Archive of Our Own ^beta

The slow clacking of computer keys filled the flat at Baker Street, occasionally joined by the scribbling of a pencil or a small thoughtful hum. Sherlock was seated at the kitchen table absorbed in one of his latest experiments – John had learned long ago to stop asking what on earth they all were – and John was sitting across the table with his laptop reviewing case notes. Specifically, the notes on the Irene Adler case.

This blog post was going to be difficult, to say the least.

He had tried to write this post at least three different times already, and absolutely none of them had been remotely successful. There were about fifty different things conspiring to keep him from writing a full account of what had happened with the woman who had turned their lives upside down, the most pressing being the threat of imprisonment hanging over his head. Mycroft had been less than subtle in his reminders about the Official Secrets Act – there was something immensely disturbing about turning on your own laptop and finding your documents permanently redacted.

But however challenging this post was proving to be, John still felt that he had to write something. This blog did provide their living after all, and John had developed a certain sense of obligation to his readers. They deserved to know about the woman that had such an impact on their lives, even if her case had proved to be such an unusual one. Perhaps they deserved to know because her case had been so unusual. Goodness knows the people who read his stories loved nothing more than to see Sherlock acting like a human being.

“Yes.”

John looked over at Sherlock, startled. Even after a year of living together, he still hadn’t quite gotten the hang of Sherlock’s tendency to have conversations without the participation of anyone else. “Pardon?”

“The answer to the question you’re thinking of right now is yes.” Sherlock’s voice sounded strange, but John could not quite put a finger on what it was. Then again, Sherlock usually sounded strange to normal human beings.

He sighed. “Sherlock, stop it. You cannot possibly know what I was thinking just now with no clues and no context.”

Sherlock’s snort was so loud that John was sure even the neighbors had heard it. “Please. It’s hardly difficult to guess.” The usual sarcasm and derision were there, but that strangeness still lingered. Almost as if Sherlock did not want to be having this conversation. But he started it. What on earth is going on?

“Fine, Sherlock. Go ahead, prove how clever you are.”

“You are attempting to write up a blog post about The Woman,” Sherlock paused momentarily, and John could practically feel the capital letters of the title fill the room, “even though there is nothing of significance that you can write thanks to the kind intervention of my brother and his tedious Official Secrets Act. Nevertheless you insist on trying out of some feeling of absurd obligation to your readers, so you are starting your fourth attempt and still finding it just as difficult as the others from previous days. Judging from the amount of time you have taken since sitting down and the slower than usual pace of your already glacial typing, it’s not difficult to guess that you are still at the beginning of your post, likely around the time when we were still working on the case of the hiker. You have been smiling to yourself occasionally as you type, suggesting that you are remembering something humorous , in particular our ridiculous excursion to Buckingham Palace, references to which still make you chuckle on cue to this day. However not long after laughing you also began to frown in either deep thought or confusion, or perhaps both, accompanied with occasional furtive glances over at me when you thought I wasn’t looking. So, you were remembering something from Buckingham Palace to do with me that confused you. While the list of things about me that confuse you is pathetically long, there were very few things in the exchange at the palace that would cause you to frown like that.”

Sherlock paused. While the previous deductions had come out in typical rapid-fire Sherlock fashion with hardly a pause for breath, here Sherlock hesitated for a moment, seemingly unsure of how to continue. This was…strange. John had never seen Sherlock stop a train of thought like this, and had certainly never seen him so uncertain about his deductions. “The most likely thing would be a comment that did not catch your notice at the time considering our illustrious surroundings and the topic of discussion, but which upon being remembered caused you to stop and reconsider. Specifically, Mycroft’s joke about my sexual experience, or lack thereof. You remembered it, and for the first time began to wonder whether or not it was true. Hence the glances over at me and the puzzled frown that appeared on your face as you thought about it. And so to save you any more confusion and to keep you from hurting yourself as you try to work it out, I will tell you again that the answer is yes. Mycroft was right. I am, for lack of a better term, a virgin.”

Silence blanketed the flat. John was floored. What did one say when their genius, amazing, gorgeous flatmate just admitted to still being a virgin in his late thirties? Sherlock had been entirely right about John’s question, of course. He had just remembered the rather vicious barb Mycroft had thrown at Sherlock, and the faint look of hurt and surprise that anyone but John would have missed. He had not thought much of it at the time, simply writing it off as another move in their never ending game of absurd brotherly chess, albeit a rather immature one. But as he had typed and thought about the exchange, John had begun to wonder. Was it simply an unexpectedly childish joke at Sherlock’s expense, or had Mycroft been serious? The thought had been nagging at the back of his mind throughout their whole ordeal with Irene Adler, the one woman who had ever managed to put Sherlock off his game and break through a little into that ice cold shell. Every time she had flirted with him, every time Sherlock had become flustered or caught off guard by her blatant sexuality, John had wondered.

He had also done more than wondered, but that was something he would never tell a soul. He barely even admitted to himself that sometimes those thoughts went to places they shouldn’t, and left him feeling ashamed and uncomfortable. For all his professions of the strictly platonic nature of their friendship, John knew that deep down he harbored much deeper feelings for Sherlock than he cared to admit to. But this was Sherlock. The man who had not given Irene Adler the professional dominatrix so much as a sideways glance. The man who had warned John off the very first time they met with words that still stung John’s ears with embarrassment. John was a smart man, and he knew where to pick his battles. There was no point in pursuing Sherlock, not when it would end up with him humiliating himself again. But even that knowledge could not stop him from occasionally wondering what Sherlock’s lips would feel like under his own, or speculate whether or not those elegant hands were skilled at other tasks.

It was for precisely this reason that John had tried to avoid thinking about Sherlock’s sexuality. But it was too late now. John felt as though all of the blood in his body had suddenly decided to take up residence in his face, and Sherlock looked, well, distinctly uncomfortable. He was still staring into the microscope as though he didn’t care one bit in which direction this conversation went, but John knew better. He could see the slight fidget in Sherlock’s hands as he played with the dials of the microscope, and the tightening of his mouth that meant he was not happy. Sherlock had just admitted something deeply personal to John of his own free will, and he was very much uncomfortable with it.

John had no idea how to proceed, but he knew that he needed to tread carefully. One wrong word, one thoughtless comment, and Sherlock might never open up to him like this again. He cleared his throat gently before speaking, echoing the words that had seemed to cement their friendship in the back of a cab all those months ago. “That was amazing.”

Sherlock started slightly before looking up at John in amazement. His eyes were wide, and John could practically see the gears spinning in his head at incredible speeds. “Really?” he asked, and the uncertainty in his voice nearly broke John’s heart.

“Of course it was, you idiot.” He smiled in what he hoped was an encouraging manner, and Sherlock finally looked a bit less like he was expecting a kick to the face. “You figured out exactly what I was thinking based on how fast I was typing and the look on my face. I’d definitely call that amazing.”

Sherlock snorted again, and the mask of superiority momentarily went back into place. “Hardly. I do know you, John.” But the confident smirk that John knew so well tightened once more, creasing his face into a brittle mask ready to shatter at the slightest touch. “Just like I know you have questions you are just dying to ask me right now.”

John swallowed heavily, the blood rushing back to his face. There was no point in lying, not to Sherlock. “Yeah, I do. But you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. It’s really none of my business.”

