Work Text:
Sherlock always had a way of getting what he wanted. From a cup of tea to a suspect to a series of murders, at some point Sherlock would always get it. Usually, getting these things involved clever words and some footwork.
This certain thing that he now wanted, however, wouldn’t involve these things. Well, maybe some words, but other than that, he had to rely on timing and fate, which irritated him immensely.
But with a prize like John Watson, he’d be willing to deal with it.
It wasn’t necessarily an easy thing to piece together, wanting the doctor. Yes, there was an attraction of sorts: an army doctor whom deceptively wore fuzzy jumpers and a warm smile that could shoot a serial killer from another building with a handgun was appealing, yes. The fact that he also found his deductions amazing and spectacular when others just wanted the answers or got pissed helped also. But it built, from his tolerance to his eccentricities and experiments, to how he always seemed to know what to say at precisely the right moment aided it as well.
Not to mention that when the army doctor went on dates with women that Sherlock found himself unequivocally enraged with jealousy. That also seemed to help piece things together.
Yes, Sherlock found that John had wriggled his jumper-clad self past his barriers and nestled into the clavicles of his supposed nonexistent heart, and he wasn’t about to let him slip away.
He also had it on good intel that John seemed to have the same feelings for him, which made this process a bit easier.
All Sherlock had to do was act on it.
Sure, he could just say that he liked the doctor, but that was boring. Besides, Sherlock tried once, but just wound up with his brain freezing at an embarrassing moment and he had to find a way to escape, which made John thoroughly confused and concerned over his wellbeing. It was rather nice to have John’s focus and concern on him, but only in different circumstances.
He could also try to seduce him, but John would probably just be irritated and annoyed if Sherlock acted out his plan to wander around in his bed sheet one morning and “accidentally” let it slip off.
No, Sherlock was going to have to do something else entirely: initiate a kiss.
He had done his research. He had watched an embarrassing amount of romantic drivel on the internet and read some of Mrs. Hudson’s romance novels. He had felt like his poor hard drive was suffering from such an abundance of seemingly useless data, but for John, he was willing to put up with the strain. Besides, once he did get the doctor, he was going to delete it all.
Well, maybe not that one bit about the naval officer and the schoolteacher and what they did on her desk before class…
Now, Sherlock had all the data he needed. He just needed the right moment, the right proximity, and no interruptions.
Unfortunately, that last part was going to be extremely difficult.
I.
The first chance he got was one evening after a three-day-long case finally came to a close. They had takeout and the two of them had perched themselves on the sofa, watching crap telly as they alternated between picking at each other’s food and fighting over whether or not he men really was the father, jeans or no.
Eventually, their food was abandoned, and they were debating about the one man with the popped collar and too much hair gel, when Sherlock made a certain comment and almost took it back but decided against it when John’s wide-eyed expression shifted quickly into peals of laughter.
Sherlock eventually found himself laughing as well, and they both enjoyed the moment, and when it settled, they were left staring at each other.
And that was when Sherlock knew. This was it.
He swallowed, fighting off some nerves as he slowly, oh so slowly leaned in, watching John’s face, and becoming pleased with himself when John’s eyes flicked back and forth from his eyes to his lips, eventually settling on the latter. He gave himself a pat on the back when John didn’t comment and almost did his own victory twirl when John seemed to be leaning in as well.
He had all the answers then. John did like him back. He wanted this just as much as Sherlock did, and he seemed just fine with how it was starting.
“Yoohoo! Boys!”
Both of the them whipped their heads to see Mrs. Hudson heading up the stairs, a cake in hand. Sherlock noted the way the skin on the back of John’s neck changed color and he had to bite down on his tongue incredibly hard to fight off a scathing remark that he had armed for his houseke-landlady.
“Sorry to interrupt.” Mrs. Hudson said. “Mrs. Turner and I had our poker night, and there was some leftover cake, and I thought you’d boys would like it.”
As John immediately rose to thank Mrs. Hudson and make comments, Sherlock finally loosened the grip his teeth had on his now bruised tongue.
He should’ve known that Mrs. Hudson would interrupt at some point. He wouldn’t have minded if it were after they had kissed, or perhaps during a nice snog (John seemed like the kind of man who would be good at that sort of thing), but she just had to interrupt just as they were about to initiate it.
