(no subject)
Title: Wherein John Realizes that, Yes, Sherlock Does Too.
Fanart or Fanfic: Fanfic
Characters: John, Sherlock
Prompt: Beginnings
Word Count: 650-ish
Spoilers: Could be considered a tiny spoiler for ASiP
Rating: PG for kisses
Summary: John can't say when his feelings began. But, he can say when They happened.
Author's Notes: Written for sherlock100. Cross posted at sherlockbbc. Thank you mresundance & jack_regan for pointing out errors, etc.
Disclaimer: Sherlock is ACD's & Sherlock BBC is the lovechild of Godtiss & The Moff.
Now with a link back to the prompt table! :D
John can't pinpoint exactly when his feelings began. Oh, he supposes there is a particular date, a time in recorded history when he had to sit down as the realization caught up with him: I do love him.
(And as if there is a need to point out who the man is. Everyone has been assuming since day one, even before John had said yes to moving in together.)
But for the most part, John merely assumes it happened some time between finding out that his flat mate had him text a serial killer and a week ago, when Sherlock had almost gotten shot again. (He had been in the room that time, thank God, and had managed to push the killer, just as the trigger was pulled. John had done his best to ignore that the bullet had missed Sherlock's shoulder by mere inches.)
So, when Sherlock suddenly bolts up and announces he has to see a man about a dog, John catches him by the arm and he knows it's not just because he cares. Sherlock looks at him, his annoyance on the tip of his tongue until John holds out his coat and scarf.
"Bloody cold outside," he explains, speaking from his earlier trip to Tesco.
The annoyance leaves, a quiet exhale of carbon dioxide neither of them acknowledge. Sherlock grabs his coat, tucking himself in. As he closes the buttons, John drapes the scarf around his friend's neck, knotting it tightly but carefully. Their eyes never leave each other and John sees a small shift of thought in Sherlock's mind.
"Too cold," he justifies, smoothing out non existent wrinkles along broad shoulders.
"Of course."
John realizes that his fingers are still lingering on Sherlock and that Sherlock hasn't looked away yet. There's calculation in the detective's eyes, as well as an idea or two. Sherlock knows, John thinks. Or at least, he has an idea of it.
He coughs and takes his hands off. He turns his body from the moment before it could escalate; feels the cushion as he drops his weight on it and grips for the remote with both hands. He fails to convince himself that this is not running away.
"I'll leave some of the chicken in the microwave," John says above the noise of football fans cheering on Man U, the first thing that the television opens to. His eyes follow the ball that flies in the air and thinks that the thumping of his heart is for the opposing team.
Sherlock has yet to make a move, which only agitates John. Hardening his grip on the remote, John looks up, a question on his lips--
Only to be cut off as Sherlock crosses the room and drops a kiss above his brow. Heart or lungs, one of the two has failed him and he is experiencing some near death euphoria--
"I'll be home by seven," Sherlock informs him, a smirk, an aha! lighting up his face as he soaks in John's startled eyes and agape mouth. Sherlock swoops down until he is an inch, precisely an inch, from his lips. John's holds his breathe now and Sherlock's smirk grows.
Sherlock pulls back and takes off without another word, bounding down the stairs, two steps at a time. The slam of the door echoes all the way upstairs; John remembers to close his mouth and to breathe through his nose.
Well. That was-- well.
For the rest of the game, John stares at the telly but the match doesn't register in his mind, except as a rush of color and noise. He keeps bringing up his hand, thumbing the place Sherlock had planted his lips on. His eyes keep flickering back to those lips, close enough to make him cross eyed.
It takes John until the second half to realize what Sherlock had meant by both gestures.
Which means that, when Sherlock returns (at exactly seven, not that John was counting the minutes), John stands to greet him with a kiss. Inwardly, he does a fist pump when Sherlock closes his eyes and hums his approval, his hands searching for John's. When he does, John pulls back with a startled gasp.
"Jesus, your hands are freezing," he comments, wrapping his hands around Sherlock's.
"Hm, oh yes. I had forgotten my gloves it would seem," Sherlock replies. His eyes then brighten and he starts telling John about why the thief couldn't have stayed over the de los Santoses-- something to do with their dog's breed. John nods and lets go to set the table. When Sherlock stops talking, John looks up to see what more realization his mind has stumbled up.
Sherlock is looking at his hands, pale and still warm from John's. Sherlock looks back at John, and, slipping beside him, takes hold of his hands. When his fingers are comfortable curled in John's, he resumes speaking.
And this is where it all begins.
Aaaah, ok, I'm not completely satisfied with that last paragraph but it's the best my mind is willing to come up with. I'll make for it in the next prompt, I swears!