“While I appreciate your concern, I am in fact an adult and I am capable of talking about my sexual past as such.” Sherlock smiled briefly, but John could see that it was one of those fake, plastic things he did not really mean. That wasn’t good. “You don’t need to walk on eggshells with me John.”

Oh, this was more than a bit not good.

John cast about wildly for a question that wouldn’t be too horrendously awkward. It wasn’t easy. “Have you ever…dated anyone?” The question sounded vapid to the point of utter stupidity coming from a man who was nearly 40, but he had to ask. The question had been eating away at him, and he would never forgive himself if he missed out on this opportunity to learn the truth.

Sherlock looked at him slightly reprovingly, but answered nonetheless. “Yes. Twice, and both times were completely unremarkable and unsuccessful.” He stopped, apparently not willing to elaborate, but sighed and continued at John’s expectant look. “The first was a girl who lived near us when I was fifteen. I took her to a few social functions at Mummy’s insistence; she thought having a girlfriend would make me look “normal” to her friends. It didn’t work out. She was stupid and shallow, and I could hardly stand being in the same room with her for more than ten minutes at a time. Mummy wasn’t pleased when I ended the charade, but it was that or go insane.”

John nodded sympathetically. He may not have been forced to date a girl he hated to pretend to be average, but he certainly knew something about family pressure. There was nothing quite so terrifying as having your entire family’s hopes and dreams pinned on whether or not you were accepted into medical school, and he had nothing but sympathy for anyone who was forced into a similar situation. The fact that his family had been pressuring Sherlock into acting “normal” instead of pushing for him to obtain an advanced degree was something John could not think about too much if he didn’t want to see red with rage.

Sherlock continued, although perhaps a little more reluctantly this time. “The second was at university, when I experimented with changing myself to fit into society. His name was Victor, and he thought I was wonderful.” It took all of John’s concentration to not react to this news, but the slightly sad look on Sherlock’s face told him all he needed to know. He couldn’t react badly now, or the moment would be ruined forever.

“After the less than thrilling times I had at boarding school, I thought it would be worth the effort of making a fresh start of sorts in a new environment and devoted significant energy into social situations I would have otherwise ignored. I met Victor through a chemistry course – he wasn’t anything like the others, or like anyone I’d met until that point. He was kind, he was patient, and he seemed to actually like me for something other than being brilliant. But once we tried being in a relationship, he expected things from me that I could never give. He thought I could change, that I could be a normal person if I tried hard enough. I couldn’t.”

John had never before felt such a strong desire to hug Sherlock, or to simply take his hand as a gesture of comfort and sympathy. But that was most definitely not how their friendship worked, so he was forced to simply say softly, “If someone expects you to change that drastically for them, they’re not the right person for you. Relationships aren’t supposed to work like that.”

But John’s soothing words did not work as he had intended. Sherlock recoiled from him as though stung, face twisting into a mask of scorn and derision stronger than anything John could have expected from what was meant to be a helpful comment. “Yes, thank you for that wonderful advice John, but that is how our relationship worked. And that’s why it ended. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have something of actual importance to attend to.”

And with a flash of motion so frantic and hurt and hurried that it was over in the blink of an eye, Sherlock was up from the kitchen table and pounding his way down the stairs to the street below. John had hardly even registered that Sherlock was leaving before the door slammed behind him, and the flat echoed with his sudden departure and the caustic words that had preceded it. The lazy, warm, comfortable afternoon of not twenty minutes ago had departed as quickly as Sherlock, leaving John alone and confused and able to wonder only one thing.

...what did I do wrong?

-

“So have you ever kissed anyone?”

The rapid click click click of Sherlock’s fingers flying over the keys of his phone halted for the briefest of moments before resuming, only the momentary pause of his lightning-fast movement and the nearly unnoticeable tensing of his muscles betraying his surprise. It was not often that John was able to catch him so off guard as this, but that had been his plan after all. John knew full well that he would not be able to wring any more information out of Sherlock under anything resembling normal circumstances, and so he had decided on an ambush tactic instead. Was it underhanded? Probably. But there was no denying the fact that Sherlock had his own methods of divining whatever he wanted to know about John without anything resembling consent from the concerned party, and John was tired of always being on the receiving end of it. It was time for Sherlock to get a taste of his own medicine, even if it took a while and involved some less than savory methods.

Methods, for example, that included surprising his friend with an unexpected question while his mind was busy whirring away on their way home from a case successfully solved. Sherlock was never so happy and preoccupied as he was after he had figured out the last pieces of a puzzle and fitted it all together just so in the perfect arrangement, and since this kind of good mood was not likely to roll around again anytime soon John knew that he had to strike now or miss his chance. He simply had not been able to stop thinking about the strange conversation they both were pretending to have forgotten about that had taken place on that quiet afternoon, when Sherlock had opened up to John as he never had before and then closed himself off again once more. One tantalizing glimpse of a past that John now realized he knew close to nothing about, and then it vanished as though it had never been.

But John remembered, even if he played along with Sherlock’s desire to pretend that the whole thing had never happened. He remembered Sherlock’s startling revelation, the admissions that had come wrung out of him both unwilling and unprompted, the quiet hurt in a voice that had never sounded so vulnerable, nor so human. And he certainly remembered the sudden silence that hinted at something so much worse, something that was too much for Sherlock to share no matter how badly it wounded him. And the more that John remembered, the more that he thought about that strange, intimate, forgotten conversation the more he found that he needed to know more. And, he suspected, Sherlock needed to share it with him. Even if he didn’t realize it yet.

The cab ride home from their latest blackmail case had presented an opportunity too perfect to pass up. They were both invigorated instead of exhausted, still buzzing with adrenaline and success and the countless other feelings that came with a mystery well and truly solved. The questions that had been lurking in the back of John’s mind for the last several weeks surged to the fore, and almost without any consideration for the damage his words might do with no prospect of escape from the situation in the back of this tiny cab the words came tumbling out of his mouth, heavy and unchangeable. There was certainly no going back now, no matter what happened between them.

Sherlock was still tapping away at his phone hurriedly as though the words meant nothing to him, but John could see the sudden tension in his fingers and the hunch of his shoulders that told a different story entirely. Ever the skilled actor, Sherlock was convincing in the role of nonchalant, distracted detective wrapping up an investigation, but John knew better.

“Excuse me?”

“I know you heard me – I meant did you kiss any of the people you dated?”

A withering glare was sent in John’s direction at the implication that he had not understood what the question meant. “Yes, I did manage to gather that much, I’m just unsure what on earth that has to do with anything right now.”

“Oh, nothing really,” John said casually in the direction of the cab window, a perfect picture of laid-back innocence. “I’ve just been wondering, and it occurred to me a moment ago, so I thought I’d ask.”

But feigned innocence or not, that didn’t mean that John wasn’t watching Sherlock like a hawk in the reflection of the window, or that he hadn’t seen the brief surprise that lifted his eyebrows skyward before being smoothed out once more before caustic sarcasm was put back in place. “You’ve been wondering? For what possible reason could have been wondering about my failed and non-existent relationships with people you’ve never met?”

