When Sherlock see's him his mind goes blank.

He detests him for it. His palms become sweaty and his heart rate increases by several beats. Its drives him insane. Drives him insane because he has no control over it.

Sherlock Holmes is not man who likes to not be in control.

It wasn't that he'd never felt attraction before. In fact, he was somewhat experienced when it came to woman. Mostly due to curiosity.

But never a man, no not before.

But John Watson was different. The way his brow furrowed when Holmes was speaking about ideas he simply couldn't comprehend drove the detective insane. The way he smiled when ever he saw something mildly funny or mildly romantic, like a young couple in the park or some man being dragged around by his dog.

He looked at the world in a completely different way to Sherlock and that's what he liked.

John didn't attempt to make Sherlock believe he was on his level like Molly did. She tried to prove herself to the worlds only consulting detective constantly, never succeeding in his eyes. John simply accepted the fact that, yes, Holmes was insanely intelligent and although he himself was smart he was simply not on the same level.


John often wakes up screaming, his eyes wide and shaking. Sherlock knows because the Doctor often falls asleep on the sofa after reading one of his medical journals.

Sherlock never comforts him in traditional terms. He simply walks over to the shaken medic and rests a hand on top of the mans head.

His eyes speak a thousand words. He can see it all through those eyes. Guns, blood, dying, screams.

All memories, vivid as if he were still living them.

They never speak about these incidents, simply peer at each other for a few seconds before Sherlock stands and goes back to his chair. He picks up his violin and plays soft, soothing music until Johns eyes close once more. After this, he wont wake up again till morning.

John simply gives him a small smile at breakfast.

Its all the thanks Sherlock needs.


He finds it strange, that even when John and himself are trapped in a small basement thanks to the crazed criminal they where currently chasing he doesn't mind. Because John is close. Closer then he's ever been before. He has a feeling Johns having some sort of flash back.

Been in a bunker or hiding in a cave. Either way, he can hear the doctors breathing becoming shallow and panicked like he was staring death itself directly in the face.
He doesn't know why, but Sherlock reaches down and takes the others shaking hand in his own. The small action speaking volumes.

I'm here... Your safe.

He can feel Johns wide eyes on him, although he knows he cant actually see him due to the lack of light. But those eyes, the fact they are on him makes him nervous.

The detective continues to stare blankly a head, his mind buzzing with thoughts of John and how the hell they are going to get out of here.

But his thoughts are silenced with a brief, unexplainable mental explosion.

He feels the hand he is holding squeeze tightly. The shaking limb calming down.

Sherlock nods into the darkness and breathes a sigh of relief.

Because John doesn't realize it but a slight inclination of affection from the doctor causes the detectives heart to rise into his throat.

And despite the grave danger they are in Sherlocks never being happier.


Johns caring and Sherlock knows this for a fact. The Doctor wont kill a spider with out good cause. Holmes likes to think that the doctors making up for the extreme violence he's seen on the battle field. Even when Sherlock accidentally offends Molly and the young woman runs of crying Johns the first after her, with comforting words and a slightly dirty tissue in his coat pocket.

But when Sherlock comes home after a day of hanging around the morgue and studying various murder victims he's shocked to find his room spotless and John fast a sleep on his bed.

The sleeping doctor looks peaceful and almost... Cute? No, Sherlock would never allow himself to use that word.

But he did look attractive.

Sherlock stands for a few moments and watches the sleeping man. His chest rising slowly and falling at the same right. His small murmurs the only noise echoing through out the silent bedroom and the occasional movement causing the bed to creak.

When his eyes flutter open he explains how sleeping in a room filled with dirty mugs and various chemicals was extremely bad for his lungs.

For god sake, did he not know what he was breathing in?

John had taken it upon himself to carefully clean away the harmful substances, ensuring not to ruin any of his friends experiments.

That night, lying in his clean room Sherlock smiles, because John cares.

And because his bed has the sweet aroma of the doctors deodorant.


Sherlock hates her. More then he's ever hated anyone, even Moriarty. The way she turns up unannounced, dressed up and smelling of flowers. It makes his stomach churn.

Every time he watches John link arms with her and leave he wants to grab his gun and fire all around the room, breaking everything in sight.

But he refrains, because John would be extremely pissed off, even more so when he's merely firing into the wall.

It makes him angry. So angry!

Because Sherlock cant simply throw on a nice dress and a bit of lipstick. He cant flick his hair and giggle inanely. John would think he'd lost his mind and get him thrown into a white cell ASAP.

The nights that John doesn't come home is like purgatory. He cant sleep, he cant eat, he cant even muster the strength to play his violin and simply sits in his chair, staring into space until morning when John returns home.