Fanart or Fanfic: Fanfic
Characters: John, Sherlock
Prompt: Beginnings
Word Count: 650-ish
Spoilers: Could be considered a tiny spoiler for ASiP
Rating: PG for kisses
Summary: John can't say when his feelings began. But, he can say when They happened.
Author's Notes: Written for sherlock100. Cross posted at sherlockbbc. Thank you mresundance & jack_regan for pointing out errors, etc.
Disclaimer: Sherlock is ACD's & Sherlock BBC is the lovechild of Godtiss & The Moff.
Now with a link back to the prompt table! :D
John can't pinpoint exactly when his feelings began. Oh, he supposes there is a particular date, a time in recorded history when he had to sit down as the realization caught up with him: I do love him.
(And as if there is a need to point out who the man is. Everyone has been assuming since day one, even before John had said yes to moving in together.)
But for the most part, John merely assumes it happened some time between finding out that his flat mate had him text a serial killer and a week ago, when Sherlock had almost gotten shot again. (He had been in the room that time, thank God, and had managed to push the killer, just as the trigger was pulled. John had done his best to ignore that the bullet had missed Sherlock's shoulder by mere inches.)
So, when Sherlock suddenly bolts up and announces he has to see a man about a dog, John catches him by the arm and he knows it's not just because he cares. Sherlock looks at him, his annoyance on the tip of his tongue until John holds out his coat and scarf.
"Bloody cold outside," he explains, speaking from his earlier trip to Tesco.
The annoyance leaves, a quiet exhale of carbon dioxide neither of them acknowledge. Sherlock grabs his coat, tucking himself in. As he closes the buttons, John drapes the scarf around his friend's neck, knotting it tightly but carefully. Their eyes never leave each other and John sees a small shift of thought in Sherlock's mind.
"Too cold," he justifies, smoothing out non existent wrinkles along broad shoulders.
"Of course."
John realizes that his fingers are still lingering on Sherlock and that Sherlock hasn't looked away yet. There's calculation in the detective's eyes, as well as an idea or two. Sherlock knows, John thinks. Or at least, he has an idea of it.
He coughs and takes his hands off. He turns his body from the moment before it could escalate; feels the cushion as he drops his weight on it and grips for the remote with both hands. He fails to convince himself that this is not running away.
"I'll leave some of the chicken in the microwave," John says above the noise of football fans cheering on Man U, the first thing that the television opens to. His eyes follow the ball that flies in the air and thinks that the thumping of his heart is for the opposing team.
Sherlock has yet to make a move, which only agitates John. Hardening his grip on the remote, John looks up, a question on his lips--
Only to be cut off as Sherlock crosses the room and drops a kiss above his brow. Heart or lungs, one of the two has failed him and he is experiencing some near death euphoria--
"I'll be home by seven," Sherlock informs him, a smirk, an aha! lighting up his face as he soaks in John's startled eyes and agape mouth. Sherlock swoops down until he is an inch, precisely an inch, from his lips. John's holds his breathe now and Sherlock's smirk grows.
Sherlock pulls back and takes off without another word, bounding down the stairs, two steps at a time. The slam of the door echoes all the way upstairs; John remembers to close his mouth and to breathe through his nose.
Well. That was-- well.
For the rest of the game, John stares at the telly but the match doesn't register in his mind, except as a rush of color and noise. He keeps bringing up his hand, thumbing the place Sherlock had planted his lips on. His eyes keep flickering back to those lips, close enough to make him cross eyed.
It takes John until the second half to realize what Sherlock had meant by both gestures.
Which means that, when Sherlock returns (at exactly seven, not that John was counting the minutes), John stands to greet him with a kiss. Inwardly, he does a fist pump when Sherlock closes his eyes and hums his approval, his hands searching for John's. When he does, John pulls back with a startled gasp.
"Jesus, your hands are freezing," he comments, wrapping his hands around Sherlock's.
"Hm, oh yes. I had forgotten my gloves it would seem," Sherlock replies. His eyes then brighten and he starts telling John about why the thief couldn't have stayed over the de los Santoses-- something to do with their dog's breed. John nods and lets go to set the table. When Sherlock stops talking, John looks up to see what more realization his mind has stumbled up.
Sherlock is looking at his hands, pale and still warm from John's. Sherlock looks back at John, and, slipping beside him, takes hold of his hands. When his fingers are comfortable curled in John's, he resumes speaking.
And this is where it all begins.
Aaaah, ok, I'm not completely satisfied with that last paragraph but it's the best my mind is willing to come up with. I'll make for it in the next prompt, I swears!