“Because you’re my friend, Sherlock!” John said with exasperation as he finally turned away from the window to face the infuriating man next to him. “Because it’s presumably an important part of your life that I know nothing about, and I was curious. It’s not a big deal, I was just…curious is all.”

The silence in the cab that followed was both painful and tangible. Quiet during their cab rides together was nothing new for them – whether it was due to exhaustion after far too long spent running about like lunatics, the intensive hush conducive to deduction, or even the simple tenseness that came after one or the other of them had said exactly the wrong thing, much of their time together on cab rides and indeed elsewhere was spent in the practiced quietness of two men who did not need conversation to fill time. John knew very well that Sherlock loathed meaningless chit-chat, and far too much violent noise for a lifetime meant that John appreciated the beauty and comfort of shared silence just as much. But this silence was neither comfortable nor peaceful, fraught instead with a hundred unsaid things and silent reproach for unanswered questions. Finally, when John felt as though he would burst from the unbearable weight of it all, Sherlock took a deep breath far louder than it had any right to be.

“Yes. I have.”

John blinked in surprise, doing his best not to leap out of his skin in his desire for more information.“Oh. I…ok,” he trailed off, clearly meaning no such thing.

After a moment, Sherlock sighed in resignation. “With Victor. Certainly not with Cynthia – the girl that Mummy arranged for me – I could barely stand to be in the same room with her much less touch her. But Victor was physically affectionate, to a rather ridiculous extent. He placed great value in touches, and hugs, and…cuddling.”

If Sherlock had just admitted to committing horrid acts or murder and abuse, he could not have spat out the word with any more venom. Of course, this could quite possibly have been due to his apparent puzzlement at the need for other humans to express their feelings through physical contact – or perhaps the need for other humans to have feelings in the first place, John was not quite sure which.

That of course did not stop John from nearly choking on his laughter at the image of a frowning and reluctant Sherlock giving the most awkward hug imaginable. “Cuddling?” he asked, doing his best to keep the chuckles out of his voice.

It didn’t work.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered with a glare that quite clearly said Do not even think of laughing at me right now or you will regret it more than words can say. John bit down on his tongue to keep silent, and after a frosty silence Sherlock said as primly as he could manage, “And Victor was the first, and only person I have ever kissed. Does that answer your question?”

This was not going well at all, but John pressed forward all the same. What other chance would he have, after all? “That doesn’t exactly sound like a ringing endorsement. Did you even enjoy it, or did you just do it because you thought you had to?”

Silence answered him, definite and absolute. Sherlock had closed off again, withdrawing into himself with an angry frown and radiated tension that told John in no uncertain terms that he would not be speaking for the rest of the ride home, much less answering questions. In fact, John suspected that he would be lucky to get two syllables out of Sherlock for the rest of the evening, and that angry violin scraping into the wee hours of the night would be his reward for probing too deeply.

Well, it was a start.

-

“I did enjoy it, to an extent.”

The quiet murmur nearly went unnoticed in the hush of early morning in the flat. The rustle of newspapers, the clinking of silverware, the delicate chink of mugs against plates all came together to spell the steady comfort of home. That was why John almost missed what Sherlock said calmly into his newspaper across the breakfast table, nearly losing the thread of conversation before it even began, content in his coffee and toast and nothing more. But if Sherlock had taken the time and effort to begin a conversation with him, it was likely something worth discussing even if John had no idea what he could be talking about at this hour of the morning when the hush of sleep still lay over the flat.

“Sherlock, you can’t just have conversations without me, that’s not how they work” he rumbled in reply, voice still rough from sleeping and eyes half closed as he took a long and grateful sip from his coffee.

“John, at least try to keep up with me. It’s just sad now, it really is.”

“Insults aside, I still have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You should, you’re the one who started the conversation.”

“Sherlock.”

A sigh so gusty it ruffled the top of Sherlock’s newspaper greeted John’s remonstration in disgust at the tedious necessity of having to explain his cryptic comment to the non-genius in the room. “Fine, if you insist on being so dense, I was saying that I did enjoy kissing Victor, to a certain degree.”

Oh.

John was certainly awake now, and fully tuned to a conversation that he had never expected to have. His eyes snapped up from their quiet contemplation of his coffee to fix in shock on the uninformative wall presented by Sherlock’s newspaper that so conveniently shielded his face and whatever expressions he might have at the moment. If John could have given anything in that moment to suddenly obtain X-Ray vision he would have done so gladly, but as it was the paper stayed firmly in place and John remained squarely in the dark on what the hell he was supposed to say to a comment he had never expected from a conversation that had taken place almost a week ago.

“I, um, that’s…good?” he stammered, hating himself for it and unable to think of anything else at all to say.

Sherlock lowered the paper to glare at him reprovingly. “I don’t know why you even asked the question if you don’t know what to say about it.”

“No, sorry, I was just caught off guard. You do tend to have whole conversations without my participation sometimes.” The brief scolding seemed to set John at least a bit on sturdy conversational footing once more. Not as much as he could hope to be, considering the potentially dangerous topic, but it was a start. “But really, it’s good that you…enjoyed it. You are supposed to, after all. Usually. But why did you say to an extent? Did you not enjoy parts of it?”

There was a pause as Sherlock appeared to consider the question, carefully folding his newspaper with outward calm that John did not believe for a moment and placing it on the table in front of him with far more deliberation than such a task warranted. “I enjoyed certain aspects of it” he started slowly, choosing his words with care and not meeting John’s eyes once. “I enjoyed the attention, having Victor’s focus entirely on me even if it was only briefly. I enjoyed the affection, the feeling of being valued, and wanted for something other than being clever or different. I enjoyed how happy it made Victor, while it still made him happy. But that was all. I did not feel the same…passion that he seemed to feel for the whole affair. I never was affected the same way he was, no matter what happened, and I never wanted to take it further. I can be a convincing actor when I want to be, but even I was not up to that task.”

Sherlock looked up, meeting John’s gaze for the first time. If John had been able to breathe throughout any of his quiet revelation, the air would have vanished from his lungs at the sight of bright blue eyes alive with more feeling and hurt and wounded memory than they had ever held before. Whatever he had said before, whatever protestations of heartlessness and cold rationalism he had made, this was true. And the words that followed, nearly whispered into a flat deathly quiet with the weight of anticipation, were as true as any deduction ever spoken. “So yes, I did enjoy it. Just not enough.”

For what felt like the thousandth time in the last few weeks, John was struck silent. He had never imagined this side of Sherlock could exist, this quietly wounded man who did not know how to feel. For all the fantasies that John had privately indulged in, for all the wondering and questioning that he had done, he had never actually thought that Sherlock could be human enough to hug someone because it made them happy or kiss them because it made him feel wanted. John’s world felt like it had been flipped upside down in mere moments, leaving him with no idea how to go forward.

“I’m sorry.” As comfort went, it was cold to say the least. But what comfort was there to give, so many years later when the damage had already been done? And damage had certainly been dealt by this Victor fellow, whoever he was, that much John could tell just by looking at Sherlock now as he studiously examined the newspaper that he had surely memorized by now. Who could tell what Victor had really done to Sherlock in his unthinking cruelty, who knew what the lasting consequences of that youthful experiment had really been? It galled John to think of the harm that had been done to Sherlock by someone who had not known the effect that his actions could have, but there was certainly nothing that could be done for it now but to try and mitigate that damage as best he could.