It wasn’t a big loss, though. It was just once. It wasn’t like the proverbial world was against them.
Now, Sherlock tucked away his plans and focused on more important things, like whether or not that cake was chocolate, and since when did Mrs. Hudson play poker?
II.
Sherlock was dead set on having Plan First Kiss (yes, he named it) occur in the safety of their flat. There was less risk of a crowd in case the doctor panicked and less chance of an interruption. That, and it didn’t seem fitting to have it go on in the outside world.
So that was why he was doing what he could to try and get as close as he could to John without him being none the wiser. When he left the bathroom after a shower, when he was leaving for work, or now, even, when he was making tea.
Sherlock didn’t think it was really romantic to try and initiate Plan First Kiss over tea, but he was willing to do whatever he could in order to get it out of the way. Besides, Sherlock wasn’t one for big shows of romance. Plus, it would seem fitting that such a thing would start over tea.
So when John complained about Sherlock putting the tea mugs up too high, Sherlock hid his smug smirk as he wandered into the kitchen to help him, purposely standing too close to the doctor as he grabbed two mugs, since John was making tea for two.
As Sherlock lowered them down, John turned to thank him and was about to go on a rant about keeping things out of reach and something about his height when it faded as he stared up at the consulting detective.
Now Sherlock was certain. This was definitely it. There would be no interruptions. The stove was shut off so there was no risk of a fire, and the kitchen was close to Sherlock’s room, so they could head in there if things got heated.
So Sherlock began leaning in, and John, like last time, also leaned in a little bit, and Sherlock thought he was going to burst.
“I hope I’m not interrupting.”
They both whipped around to see one of the biggest banes of Sherlock’s existence standing in the entrance to the kitchen, umbrella resting on a hooked arm and a knowing smirk on his face.
“Er- Mycroft.” John had sputtered. “Didn’t hear you come in. Tea?”
And as Mycroft pleasantly accepted the offer and told John for the umpteenth time how he liked his tea, Sherlock had to fight the strongest of urges not to beat his elder brother upside the head with his own umbrella.
Besides, the frying pan was sturdier.
III.
Sherlock was fine with being interrupted. Absolutely. Perfectly. No problems at all.
Because he was not going to give up, dammit. He was going to kiss his doctor, and he was going to like it!
Despite his determination on the kiss unwavering, Sherlock’s determination on where it was going to happen did.
So, currently, they were standing in the morgue at Bart’s, Sherlock studying a body’s scalp as John made comments on his own.
Finally, Sherlock straightened, turning his head to stare at John, watching as he leaned over, motioning with a hand over the body certain things that he noticed, like the tattoo the man had along with the needle mark on his shoulder.
… Wait, needle mark?
Sherlock leaned in as well, staring, wondering how he missed it. This changed things immensely. It was no longer the ex-girlfriend’s mother, it was the cousin!
It was times like this that reminded him why he liked John so much.
And so Sherlock turned his head towards John to tell him how he was brilliant for once, only for John to turn his head at the exact same time.
And then it hit him, awkwardly, in the gut as his heart pounded in his chest. Granted, the morgue, hovering inches over a dead body probably wasn’t the most ideal setting for a first kiss, but at least it would be an amusing story to tell their children years from now.
… Yes, Sherlock thought about maybe having children with John one day. It was in a dream, actually. A subconscious thing. They had three. Two of them were twins. One was indeed named Hamish, but that’s not the point.
The point was that John was now staring at Sherlock and Sherlock was saying “to hell with it” and leaning in, trying to go a bit faster just in case of-.
“Sherlock! I’ve got your coffee!”
Sherlock shot up rod straight at that, turning and giving Molly Hooper the hottest of heated glares as John straightened as well, clearing his throat. He didn’t care that Molly looked frozen in shock at his expression. He just stomped over and snagged up the offending beverage.
“Thank you, Molly.” Sherlock sneered, taking the poor excuse for coffee and heading back to the body, taking a sip as John walked over and spoke to her. Apparently, Molly seemed a bit upset.
If anything, she saw the position that he was in with John, so at least she might cool down on her advances. If only by a bit.
