Sherlock glanced up as the door of the flat slammed shut. Shuffling footsteps on the stairs, heavy on the right foot indicated that John had just returned and the detective smirked returning his eyes to his book. He only looked up again when the doctor didn't give his customary greeting, instead stomping into the kitchen without a word.
He was silent and Sherlock swung his long legs off the sofa getting to his feet and following the shorter man. He was angry, that much was obvious, and he was supposed to be at work and judging by his tense muscles something had clearly gone wrong.
"She fired me!"
He had turned around and was staring at the detective angrily "She told me she after what happened she couldn't work with me anymore, but she still wants to be friends! How is that even possible?"
Sherlock said nothing he simply returned to his sofa as the doctor continued his rant. After several minutes he collapsed in the old sagging armchair eyes despondent.
"You hungry?" he had that confused look again and Sherlock sighed leaping towards the door and pulling on his coat "Come on. I know a place."
The restaurant was small, bistro tables dotted around and lit by boudoir lamps that washed everything in red and orange smudges. A thin tanned man with almost too perfectly groomed facial hair let out an excited wail when he spotted Sherlock entering through the metal door, sauntering over to clap a hand on his arm and shake his hand, a wide grin revealing blinding white teeth in the face of a dark orange tan.
John stepped from behind him and was suddenly grabbed as well "And who is this! Do you know that this dear man here got my attacker sent down for years and years? A paragon of humanity that one."
Sherlock felt his cheeks actually burning for a second at the strange look he was receiving from John, dumb admiration he would've called it. It was oddly attractive on the shorter man.
"My usual table Antonio."
The man nodded wildly and pushed the doctor across the room to a small table in the corner, its light slightly dimmer than that of the rest of the restaurant, he was shoved into a chair and suddenly the brightly coloured chattering man disappeared winding through the tables without looking.
John blinked at him confused. "How many restaurant owners do you know?"
"Oh come now John. He clearly doesn't own this place, his boyfriends does. Can't you tell?"
John rolled his eyes and plucked the wine menu from its holder. They engaged in polite gentle conversation, joking about some of Sherlock's more bizarre cases, when Antonio made another appearance now simpering, bending at the waist to run his fingers down the detectives arm.
"Mr. Holmes…you wouldn't mind playing for us? It's our anniversary and Jesus practically begged me to ask you."
Sherlock licked his lips glancing at John who raised an eyebrow at him enjoying his discomfort. He narrowed his eyes, turning to smile sweetly at the beaming man.
He got to his feet and for the first time in a long time he actually felt nervous, performing in front of a crowd was one thing but in front of John, John who was not afraid to tell him what he really thinks?
He closed his eyes once he reached the slightly elevated stage area taking the restaurants battered violin in hand and moving slightly with the music as he played. A smile worked its way onto his twisted lips as the melody reached his apex and he finished with a long drawn out b flat that hung in the silent room.
Bowing slightly he bounced off the stage and made his way back to John amidst a spattering of genuine applause and praise. John raised his glass to him as he sat down and for a second he caught Antonio winking at him from across the room.
In the cab home John was suspiciously quiet and Sherlock stared out of his window trying to stop his impressive mind from analysing every breath, every twitch. Three streets from home the doctor suddenly turned and studied his face.
"Sherlock…was that a date?"
He was nervous, confused and Sherlock didn't know how to respond he licked his lips not looking fully at the doctor "I don't know John. Was it?"
He sighed inwardly when there was a beat of silence. He had gotten it wrong, he the greatest detective in the world had gotten it wrong. His heart fluttered in his chest and he trapped his hands beneath his knees.
His voice was low, quiet a throaty tone that made the detective turn, his eyes widening when his lips were met by the tongue of his colleague. They kissed for just a moment before Watson pulled back his eyes shining, a pleased grin growing on his face.
It was the culmination of months of what Sherlock later learnt was pretty strong flirting from his colleague and growing affection between the pair.
"Yeah I think it was."
They stumbled out of the cab and up the stairs to the flat, John tugging Sherlock's shirt when he attempted to head into his room.
"No too dirty."
He opened his mouth to protest only to have it sealed by the shorter mans lips.
The next morning he groaned, something heavy was lain across his bare back, something that gave off way too much heat to be human. He groaned again and it shifted slightly mumbling into his skin and moving to the left, a small movement that left the detective free to get to his feet. He stood up from the bed smiling fondly albeit a bit smugly at the prone form of his colleague, his eyelids fluttering as he dreamt. Rooting around he managed to find his boxers and he slid them on deciding to go in search of good strong cup of tea.
John blinked his eyes open snorting into his pillow and then wincing as his memory returned to him. If Sherlock heard that he'd never live it down. Luckily or unluckily as it may seem the detective was absent and the sound of strings being plucked echoed from the floor below.
John got to his feet and scrubbed a hand over his face smiling slightly before dressing in a plain blue tee and a pair of blue and white pinstripe boxers. He padded softly downstairs turning the corner and almost beaming at the image presented to him.
Sherlock was curled up in his armchair, framed by the morning light filtering through the window in just a pair of boxers, his pale creamy skin glowing long lean legs folded in front of him as he plucked out a tune on his trusty violin, head resting on the back pale eyes gazing out into the street.
He blushed when that fierce gaze fixed on him, devilish lips twisted in an all too pleased smile. "Good morning. You should probably get dressed; Lestrade just arrived so I suspect another murder has transpired."
John blinked "What about you?"
"Getting jealous already?"