“I’m not. It was a tedious distraction, and a waste of time. Better to have learned it early when the consequences were minimal than to have waited and faced much worse repercussions.”

Just there, beneath the cold words and distant tone, behind the grimace that had accompanied them, John heard the ripple of Sherlock’s true meaning.

Do not pity me.

And so, though he ached for more information, to know what had happened between Sherlock and Victor, John let the matter drop. The lines of tension around Sherlock’s eyes and the stiffness of his hands as he reached for his coffee read as clearly as any signpost that he did not wish to continue the conversation that he had started. There would be another time to begin this anew, perhaps even to glean another scrap of information from Sherlock in the face of his peculiar reluctance, but that time was not now.

-

“So why didn’t you date anyone after Victor?”

The lab was cold, and quiet, and empty. John had thought, well, hoped really, that the suddenness of his question would startle Sherlock into truth once more, but that hope was quite obviously in vain.

“Sherlock, please don’t ignore me. We’re both grownups, we can talk about this.”

The sullen set of Sherlock’s back, the enduring silence, the icy rage emanating from the man who would surely not speak to him for days now, it all could only mean one thing. Sherlock would not answer his question. Sherlock might not even answer him at all, from the look of things.

How on earth was John supposed to know when the magical right moment was to ask Sherlock about this? He had been successful only once, and only moderately so at that, and since then he had received but one answer to his queries that had not even been prompted at the time. It was maddening. Answers one day, silence the next – John could not bear it, and he could do nothing about it.

“You can’t pretend that I’m not here forever, you know.”

Perhaps not, but he could damn well try.

“Sherlock?”

-

John suspected that he might possibly be going insane. Really, what other explanation was there for the last few weeks other than insanity? Why else would he be on a relentless quest for information that Sherlock was so reluctant to give, information that was quite probably not of interest to any other person in the entire world but him? But despite the futility of it, despite the frustration caused by it all, despite the strain it was putting on their friendship and living situation, John knew that he could not stop. Even now, lying in the dark of his bedroom staring up at a ceiling he could not see with sleep eluding him, he knew that he could not possibly stop asking.

How had they gotten to this point, anyway? How had they, of all people come to this?

This had never been the way that things worked between them, not until the afternoon nearly a month ago now that had managed to quietly ruin John’s life without notice. If he had known that the result of that seemingly harmless conversation would be the inner turmoil he faced now and the tension so palpable that it had become the third tenant of their flat, John would have fled without second thought and never learned a thing about Sherlock’s past in the first place. But he had learned, and now that he had been giving such tantalizing, fleeting, tempting visions of a history far more complex than first glance would have suggested John could do nothing of the sort. He could not stop, no matter how he wanted to. He could not let this go, for reasons he did not understand and could hardly bring himself to contemplate even in the safety and darkness of his own bedroom.

It was that tension that was so new, so strange, and so deeply unsettling. While it was true that things were not always easygoing between the two of them – far from it actually – it was never like this. This was not a squabble to be resolved with an apologetic cup of tea, not a friendly trading of insults, not even a fight that could end in slamming doors and angry sulks and eventual forgiveness that did not need words to be felt and meant and understood. No, now they could not even bring themselves to speak to each other in anything other than broken fragments, only dancing around each other in fits and starts of conversation. Every time it felt like they might be approaching a revelation, treading close to a breaking point or sudden truth, Sherlock would shy away or shut down or pull back with shocking suddenness. Whatever had driven him to speak in the first place, whatever was still driving him still, however pressing it was to push him into uncomfortable conversations it was still not enough to allow him to tell the whole story.

Why? John asked the invisible ceiling above him in rapidly rising frustration, the same question he had been asking for weeks and was not a single step closer to answering. Why did he even bring this up? Why does he keep cutting me off after he’s started? What could possibly be so bad that he of all people wants to talk about it and can’t bring himself to?

That was the question that worried most, truthfully. Even more than the fear of what this turn of events would do to their friendship, the worry of what Sherlock was not telling him had become a constant, nagging presence in the back of his mind. John had to know, if only to put these demons in his own head to rest so that he could stop lying awake at night imagining one horrifying scenario after the next. Yes, John resolved to himself with the wordless conviction of late-night promises, this had gone on long enough. Even if it was painful, even if neither of them particularly wanted to have such a conversation, the time had come for one last try. John would find out the truth, even in spite of the danger that came with it.

Or maybe, a treacherous corner of his mind whispered into the darkness, because of it.

-

The time had come, with no warning whatsoever. John could not begin to say what made this the moment that called for action above all others, but it was unquestionably the time for him to strike. There was a breath of…something in the air today, a call to end the stalemate that had shifted the foundation of their friendship so drastically while leaving the surface so deceptively undisturbed. It was simply another quiet afternoon in the flat, an afternoon so very like the one that had begun this in the first place, and yet despite the contented peace that lay over them as Sherlock happily devoured his latest scientific journal (complete with occasional snorts of disgust at perceived factual errors) while John tapped away absentmindedly at his blog, John knew that it could not last. This tension could not go on between them, eating away at John’s peace of mind and Sherlock’s patience while the world continued to turn around them. He needed to act, no matter how it terrified him.

Taking a deep breath to fortify himself, John asked into the silence of the sitting room with a voice as casual as he could manage, “How long did you say that you and Victor were together?”

The reaction was subtle, unmistakable, and immediate. Sherlock’s knuckles went white with the sudden strength given to gripping the pages of his journal, every muscle tensed in surprise and no little anger at the subject being brought up once more. He looked up at John quickly, brow furrowed and shoulders already squared in a defensive manner as if to ward off unwanted questions. John could see the rapid-fire flicker of thought that ran over Sherlock’s face as he attempted to deduce where on earth the subject could have come from this time, and after a moment of nearly unbearable silence he forcibly relaxed his muscles just enough to look as though he were not about to jump out of his skin.

“John, you really must give up on this obsession with me and my former boyfriend, it’s getting a tad ridiculous,” he drawled in his best imitation of casual disdain, well enough to fool anyone who was not John Watson.

But there was no fooling John, not today. “Oh, leave off it. You’re the one that’s being ridiculous, refusing to talk about it even though it must have been fifteen years ago now.”

“Has it ever occurred to you there might be a good reason why I don’t want to talk about this?” Sherlock asked, and in that sarcastic question John could once more hear the plea that hid beneath.

Please drop this.

It was too late for that, far too late. “Is there?”

“It’s none of your business whatsoever.”

“You are such a child sometimes. It’s a simple question, Sherlock.”

The resentment emanating from Sherlock was nearly a physical thing, radiating off of him in waves as he carefully read and reread the same page of the journal he still clutched with tensed muscles and hands trembling slightly with strain. “Three months. We were together for three months before…before it fell apart.”

“See, was that so hard?” John teased gently, thanking whoever had intervened to allow Sherlock to answer him today. It wasn't much of an answer, but it was a start, and it was better than the cold shoulder he had been receiving of late.

But unexpected reply or not, that did nothing to dispel the uncomfortable silence that had fallen over the flat after the brief exchange. Sherlock was still pretending to read his journal, eyes flicking distractedly over the same page on endless repeat, while John tapped aimlessly away at a blog post that grew no longer. John could feel that any answers he gained from Sherlock today were going to have to be pulled out of him by force, not given freely at the capricious will of whatever spirit had possessed Sherlock on days previous. If John wanted information today, it was going to take work.

