulled them closer, despite the fact that this stop was quite popular and the car was only emptying out rather than filling in.
But his fingers skimmed the expensive fabric under Sherlock's coat, and he made the gesture protective on purpose.
"Stay in my eyes, yeah? You're fine now, aren't you. You're fine." He was saying it more to himself than Sherlock, Sherlock whose starry-eyed face and gurgled response told John everything he needed to know about the other man's experience.
The doors hissed shut, and they were in no danger of being trampled or pressed in on.
John used the motion of the car jerking forward to let himself fall back against one of the poles, and guided Sherlock to bump up against him.
The other man tipped the flagpole out to the side, and John's fingers reached his belt.
"Now I am very much trying to seduce you, Sherlock. Okay? You can stop me, or ask me questions, or let me know if this is not okay."
Sherlock hardly noticed the train stopped at all, and they could be all alone in the carriage for all he was concerned.
All he could do was coordinate his movements and not melt right on the spot.
It was quite hard work already with John's hands on him. It would be extremely embarrassing however to end up fainting in public just because John was... John was... Oh God.
"I do not think anyone would think it appropriate to do such a thing on a public train, and to tell the truth, not a lot of people would advise anyone to do such a thing to me, but who am I to stop you? I do not reckon it would damage us in any way, and by far I think I am enjoying the feeling of your hands, I never noticed how warm they are, it is quite wonderful," he was rambling now.
"God Sherlock," John didn't move, didn't let his hands do anymore, but the motion of the tube was nudging them against each other in a gentle sway, "It could damage us very much. You haven't done this before, have you?"
Sherlock had to wonder whether he had said something wrong, because John's hands were still against him, the way their bodies came together with the movement of the train was enough to keep him on edge.
"It could?" he had no idea, because he thought this was the most perfect thing in the world, how could it bring them harm? He frowned, he was being silly now, wasn't he?
"Groping on a train? No, definitely not my field of expertise."
He had to wonder whether John had done this before instead. It struck him as something quite too out of bounds for someone as tight as John was when it came to certain things.
John shook his head, a smile on his face.
He slid both hands around Sherlock's waist and pulled him into a proper hug, burying his face near his neck.
"You're so you, Sherlock. You always will be, groping on trains or not."
There was so much fondness in his voice that he didn't worry about how it sounded, and when he pulled back he found Sherlock looking a bit confused, but not upset.
"We are best friends," he said, close, as close as they were when pinned in together before, "And that is the first real hug we've ever shared. I've never been with a bloke and you, well, if I can ever get a straight answer out of you about anything you've done in the past, I'm still quite certain it's going to tell me you're inexperienced. Sherlock, what I'm trying to say is that in a few moments I'm going to kiss you, on this train, right here, and it will change us."
Sherlock hadn’t expected the hug; it was oddly intimate even though they had been close to each other the whole ride, it made his heart feel warm, his whole soul feel warm.
He was aware of every spot John's body touched his, and it was amazing in ways he could not describe. "I don't do... touching... often," he muttered as an explanation, he had never thought he could hug John.
He wanted to protest at John's words, but the expectation of what was coming next made him silent.
He leaned closer, his hand unwrapping from behind John and coming back up, pale long fingers traced an invisible pattern on the other's cheek.
It went along with the pace of his heart, and it trembled.
"Change is good. I am always restless, John," he whispered, eyes sparkling in determination and want.
He wanted to show John that he could do it, that he was not a scared teenager, so he took a small breath and he leaned down, pressing their lips together.
One of John’s hands came immediately off his waist even as the other stayed in place, flexing, petting him to reassure him. He moved it up between their bodies and then gently touched Sherlock's neck, just resting there.
An obvious sign of encouragement that didn’t trap him.
It was a chaste kiss, and John kept it that way. Despite his confidence, realizing that your male, possibly unstable flatmate fancied you was not as easy to digest as John made it look. But what mattered more than anything was this friendship, was letting Sherlock know that he wasn't rejecting anything about it.
He kissed him back. He tilted his head to the side, he pulled back to let some space swirl between their lips, cool them, and then came back straight away. Intimate. That's what this was. Even though—
"OY!" someone called, loud and obnoxious in the car, upset about their kissing.
Sherlock jerked back, his eyes suddenly wide and panicked as he looked left and right and behind and around them at the people blatantly staring.
John saw the rush of unsettled fear wash across his friend's face and he needed to take it away that instant.
And if this wasn't already one of the most memorable kisses of his life, then what John did next was certain to seal it. He grabbed the flag from where it hung near Sherlock's hand and yanked it over both of them.
Then he took Sherlock's face with both hands, glimpsed his scandalized expression for just one instant, and slammed their lips back together.
Sherlock would have felt proud of John's nerves of steel and inventive genius had he had time to actually consider it.
However, one moment he had been aware there was a public to their exchanges and the next he was kissing John again, more passionately, eagerly, cupping his cheek and parting his lips, demanding more and giving back all he had.
"I'll have you know you are snogging your flatmate under a murder weapon... I do not think it's very proper of you," he whispered against his lips, a smirk pointing out just how much he cared about being decent.
"I think it's perfect," John gasped, pulling him back in, kissing him hard, over and over again until a mirth he could not control came bubbling out of his chest.
He imagined what they must look like, two grown men snogging under a full-sized flag on the tube, and he started to laugh.
He opened his eyes into the purple-ish glow beneath the fabric, and stared at Sherlock as the giggles came, harder and harder until the two of them were clutching onto each other, laughing in the humid air between them.
"I don't think we need to surrender this bit of evidence this time, do you? Could.." he trailed off, unable to keep a straight face, and pushed his lips against Sherlock's twice more, frantic, giddy, "Could hang it in the flat? Yeah? Bit of blood-stained patriotism?"
Sherlock wasn't sure how he managed to stand there, how he managed not to die of laughter, relief, any of those feelings John could easily lure out of his dark heart.
"What a decadent image," he said, and was already thinking about how he could grant John's request, he would probably do anything for him right now.
"I like it," he pointed out, just for the record.
It was in that moment, that he felt something tug at his senses, just by the way the train was slowing down he knew they were at their station.
He straightened up quickly, as much as he had clearly enjoyed this ride on the tube, he reckoned home was a safer place for the both of them, especially now.
"Our stop," he said confidently.
John pulled the flag off them, and as the train slowed their eyes lingered over mussed up hair and flushed, happy faces.
"Yeah." John surged forward again, wrapping his hand around the back of Sherlock's neck, rushing out his words.
"Last chance, Sherlock. This can stay here, or we can walk out of this station and bring it with us. But it won't be perfect, and it won't be easy."
Blue eyes were confused for a moment as they looked back into the doctor's pair. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but he didn't seem to be able to find a definite answer.
"I never forget things, John," he said, his eyes darkening considerably. "So leaving it here and forgetting about it is an option only you have."
The doors hissed open, and John frowned at Sherlock's response. Then he tightened his grip on his neck and pulled him in for a kiss.
"No option at all, then."