John just gave him the same exasperated look he always did and Sherlock chuckled swinging his legs down, curling his toes against the cold floor. "Trust me Lestrade has seen worse."
They had tracked the killer to a gallery opening and Sherlock had managed to get tickets for him and Watson, Lestrade, Donovan and even a few of the analysts. They had met up a few streets away dressed up to the nines and John had been panicking since he had been informed exactly which gallery they were visiting.
"You do realise that this is Sarah's brother's gallery? So she might actually be attending?"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, sliding his arm through the crook of the shorter mans, leaning slightly to whisper in his ear as they walked through the ornate entrance.
"You've been to Afghanistan and now you're afraid of meeting a woman you went on one date with?"
John just sighed and Sherlock led him to a sparse area near a collection of brightly coloured vases. John was alone, waiting for the detective to return with their drinks when Sarah suddenly appeared smiling at him strangely.
"John? What are you doing here?"
"Detective Lestrade had a few tickets so…"
"Oh. Come here alone?"
She was obviously fishing glancing around the room until her eyes landed on a striking slim figure pushing his way through the crowds. "Here are the drinks."
He didn't even look at her as he handed Watson his drink sliding a hand down his back and around to curl on his hip. "Sherlock, you remember Sarah?" he blinked and smiled at her, that unnerving over excited obviously fake smile he used on grieving widows.
She just stared and he raised an eyebrow glancing across the room and then down at John. "I'll be right back. Lestrade is making some strange hand signals at me I assume I am supposed to understand."
With a wink he disappeared again leaving the doctor to stare after him a smile growing on his usually grumpy features. Sarah coughed politely and he looked back to her noting her strained smile "So not alone then."
John blushed lightly "What? Oh no no, not alone no."
She titled her head "How long have you?"
"Oh not long."
"Well it was only yesterday that I..."
"Then I guess...a day."
It was awkward, there was no denying that, but he felt a white hot stab of justice deep in his gut when Sherlock returned, his hand sliding around him again as though they belonged there, head bent close to his ear to stage whisper.
"Looks like London's finest have got their man so... let's go. There are plenty of better things we could be doing."
John blushed; the detective had almost no sense of social decorum, although in this case perhaps causing offense was the goal. He looked up seeing the flash in his...lover's eyes. It seemed strange that calling him that wasn't alien in itself. In fact it felt right.
"Okay." He smiled up at the smirking man and they kissed a soft press of the lips that was in danger of turning into something more before John pulled back. Startled by an outraged cough and Sarah's furious gaze.
"Perhaps John would like to stay? We seem to have a lot to catch up on."
"No I don't think you do."
John blushed and Sherlock's hands grasped him firmly, pushing them past the glaring woman and through the crowds into the cold night air. They were greeted by Lestrade his pleased grin sliding off his face as his eyes were drawn to the long pale fingers curled at John's hip.
"What's going on 'ere then?"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow "Surely a detective of your great standing can figure that out."
Lestrade put his hands on his hips shaking his head and rubbing his eyes in mockery of disbelief. "Seriously? You two?"
John just nodded and Sherlock released him to mirror the detective. "Congratulations Lestrade. I am amazed that a man of even your intellect managed to see something so well hidden, so secret."
A policeman waved the doctor down and he wandered away from the arguing men to the police van where the suspect was sat, his face pouring with blood. "What happened here then?"
"He got a bit physical with detective Lestrade over there."
"And so he punched him in the face?"
"In self defence."
John leant the complaining man's head up into the light and took his handkerchief from his pocket to dab at the blood revealing a small 4cm cut just above his eye. "He won't need stitches. Just stick a plaster on that and he should be fine."
"Alright. Thanks doc."
John nodded at the frowning man and turned finding his way blocked by a smirking Donavan, clad in a vibrant green dress that clung to her figure.
"So, You and the freak huh?"
"I don't think that is any of your business."
"I'll just remind of what I said when I met you. If you're smart, you will run. He is a psychopath and you're only going to get hurt."
John glared at her. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" he opened his mouth to argue when Sherlock's voice drifted over to him.
"John!" he turned and noticed a slender arm waving him over. He smiled and turned back to find she had already left, and shaking his head he made his way back to where his lover was standing.
"What did she want?"
"C'mon John, what did she say. You're clearly upset."
He hailed a cab and opened the door to let John go first and once they had settled on the seat inside, the detective sitting closer than he had before, their knees bumping against each other.
"John, you shouldn't listen to anything she says. She has a warped view of me."
"She seems to think I'm making a big mistake and you're a psychopath who is only going to hurt me."
"But that's not what's bothering me; it's why she thinks that."
Sherlock was quiet for a minute and then he leant against the shorter mans shoulder. "The first case Lestrade agreed to let me in on, she was there only a beat cop at that point. She was always asking me questions, wanting to know about what I thought and then one day she asked me on a date."
John raised his eyebrows, "Seriously?"
"Yes. It was purely career motivated of course; she seemed to believe understanding me better would help her become a detective in some way."
"I turned her down of course. She did not take that well. "
John blinked at him. "She doesn't seem the type to be so hateful for just that."
"No. I believe once she realised I would not help her she stopped seeing me through...ah what is the phrase, rose coloured glasses? And subsequently discovered that my admittedly unique personality was not to her liking."
"I can't imagine why."
Sherlock laughed and when they rolled up to the flat he glanced over to John his face serious. "John I...I don't want to hurt you."
John blinked up at him and tilted his head "I know."