“So…what happened?”

The journal was thumped down on the air of Sherlock's armchair with an aggravated sigh. “John Watson you are the most infuriating person I have ever met, and I've had the misfortune of dealing with Scotland Yard on a regular basis.”

“Stalling isn’t going to put me off you know. I won’t just forget about it, I’m not that dense.”

“You’re not?” Sherlock asked with quirked eyebrow, sarcasm as ever masking any other emotion that might be lurking beneath.

“No I’m not, and stop doing that!" John said with irritation, turning away from his computer to glare at the infuriating man sitting across the room from him. "Stop putting me off, and insulting me, and hoping this will just go away. I’m sorry that I’m being such a pest, but don’t you understand why I’m curious?”

Sherlock held his gaze for a moment before glancing away, steepling his fingers beneath his chin as though the question posed the most puzzling of conundrums. “I really don’t. I can see no possible reason why you would be interested.”

Frustration took hold, breaking through whatever barriers John had erected to keep this conversation flowing smoothly to pour out the thousand grievances that had been building up inside him. “Sherlock, think about it. You know…everything about me. Everything. And you didn't even have to ask, you just knew, because that’s who you were. And that’s fine, but I don’t know a thing about you in return. I don’t know about your childhood, I don’t know what your parents are like, I don’t even know what you were doing five years ago because you never tell me anything! And sometimes it seems like there isn't anything to tell, but of course there is and now I finally found something, one normal, regular thing that we can relate on. So yes, I’m curious. I want to know about you in university, I want to know about you as a kid who made a bad choice, I want to know about your life because you’re my friend. I just wanted…I wanted for us to have one normal conversation that doesn't involve dead bodies and me constantly being on the losing end of whatever we’re talking about.”

John paused, looking first at the wall and then down at the floor so that he could look anywhere in the flat other than the wide-eyed man sitting stunned in his armchair. To have startled Sherlock was unsettling enough, but to have done so with an outburst like the one that had just exploded out of him was unnerving in the extreme. “I care about you," he muttered to the floorboards, "and that means that I want to know whatever I can about you, even if you think it’s boring.”

“You want to know, John?" Sherlock's voice broke through the quiet that had blanketed the flat, and John looked up in surprise to see the gaze that was fixed on him filled with sadness, regret, and no little anger. “You really want to know what happened, in all of its spectacularly uninteresting glory? Victor was the only relationship I have ever been in that was not coordinated by my mother for social standing, and we could not have been more horrendously ill-matched if we tried. I wanted to be normal for the first time in my life, and he had some romanticized vision of me in his head that I could never be. Even from the beginning, I knew that it would never work. I knew that I couldn't make him happy, that I could never stay the person he wanted me to be, but I had to try. Even if it was just once."

Sherlock stood, rising from his chair as though its very touch disgusted him. “So I tried, and for a while we were happy. We actually enjoyed each other’s company, as ordinary as it was, and we were both satisfied with the way things were. But Victor, he always wanted more. When we kissed, at his insistence, I was always the one to stop because I couldn't bring myself to go forward. And after a while, it wasn't enough anymore. He began to press me for more, telling me how much I would enjoy it, how much closer it would make us, how wonderful it would be. How it would make me happier. I kept telling him that it wouldn't and that I didn't want to, but he kept insisting until one night, I gave in. I thought I would try, just once, to see if I could shut off my brain and enjoy it like he said I would. After all, I needed to experiment before drawing conclusions.”

Where before Sherlock had been pacing the sitting room like a caged animal, turning back and forth with frantic energy that displayed his unhappiness like a beacon, he stilled now, striding over to the window to plant his feet in solid stillness. There was no mistaking the set of his shoulders now, the too-tight clasping of his hands behind his back, the controlled calm with which he spoke words that were nearly lost in the afternoon air. “The moment he took off his shirt I knew it was wrong, and I told him so. I told him that this wouldn't work, all of it, and that if he couldn't accept that we could no longer be together.”

Had all the air truly exited the too-cramped sitting room, or had John simply forgotten to breathe as Sherlock's story poured forth? Drawing shaky breath, he asked quietly, "What did he say?”

A bitter smile danced over Sherlock's lips before vanishing just as quickly, as short-lived as the morning mist. “He reacted exactly as I thought he would – although perhaps a bit more violently than I expected of him. I believe his exact words were that I was “a fucking frigid weirdo with a limp dick and a stick up my arse”, or something along those lines, and that I was lucky to have him because I’d never find anyone else. He was not eloquent when angry.”

“Sherlock, I –“

But Sherlock continued on speaking as though John were not even present in the room, carrying on over his words with brusque efficiency as he stared out the window with vacant gaze and an empty expression that broke John's heart nearly as thoroughly as the words that followed. “I told him to get the hell out of my room and not even think about coming back, and he complied. He tried to call me the next day, and the day after, but it was over and there was no going back. I certainly didn't want him back, and after seeing the results of attempting normality I saw no point in trying again. That is what happened with Victor, and that is why I have not been in a relationship since. Are you happy now, John?” he asked of the window before him, words full to brimming with bitter resignation.

What was there to say after a story like that? What could John possibly tell Sherlock that was not an empty platitude, or worse? Struggling to find the right words, John began slowly, “Sherlock, I’m sorry. For everything that happened with Victor, for the way he acted, for everything really. You shouldn't have had to go through that.”

Sherlock looked over from the window slowly to meet John's gaze. “Shouldn't I?" he asked solemnly, no trace of sarcasm or irony in the question. "It was a foolish mistake to let things go that far, and even more foolish to think they could ever be anything else. I was young, and inexcusably stupid.”

“They didn't have to be like that, it was just…unlucky," John fumbled, praying that he was not making some horrendous mistake. "That’s the way relationships are sometimes when people aren't well matched for each other, but that doesn't mean you should never try again."

“Yes, thank you for your condescension John, it is most appreciated. However I can assure you that the thought had in fact occurred to me.” He turned and walked over to the window, facing away from John. Where before he had been at least marginally open and willing to share even if it was against his will, the shields were now firmly back in place. He had drawn in on himself once more, perhaps never to return. Sherlock’s next words only confirmed that fear. “I may be an emotionless freak, but even I know that some people are not meant for relationships. I am better off alone.”

Anger surged within John, looming up to obscure his fear and reluctance and whatever else had been keeping him back from having this conversation properly. Seeing Sherlock like this, hearing the bitter deprecation in his voice, the quiet resignation that lingered beneath such a casually spoken statement, it awakened something inside John that he had not even known still remained there. “No," he said firmly, earning a startled glance from Sherlock that nearly mirrored his own surprise at his vehemence. "No, don’t you give me any of that bullshit. You don’t deserve to be alone – no one deserves that, no matter what you think about yourself or what the fuck anyone else told you. Your parents, your friends, even some boyfriend you had who managed to do this to you - none of them knew what the hell they were talking about. You aren't meant to be alone.”