IV.
So maybe trying to kiss John in the morgue was a bad idea. He could understand that plan failing. Mrs. Hudson? She already thought they were together. That and the cake was chocolate. Mycroft? Well, it was Mycroft. There were no other words to describe how that plan had failed immensely.
But now Sherlock was getting desperate. It was harder and harder to get close enough to John now, since he seemed embarrassed with himself over the last few failed attempts, and Sherlock was growing irritated and concerned by that. John shouldn’t be shying away. If anything, he could help by grabbing Sherlock by the front of his shirt, shoving him against the wall and initiating the first kiss himself.
As much as Sherlock liked that idea, he knew John wasn’t going to do that. So, Sherlock was happy with what he could get. They could have their first kiss in their flat, yeah, but now, he didn’t care if they were in a broom cupboard in a school. He just wanted that kiss already!
So he didn’t complain that, when Lestrade grumbled about having to leave both him and John alone with the victim in the guest room at someone’s house, that another moment would come up. Sherlock didn’t think about it being the right time, then, but if it was going to happen, it was probably going to have to happen really fast.
He didn’t think it would happen though, at first. At the time, Sherlock was more concerned about gathering as much evidence he could find and maybe getting that one fiber back to the flat so he could analyze it better. It only occurred when John was shuffling about, trying to look at a particular bruise and he bumped into him.
They both mumbled apologies and froze, staring at each other. Now, Sherlock knewthat this would definitely a bit not good, especially in John’s books, but he didn’t care. All these failures and interruptions and dreams about a country home raising bees with children named Hamish was getting to him.
So to hell with doing it slow. Sherlock had zeroed in and was moving fast-
“Did you get anything yet, Sherlock?”
-To Lestrade, who was now back in the room.
The Detective Inspector eyed Sherlock curiously as he seemed to do a strange twirl away from John and towards him. Granted, he was used to odd behavior from Sherlock, but that was just one of the oddest.
And that included the time that Sherlock explained how the farmer’s wife killed herself while practically cuddling a goose that was painted blue.
So Sherlock explained his findings, saying that he should bring the boss’s wife into questioning, all the while looking irritated and rather pink. He should’ve known that it wasn’t going to happen. That it wasn’t going to work. A crime scene was a failure from the start.
He didn’t even bother to look at John to see how he was acting. Not even when they left the scene, got a cab, and got back to their flat. He pretended to be in thought, plucking at his violin as he did his best to avoid glancing at John, who apparently did his best to remain quiet for his friend as he made his evening tea and headed off to bed. When Sherlock heard the door close, he finally huffed, laying his head back and staring at the ceiling.
Trying to get a kiss shouldn’t be this hard. But perhaps it was hard with John for a reason.
Maybe he wasn’t meant to kiss John after all.
... +I.
Four failed attempts, and Sherlock would not admit to sulking. At. All.
He stopped after the crime scene attempt to try and kiss John. It was a failure. A flop. And John wasn’t even trying to help in any way. Not talking about it. Not trying to kiss him instead. Nothing.
So perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps John didn’t really reciprocate. Perhaps John only thought of him as a friend.
Sherlock would have to learn to accept that. Because at least John would still be in his life, even as just his friend and partner-in-solving-crime. That’s all that mattered. That is, until John met a woman, of all things, and left Baker Street, but Sherlock didn’t dwell on that.
And currently, John was in his life and dashing through the streets of London with him, hot on the tail of a suspect. Said suspect was wanted for killing his best friend’s sister.
An easy case, and a welcome distraction to his thoughts centered on a jumper-wearing army doctor.
Eventually, they chased him to a dead end. The man was in a panic, twitching. Not wanting to go to prison and also suffering from withdrawal.
He tried to talk as John alerted Lestrade of their location, but something in the suspect’s eyes changed. They shifted around their surroundings, not really paying attention to what he was saying. It was a bit not good.
And when the suspect reached his hand to his back where he kept his gun, it was quite a bit not good.
Sherlock should’ve known it would go to hell then. He didn’t though. Not until he actually saw the gun. Not until he felt the weight of his stocky colleague colliding into him as the shot fired. Not until he got a close-up look of the pavement.