But he'd never admit it. Because John would hate him, look at him like some sort of dirty rodent that had appeared in his home.

No, Sherlock knew John. And Sherlock knew that John liked Sarah.

God, he hated her.


When Johns cousin visits Sherlock is even more confused.

John had told him that she was the looker in the family. Eighteen and beautiful. And indeed she was. Short dark blonde hair and pale skin. Dressed elegantly and not allowing herself to be portrayed as anything less then a lady. He should have found her attractive.

And indeed he did, but only because she looked like a female John. And if it was simply John's looks Holmes liked he would have asked her out there and then. But it wasn't, it was his mind, his personality.

Sherlock watched as the two chatted and laughed about family matters that Sherlock simply wasn't interested in. He realized that Johns laughter was his favourite sound.

His cousins smile matched Johns like a mirror, but it wasn't the same. Because it wasn't him!

It just wasn't his John.

His John? When did he become to possessive?

The cousins spoke about Harry with worried expressions and concerned tones.

She tells him something that clearly upsets him.

Harry isn't doing to well.

After she leaves John locks himself in his room and doesn't come out till the next day.

Sherlock wants nothing more then to go in there, wrap his arms around him and tell him it will all be okay.

But he cant do that.

Because Sherlock is smart.

And he knows it wont be.


Harry killed herself.

Sherlock knows it the moment John answears his phone and his face falls.

She'd been on a rocky road and taken the only route out she knew.

Seeing John fall apart was the hardest thing Sherlock has ever done.

Because now John thought he was alone. No mother, no father, no sister. The only family he has left live at the other end of the country.

Holmes doesn't know what to do, because Sherlock hasn't ever been one for social graces of comforting others (unless you include Johns nightmare spells).

John spends the days leading up to the funeral sitting quietly in his chair and not doing much else.

Sherlock is extremely worried, although he wont let the doctor know that.

The day of the funeral arrives and Sherlock puts on a black suit because he knows it will make his friend happy. When John asked him to come he thought nothing of it, like it went with out saying.

But whilst they stand in the church and the coffin disappears behind a red velvet curtain Sherlock realizes that Sarah isn't there. That John didn't ask her.

And even though he's in a room with a hundred crying people and the man he cares so deeply for is a crumbled mess in the seat next to him, he allows a small and brief ghostly smile to grace his lips.

Because John wanted him there and he didn't want Sarah.


When he see's the bomb tied to John its like his heart has being ripped out and stamped on by Moriarty himself. He wants to scream, attack, spit and snarl. Just do anything that will show John how fucking scared he is.

But he doesn't, he stares with wide eyes and tries to think of ways out of this current situation.

And oh god, the red light is directly across his heart!

And suddenly, it's over and he's pulling Johns coat off and throwing it as far as he possibly can away from the man. He watches with a pained expression as the doctor collapses to his knees and begins breathing heavily.

Sherlock bends down next to him and wraps an arm around his shoulder, pulling the man close and god, his hair smells so nice... Like summer fruits and coffee.

He tells him it's okay, it's over now, they're safe.

For once Sherlock doesn't use logic, he is simply speaking his wishes.

Because when John is with him he will always be in danger.

And Sherlock knows it all to well.


John gets a new job in Scotland and Sherlocks heart just about shatters into a thousand pieces, making every part of him numb.

He doesn't speak much in the weeks leading up to his departure, just watches as boxes are filled and books packed away or sold.

And then the day comes and John stands, looking over the flat like its his haven that he never wants to leave.

Then don't... Don't leave me... Please!

John smiles at the detective. He murmurs goodbye and leans down to pick up the same suitcase he carried in through the front door all those months ago.

And suddenly he cant take it any more. It's like a fire work has been lit in his head and now it's exploded through out his mind and all he can see is stars and flashing lights.

Before he knows what he's doing he's thrown the suit case across the room and pushes John against the nearest wall, his piercing dark eyes staring into the others soul.

The doctor looks confused, shaken... Relieved? Sherlock wants to turn, turn and run. Away from Baker Street, away from London. Out of England. As far away as humanly possible.

But he doesn't run and instead lowers his lips, hovering over the others for a second.

Don't go, he murmurs, I need you with me.

And suddenly his lips are on his friends and it soft, god its so soft. At first John doesn't respond and the detective feels like the world is against him. Then he feels it, a little movement of skin and he wants to cry.

Their hands are in each others hair, directing one another towards the leather sofa at the back of the room and then Sherlocks on top of him, stroking his cheek and outlining his jaw with light touches.

To him John is art, art that needs to be treated carefully. He wants to remember every curve and line of the mans face.

Johns hands push at his chest and he looks confused as if Sherlock is explaining some theological theory that blows his mind. The doctor tries to talk but the words cant form and he silently gets up, grabs his case and leaves.