But John's words of comfort were for naught. Sherlock drew away from him as if stung, face twisting into a mask of scorn and disbelief that was usually reserved for the willfully ignorant and the employees of Scotland Yard. “Oh really?" he asked with an angry sneer. "I don’t deserve it? Oh God, you actually think that you care don’t you?"

He leaned in towards John accusingly now, all truth and vulnerability vanished from him to be replaced by anger and caustic venom. "You care so much – why is that? Do you want to fix me John? Oh don’t worry, you’re not the first. Will you be like Mummy, doing anything you can to make me even a little bit normal? Like Mycroft, trying to shove me aside so I can stop embarrassing him? Or maybe like Victor? Hmm? Are you here to fix the poor, broken boy you feel so sorry for?”

“Shut up." John was not sure at what point during Sherlock's mocking tirade he had lunged up from his chair, but he was standing now with clenched fists and gritted teeth and a red mist of rage tingeing the edges of his vision. "Just…just shut the hell up for once in your life Sherlock! God, I can’t fix you because you’re not broken, you arrogant prick! You think you’re so special just because you got your heart broken? Is that it? Let me tell you something Sherlock, you’re not the first person in the world to get hurt, and just because some dick made you feel something and then ruined it doesn't mean that he ruined you too!”

“Spare me the homily, John," Sherlock said, lip curled into a smirk of derision and disdain. "You don’t know anything about me, nothing. As usual, you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I? Well guess what Sherlock, I’m pretty sure you don’t know everything about me either. Should I tell you about the girl who broke my heart so badly I thought I’d die of it before I got better?" There was no answer besides the expected snort, Sherlock's opinion of something so mundane as having your heart broken over a girl so obvious it stung. John's heart was thundering inside him now, racing fit to burst from his chest with frustration and anger and no little fear. He knew that he was too upset, that he was going to say something that he would regret, but there was no stopping him now. The words were building up, bubbling over, ready to spill out and reveal one of the greatest secrets he had ever kept. "No? What about the boy who broke it later?”

That got his attention. Sherlock froze, staring at John with wide eyes and sharply indrawn breath, his hard drive stuttering and stalling over this new piece of data. This was perhaps one of the only times John had ever managed to surprise Sherlock completely, and it had taken the most precious secret he owned to do it. “Oh, you’ll listen now, will you? Yes, a boy – a man, and he broke my heart just the same as before if not worse." Sherlock continued to stare, and John allowed a small smile of triumph touched with bitter regret to quirk his mouth upward. "What, you couldn't deduce that off of me? Did I actually surprise you for once?”

“But you…but you date women," Sherlock said slowly, attention clearly focused on turning the new information over in his mind and attempting to pick it apart with lightning speed as he spoke. "Always, always so many women, one right after the other. And your blog, it reeks of your exploits, your exultation after every success, everything. And you never mentioned a…a man.”

With another smile that contained no humor whatsoever, John echoed the exact words that Sherlock had thrown at him not so very long ago. “Did it occur to you that there might be a reason I don’t want to talk about it?”

But Sherlock simply stared at him, and it was clear that now that John's secret was out in the open there was no possibility of going back. Sherlock needed to know, and he would not rest until John had given him every scrap of information possible. Or at least enough information for him to go off and deduce the rest in a rapid-fire hail of brilliant deductions that reduced a life and a love and a tragedy to bloodless fact. Wasn't that the way things worked for them, after all?

“Fine," John said, taking in the biggest breath he could manage in a futile attempt to quell the fear that had taken hold and the feeling that his world was spinning away from him faster than he could hope to catch it. "Fine. His name was Christopher and he…he…he was with me in Afghanistan. He was one of the bravest men I ever knew, worth ten of me easily, and he never believed it for a second. No matter what, he always put everyone and everything above himself – he’d risk his life to save a mate without even thinking about it, constantly throwing himself into danger if he thought it would do anyone else any good. I tried to tell him to slow down, to take care of himself, that he shouldn't put himself on the line like that, but he never listened. God, that idiot…he never listened to me. Not even when he should have.”

It was John's turn to look away now, unable to bear looking at the naked yearning for more information on Sherlock's face any longer. This was still too raw, too painful, too private, and yet he could not help but tell it now. Even if his voice sounded foreign in his own ears, even if every word hurt more than he could bear, he could not help but tell the one person in his life who had ever truly cared to listen. “I never told him. How I felt, I mean. I never told him because I didn't even realize it myself until it was too late and he’d gotten himself blown to pieces trying to save five stranded soldiers. I thought I would die too, it hurt so much knowing that he had thrown his life away and that I would never see him again. So don’t you try to tell me that you’re special because you got hurt, Sherlock. I don’t want to hear it.”

What would Sherlock say now? John shuddered to think, but it was too late to take it back now that the truth had been laid bare for examination and dissection and endless questioning. He could only pray that Sherlock would somehow manage to not be quite as insensitive with John’s past as he was with the family members of murder victims, but it felt like a futile prayer.

When Sherlock finally spoke an eternity later, his quiet question nearly floored John. “Why didn't you tell him?”

“What?”

Sherlock’s eyes were narrowed in thought, but his voice held none of the scorn that John had so feared. “You said that you never told him how you felt – why?”

“Because – because, over there it was so…” The words died in his throat, choking him on the truth he could not articulate. “Because I was afraid. Of, of everything. I was afraid of being different, of getting hurt, of facing something I’d never felt before. I was afraid of losing him.” A bitter huff of laughter scraped out of a throat that had constricted painfully tight. “Just goes to show, doesn't it?”

John swallowed painfully, and in that moment he knew, for possibly the first time, why he had pushed this matter so far instead of just letting it drop. The truth was simple, as it so often was, but the moment of quiet realization that shook John to his core was no less profound because of it. “Sherlock don’t – don’t be like me. Please, whatever you do, don’t let something that could have been wonderful slip away because you’re…scared, or hurt, or whatever else you are. If you want to know why I care, why I really care, that’s why. Because I don’t want you to make my mistake.”

“But Victor was right, John. He was right about me.” The anger had vanished from Sherlock’s voice, replaced instead with simple acceptance. “I never felt anything for him, I never feel anything at all, and I am glad of it.”

If John’s heart had ached for Sherlock before, the resignation and naked honesty of those words broke it. This was not just about Victor, not anymore. Oh, Victor had done his damage, and done it well to a man who had not deserved it for a moment, but this went far deeper than any boyfriend who had been thoughtlessly cruel. How many people, how many friends and family members, how many strangers had it taken to convince Sherlock of the truth of what he now believed as fact? He believed, honestly and completely, that he did not deserve love and affection. He believed, with the practice of a lifetime, that he could not care for a single soul, even when that person had been so very important to him. It was not anger that coursed through John now as he looked at the familiar man he barely recognized standing solemnly next to the window, it was something far deeper. It was the need to fix this, just as Sherlock had guessed with his unsettling insight, but to fix the damage instead of the man to whom it had been done.

“That’s not true, even if you don’t want to admit it.” John’s voice was soft with gentle insistence, and almost without conscious motion he found himself stepping across the room towards Sherlock to make sure that his point was well and truly made. “You obviously felt at least something for Victor, or it wouldn't still matter after all these years. Think about it – you liked him enough to be his friend, you enjoyed spending time with him, you even kissed him because you wanted to make him happy. You cared about him, Sherlock, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Just because you didn't love him the way he loved you doesn't mean that it wasn't real.”