He saw John whip his own gun out as the suspect went to try and run around him, shooting the man in the back of the knee.
As the man writhed in pain, clutching at his leg, Sherlock turned to his colleague, about to comment on his shot when he noticed something wrong.
John had rolled off to the side, sitting up and hunched over. He was also flinching and clutching at his arm.
It clicked, and Sherlock did something he never did. He panicked.
“John!” He hissed, stumbling up into a sitting position in front of his friend. “John, he shot you, didn’t he? Let me see!”
“It’s just a scratch, Sherlock.” John said, wincing as Sherlock began to fiercely tug at his jacket. “Sherlock! Sherlock, seriously! I’m okay!”
Sherlock ignored him, finally getting John’s coat off and seeing the hole in his jumper; said jumper was stained crimson around the tear.
He ignored any protest and ripped it open, inspecting the injury, feeling sweet relief when he saw that John was right.
Because John couldn’t get another bullet in him. Couldn’t bleed to death. Because Sherlock was already having a tough time accepting the fact that he was only probably going to have John in his life as a friend; he absolutely did not want to lose him completely.
“Sherlock! Sherlock, calm down!”
Sherlock finally looked at John’s face, seeing his brow furrowed in concern and feeling a warm hand clutch at his shoulder. He felt something tighten in his throat as John’s expression kept shifting, eventually settling to understanding.
But what would John need to understand?
But Sherlock stared at John as the grip on his shoulder tightened, and he swallowed, recognizing this feeling, and allowed himself to feel a little hope. Why not give his plan one more go?
So he leaned in, and he felt his heart pound as John leaned in as well. He felt himself trembling as he clutched at John’s jumper, feeling slight disbelief that he was actually going to get his kiss.
All thoughts, and hopes, crashed and burned when he heard sirens and the groans of pain from the suspect came back to him. Reinforcements were coming. The suspect was still there.
He fought the urge to scream. Forcing his head down and away from John as he faced the sirens, and the music.
It was never going to happen. He was never going to get that kiss.
He was never going to get John.
“Oh no, you don’t, you bastard!”
Before Sherlock could fully comprehend what was just said, he was almost choked by the force in which John yanked him back down, fisting his scarf and practically growling.
He was going to protest, say that his scarf wasn’t some kind of leash, and that his parents were married when he was born, thank you very much. But all those thoughts vanished in an instant.
Actually, he was pretty sure his brain just stopped in that instant.
Because the growling, yanking, injured army doctor had just pulled the world’s only consulting detective into a kiss.
It wasn’t exactly what he imagined, or what he saw in those movies. Their noses bumped against each other, their chins had mashed together at the sudden jolt, causing his teeth to bump and gnash together. Their lips were also chapped, so the kiss in all its entirety was just plain rough.
But it was still perfect.
So Sherlock just hummed, tilting his head just so and allowed John to tighten his hold around him, his short-circuited brain causing him to suffer delirium when they pulled back and an irritated John showered him with kisses, still talking and sounding delightfully breathless.
“You total arse!” Kiss. “All those times.” Kiss. “Thought it was one of your bloody experiments!” Kiss. “You could’ve told me.” Kiss. “Saved us both the trouble!”
Sherlock frowned at that. Did John really think he was just trying to do an experiment? Did him getting shot have to happen in order for his idiot doctor to see exactly what he wanted? Did he really think he’d try and manipulate John that way?
He’d have to straighten that out later.
But right now John was licking at his own lips and Sherlock wanted to know how that felt like against his.
Oh yes. It was glorious.
So glorious that Sherlock didn’t notice Lestrade and his team stepping up. Didn’t notice Donovan’s gagging, or the sound of Anderson hitting the ground as he passed out (he wished he did notice that, though). He only really noticed when Lestrade shouted at them to get a bloody room, for crying out loud.
So as they got the suspect a ride to the hospital, and John was patched up despite his protests in not needing it, Lestrade was lecturing, asking questions and demanding statements like he always did. Usually, Sherlock would just leave and maybe take care of it the next day, but he decided to suffer through it.
After all, he did just get what he wanted. And when he brought John back to their flat, he was going to get so much more.