Title: The Simple Things
Theme: #49, adore
Looking back, John thought that it really should have been kind of obvious. Sherlock Holmes was not going to be a good kisser.
Although, it wasn't like he'd had much time to think about it really. It had come and gone in a haze – a big, messy, Sherlock-filled haze – and really, without noticing it, John Watson found himself sort of in love with Sherlock Holmes. He couldn't pinpoint the moment it had happened so much as he could pinpoint the moment he'd realised it; standing, pouring over a map together, leaning on some stranger's car boot, and when Sherlock had suddenly pointed at a spot on the map - an industrial estate - and looked up with such fantastic madness in his eyes, something in John's stomach clunked into place like, oh. oh, I love you.
And it had gone from there. Things had been the same, pretty much, and John was happy with that. That was fine, because John had been almost certain that he wasn't gay. He'd been almost certain of the fact, up until the point where he'd leaned over to Sherlock one evening and kissed him. And that's when he'd realised it.
Oh. Sherlock Holmes was not a good kisser.
The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Sherlock rarely spoke to people, let alone had physical contact with them, let alone kissed them. Of course he wasn't going to be very good at it. He didn't know how to move his lips, and he bumped his nose against John's, and when he opened his mouth, his teeth scraped against John's bottom lip.
But still, it was surprising. Sherlock, the man who could do anything... couldn't kiss.
Sherlock pulled away.
"What?" he snapped, "What is it?"
"Was that your first kiss?" John asked, half joking.
Sherlock scowled, "I should have known it would have been something as trivial as that. And no, no it wasn't, actually. I did kiss someone else, once before."
John gave a lopsided grin. "Any good?"
"No," Sherlock admitted at length, "It was bloody awful."
And John had laughed, and even Sherlock had smiled, and John had thought that he was so beautiful that he couldn't help but want to pull him over and kiss him again.
So he did.
John closed his eyes; Sherlock smelt like cloves and Earl Grey, and faintly of burning and chemistry, and seemed to finally be getting used to this kissing lark. Outside in the street, someone yelled and a horn blared. Downstairs, Mrs. Hudson was vacuuming the carpets.
And John thought, oh.