Sherlock stares at the door for hours, hoping, praying to the god he doesn't believe exists that he'll come back.

But he doesn't and Sherlock dies inside.


The weeks past slowly, every minute seems to last an hour and every hour a day. John hasn't updated his blog, Sherlock knows as he's been checking daily. He hasn't taken on any new cases because, well, what the point?

It wont help him occupy his mind.

He has thoughts that drive him insane. Has John got a new girlfriend? A new flat mate? Has he completely forgotten about him already? What about the kiss? Has he told his new friends about his ex-room mate who basically attacked him with his lips?

The images make Sherlock shudder.

Mrs Hudson has stopped trying to get her young friend to talk. She's stopped bringing tea and biscuits and no longer nags him when the rent is late because, after all, there's was only one of them now as opposed to two.

Sherlock had moved into Johns room, not bothering to move his stuff or change the bedding. It smelt like John, like his hair and the washing powder he used. Sherlock liked to wrap the blankets around himself and lie there for hours on end.

Then, one day (it could have been a Monday? No Tuesday) there was a knock at the door and Sherlock decided that today, he'd actually answer it and see who was on the other side.

The rain patters against the window as he makes his way lazily towards the door, making Sherlock feel even more melancholy then he already does.

He fumbles around his pockets looking for the key, sighing in triumph when the cool metal meets his warm skin.

He pushes the key into the lock and twists it lazily, pulling open the door.

What meets his eyes makes his throat tighten.

John, soaking wet and breathing heavily from running. His eyes look up and meet Sherlocks.

The pain in those eyes.

It was like an eternity passed and yet it was nothing more then a mere second. Sherlock carefully steps aside and allows the doctor to enter, closing the door behind him.

Sherlock goes to speak, he wants to explain and tell him how sorry he is for their last encounter. He wants to find out why he is here, why he's been running.

But his voice is silenced as a pair of wet lips throw themselves at him like some sort of sacrificial offering.

For the first time in week's Sherlock allows a small smile to grace his lips.


Their hands touch each other nervously, like their unsure although they both want this.

God, how they want this.

The rain outside doesn't matter, the cars passing aren't of any concern.

All that exists is them.

John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.

Both broken and yet each fixing the other in their own special way.

Shirts are discarded because what use are they really? Sherlock pulls his lips away, pleased with the sound that emerges from John. He peers down at the shorter man and smiles.

Actually smiles.

John realizes it the first genuine smile he's ever seen Holmes give him.

The detective just wants to make sure this is real, that it isn't a vivid dream he'll awake from.

But no, John is actually here, he can feel his damp skin against he finger tips.

Its the best feeling in the world.

Time progress, trousers and boxers join shirts and the apartment is filled with gasps and pleas as the rain continues to fall.

And its wonderful, more wonderful then either man expected because both of them have thought about this for a long time, neither admitting the fact to the other.

Fires burn in both their stomachs as they peer into each others eyes.

They don't murmur sweet nothings, because it isn't their style. Just this silence and being able to see the other like this, letting go, is enough.

When it's over they lie together, peering at the droplets of rain that drip down the glass.

Sherlock asks why he's back and John smiles contently.

Because It's obvious and John knows Sherlock knows.

The detective just wants to here the words spoken from his lips.


John has his things moved back to London and gets a job at a walk in surgery.

The last thing he wants is to go beg Sarah for his old position back. But John doesn't care that he spends his days consulting drug addicts and pregnant teenagers.

Because he's happy and he knows when he gets home Sherlock will be there, no doubt firing his gun into the wall or conducting some dangerous experiment.

But John doesn't care, because that's what he likes about Sherlock. He's different, difficult and unique. He doesn't care that John wakes up screaming most nights or that some days his leg is so bad he cant stand.

Sherlock understands what he's been through.

And John understands Sherlock, even if it is a little difficult sometimes.

Everyday he comes home and Sherlock greets him with a large smile. It isn't false, he's seen the mans false smile enough times to know what's real and what's not.

Now, at night they both automatically head to Johns room (mostly because it the cleanest) and curl up together happily.

At this hour, its only them and the two enjoy falling asleep to the soft sound of the others breathing.

Johns happy and he's pretty sure Sherlock is as well.

That, he decides as he makes them both a cup of tea, is all that matters.

Because no matter what, he has Sherlock and Sherlock has him.

Neither need to say it.

It's simply common knowledge.


This is my first Sherlock/John fic and also my first drabble style fic so please go easy ^_^'

I just cant picture John and Sherlock been all "I LOVE YOU LOADS!" So that why they don't say it to each other ;)

Any way, R&R and I'll see what I can do about writing more :D

Lots of love!

White Lilly