“Love?” Sherlock scoffed, breaking John’s gaze to look out the window once more. “He didn't love me, he couldn't love me. Love is nothing but –“

But John cut off the automatic rebuttal sharply, refusing to allow this conversation to veer off course for even a moment. “No. Stop that, stop it right now. Don't just write it off like you always do, not after what I just told you. Love is so much more than that, so much more than you've ever realized, or cared to think about thanks to whatever fucked up things people have told you your whole life. Even if it's not real love, even if it's just kissing someone, it's more than reactions and hormones and whatever else you have it boiled down to. God, it's so much more than that."

"What is it supposed to be like then?" Catching John's startled and questioning glance, Sherlock continued on in a voice that John had never heard from him before, "I never felt anything wonderful when I kissed Victor, I barely felt anything at all, so evidently I have missed something. What's it like, this experience that's so much more? To kiss someone, and have it mean something?"

Oh, this was dangerous. This was terrifyingly, dizzyingly, exhilaratingly dangerous, and if John had any sense at all he would be walking away from this conversation right now - and so of course he must plunge in head first, consequences be damned. What else was there to do? Taking a breath to marshal his thoughts into some semblance of order, he began slowly, “I – it’s hard to say. I mean, it’s different with everyone, every time. But…well attraction is the main thing. Arousal, I suppose, or at least it usually is.” He paused, wondering for the briefest of moments whether he was making the biggest mistake of his life before continuing, “But that’s not all, there’s also, well a bit of disbelief usually, to be honest. Like I just can’t believe that whoever it is would actually let me do this. And happiness, of course, and acceptance, and togetherness if it's really good. And sometimes...well sometimes it just feels like in that moment the world is perfect. Like for just a little bit everything has fallen perfectly into place, like the world stops turning and you can just hold on to that moment forever."

"Is it always like that?" Sherlock asked softly.

"No, not always. But if you're lucky, and it's the right person, then yes. It can be. And it's wonderful."

Time froze between them. The sounds of traffic, the murmur of conversation, the very breaths they took dropped away into stillness and silence. At some point as he was speaking John had stepped closer to Sherlock, or perhaps Sherlock had drawn in towards John, or perhaps they had both moved together as they always did when it mattered. They were close now, so close that John could smell the expensive shampoo and aftershave that Sherlock used with the faint and unmistakable undertones of chemicals, smoke, and home. John’s head was spinning with it, his heart pounding at their closeness, his eyes fixed on Sherlock with the desperation of a man drowning with only one hope for salvation. He knew, he knew even now that he was treading too close to the edge, but it was far too late.

When Sherlock’s voice broke the echoing silence, curling around John like a caress, it was low and rough and contained no doubt whatsoever. “You want to kiss me, don’t you?”

Oh, God. Oh no. Of course Sherlock knew - how could he not? It was surely written all over John in his every movement, his hammering pulse, his eyes that had gone wide with something far more obvious and damning than surprise. There was no point in lying to Sherlock, the man who could read him more easily than a book, no point in trying to deny what was so shamefully obvious. Swallowing heavily, John summoned the last of his courage to look Sherlock in the eye and let go the last of his secrets. “Yes. Yes I do. God help me, I do. But I won’t, because you don’t want me to, and that’s ok. Not everyone in the world is like Victor, and that’s a good thing. So just…forget about it, or delete it or whatever you do, and it’ll be fine.” Smiling crookedly because he could do nothing else, he said quietly, “God knows it’s not the first time I’ve had to deal with this.”

Sherlock had remained silent the entire time John was speaking, expression blank and unreadable in the face of the heartfelt admission that had been poured out before him. Finally, John could bear it no longer. He turned away, face on fire with shame and humiliation, intending to slink away and leave the flat, possibly never to return. But before he could take a single step, Sherlock spoke in a distant voice that sounded nothing like him.

“But what if I do want you to?”

“What?” John froze in an instant, certain that he must have misheard the question.

“Please John, you know I don’t like repeating myself.”

John whirled back around to face Sherlock once more, heart in his throat. “No, no I don’t think so. This is important Sherlock, you’re going to need to repeat that,” he insisted.

“I asked what you would do if I wanted you to kiss me.” Sherlock’s voice was still strange, still distant, still nothing like the confident and powerful tone that John knew so well. What on earth was he playing at?

“Sherlock you can’t do this to me. I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but you can’t just -“

“I mean it.”

“No, you don’t!” John burst out, frustration and desperation and futile hope exploding inside him. “How the hell can you expect me to believe that after…after everything? After what we just talked about, after what’s happened in the last month, you can’t honestly expect me to believe that you really mean it. That this isn’t just some experiment, or trick, or test, or whatever it is you do with people?”

There was no answer, and John’s heart sank like a stone. “Is it? Oh God…Sherlock. Sherlock I need you to look me in the eye and tell me this isn’t an experiment. Please.”

The hesitation that followed and the slide of Sherlock’s eyes to the floor told John everything he needed to know even before the quiet words were spoken. “I can’t.”

Of course. Of course, how could I ever be so stupid? How could I even think for one second...John pulled away blindly, desperate with the sudden need to escape the humiliation and anger that were taking him over. But before he could leave Sherlock shot his hand out to grab John by the arm, freezing him with the suddenness of the touch and the strength with which he held him.

“But John, wait! It’s not what you think, not the kind of experiment you think it is. It’s…it’s for me.” This was quite possibly the closest to embarrassed that John had ever heard Sherlock sound, his discomfort and uncertainty obvious in every word he said. “I’d successfully pushed Victor out of my mind for so many years, but it’s all been coming back since we started talking about it, all the memories, and the feelings, and I can’t stop it. Lord knows I’ve tried, but it keeps coming back. And every time it does, every time I think back to what happened, I can’t help but wonder if Victor really was right. And now there’s you, and you’re telling me all these things, and I can see your arousal written all over you because I can’t help but see it, and I feel...”

“Sherlock –“

He held John’s arm firmly still, keeping him in place as though he were afraid that John would flee at the first opportunity. “I have to know, John. I have to know what this is, what it is that you’ve done to me after so many years of pushing it aside. I’ve seen when other people have been attracted to me before, and it meant nothing, nothing compared to what seeing you like this does to me. I need to understand.”

The temptation to believe him was overwhelming, even in the face of all the doubts and the common sense that was screaming in John’s ear to run far and run fast. John wanted to believe him, wanted to give in to the pleading eyes before him and throw away every bit of self-preservation that he possessed. After all, wasn’t it too late for anything else already? Hadn’t they already ruined their friendship for good, leaving sense and caution behind back when the conversation began so long ago? “Listen, this can’t be just an experiment, or a game,” John said slowly, feeling his way towards the precipice he could never return from. “You can’t play with feelings like that, not mine, or yours, or anyone’s. You have to be sure, really sure, that you want this if it’s going to mean anything. Are you?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Please, John.”

It was the please that did it – how could it not? A please, a note of honest pleading in a voice that had never sounded so vulnerable or human, it was John’s undoing. He knew, in the part of his brain that had stopped working the moment he and Sherlock had stepped so close together, that this was probably all part of an elaborate scheme, part of one of Sherlock’s many ways to manipulate him. And yet, the part of his brain that had roared into life with terrifying force did not care one bit. Manipulation or not, John could not care about anything at all besides the intoxicating smell of Sherlock dancing around him, the heat emanating from the body so close to John’s own, the buzz of tension alive and frantic in the air between them.

There was enough adrenaline coursing through John’s veins to make him dizzy and his heart was beating so fast that his chest could not contain it. Deep down, he knew that this was a terrible idea. It would not stop at just a kiss. It could not remain just an experiment. But he wanted this, wanted it more badly than he had ever admitted to himself before. He wanted it more than he had wanted anything in recent memory, and so he made the choice that he would probably regret but could not avoid. Pulling his arm out of Sherlock’s grip, he placed his hands carefully on either side of Sherlock’s face, moving slowly enough that the taller man could back away if the contact was unwanted. Sherlock started slightly at the touch, but did not recoil and did not step away.

John spoke softly, his voice nearly a whisper. “Are you sure? Absolutely certain, Sherlock? There might be no going back from this.” Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly, but he nodded all the same. John could feel the slight tremor that ran through him as he shifted closer, a tremor that John echoed. This was the most terrifying thing he had ever done, Afghanistan and serial killers included.

Slowly, gently, John pulled Sherlock’s face down to meet his own. The movement seemed to last a lifetime, and yet before he knew it Sherlock’s lips were pressed against his own. There was no flash of lightning, no earth-shattering revelation, simply the gentle press of one set of slightly dry lips against another still scented with tea and milk. It was certainly not the best kiss of John’s life, and it was clear from the stiffness of his pose and stillness of his lips that Sherlock was unsure of what to do.

But none of that mattered. John slowly brought his hand down Sherlock’s cheek, marveling that he was finally allowed to touch this gorgeous face. He could not believe how soft and warm the porcelain skin under his hands was, could not believe how fragile and vulnerable Sherlock felt. He almost did not feel real, this delicate creature that seemed ready to flee at the slightest provocation. John was suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to protect Sherlock, to keep him safe from the world that had hurt him so badly. That was absurd of course – Sherlock was a grown man who did not need John to take care of him. But the protective urge only grew as Sherlock gently moved his hands hesitantly to rest on John’s waist, apparently unsure whether or not he was allowed to do so. John kissed him more firmly in response and caressed down his jaw, trying to show him that such things were not only allowed, but encouraged.

When the kiss began to deepen, John slowly opened his mouth and licked cautiously at Sherlock’s closed lips. He tasted of tea, and the biscuits he had snuck off John’s plate earlier, with the faintest hint of the nicotine that John was not supposed to know about. But most of all he tasted of Sherlock, and safety, and home. Sherlock gently parted his lips and tentatively met John’s tongue with his own before allowing John into his mouth. It took nearly all of John’s self control not to take that mouth as roughly as he wanted, but he could not. Sherlock was still tentative, still unsure of this. If John were to let loose the passion that was building up inside him, Sherlock would never want to kiss anyone again, much less try anything new.

Sherlock finally began to respond, sneaking his tongue into John’s mouth and tasting him curiously. John smiled to himself at Sherlock’s hesitance, and in a sudden bout of playfulness nipped at Sherlock’s gorgeous bottom lip. A soft groan escaped from Sherlock, and the nearly pornographic quality of the sound made John’s knees almost buckle. He bit again, harder this time. Sherlock growled softly in response, sending a jolt through John and a rush of blood straight south with dizzying speed.

Sherlock suddenly reached up to tangle one hand in John’s hair as he wrapped another arm around his waist possessively. They were pressed flush together now, chest to chest with arms tangled about each other. John could feel every contour of Sherlock’s body against his own, every hard plane and sharp angle pressed against him. The contact was dizzying, thrilling, overwhelming. It was John’s turn to groan now, the sound pulled from his throat all unwilling. He felt like he was falling, like he would explode if he didn’t get some sort of release soon. Kisses would not be enough, not if things continued like this.

John pulled away slowly before things progressed much further. He knew that soon he would not be able to stop himself, would not want to keep this to the simple test they both knew it was not. He looked up at Sherlock and his breath caught in his throat. His friend, normally so contained and well kept, was staring him with kiss-reddened lips, flushed cheeks, and eyes with irises so wide nearly all trace of blue had vanished. He was undone.

“Sherlock?” John asked quietly, suddenly afraid that he had done something wrong. “Are you alright?”

Sherlock did not answer, continuing to gaze at John with staring eyes and open mouth as his brain struggled to process what had just happened to him. Finally, he tried to speak haltingly, stumbling over himself in his uncertainty. “John, I - I - I don’t...”

“Wait.” John moved forward again, placing his hands as a steadying force on Sherlock’s shoulders and looking up into his eyes with unwavering gaze. “Stop. Whatever you’re doing in there right now, stop. Don’t overthink it, don’t analyze it, just tell me right now before you try to pull it all apart - did you enjoy it?”

That question stopped Sherlock in his tracks, and he blinked as he paused to consider it. A lifetime later, his eyes cleared of their turmoil. “Yes,” he whispered. “I don’t know why, I don’t understand it, but I enjoyed it. I enjoyed it very much.”

A smile of disbelieving joy dawned on John’s face, his heart soaring inside him. “Good, because I did too and I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t.” A faint smile to echo John’s own flickered on Sherlock’s face, and in an instant the tension that had been a looming and constant presence in their lives for so many weeks vanished. Things were new, things were different, things were possibly even terrifying, but when were they not? The two of them had survived worse, and as long as Sherlock was smiling and John’s hands remained steady, they were unstoppable.

Grinning up at Sherlock with sudden mischief, John moved his hands up from Sherlock’s shoulders to cup his face again. “So then, what do you say we continue the...experiment? I don’t think we can let it rest at just the one trial, do you?”

But Sherlock apparently mistook his meaning, pulling back slightly with narrowed eyes and concern on his face. “I don’t think it’s the right time -” he said uncertainly, and in a flash John realized how very much like an ex-boyfriend he never wanted to meet lest he end up in prison for the consequences that question must have sounded.

“Hey, hey, I didn’t mean like that,” John interrupted gently, smiling his reassurance. “Remember what I said about not everyone being like Victor? Whatever you want to do, whenever you want to do it, it’s all up to you and it’s all wonderful by me - as long as you let me kiss you again, that is. Because I definitely want to do some more of that.

“Really?” Sherlock asked, uncertain and hopeful and alive with nervous anticipation.

“Yes, really. And besides, we need to get your kissing up to snuff before we do anything more difficult. You’ve got a lot of catching up to do,” John teased with a smile he could not seem to shake and a joy that could not possibly be real. But it was, and John never wanted to stop smiling like this or to lose the feeling of overwhelming elation that had taken him over.

Just as he had suspected, the uncertainty vanished from Sherlock at the merest hint of a challenge. “Oh, do I now?” he asked sharply before moving in close to John with startling suddenness. The breath was stolen from John’s lungs, vanishing for good the instant that he felt Sherlock’s arm wrap firmly about his waist as his hand came up to touch his face with astonishing gentleness. “Well then, shall we begin? There’s no time like the present, after all.”

John could not agree more - and if his agreement was lost in the press of lips and the breathless sighs that followed, well, there would always be another time to tell him later.