Title: Surprisingly Simple
Contains: asexual!John, kissing, cuddling, fluff
Disclaimer: I don't own them. I just like to play with them.
Summary: In which John is asexual, and Sherlock never asks.
Notes: All mistakes are mine. Feel free to let me know if you see any. As always feedback is appreciated.
Through a series of rumors brought on by a number of misunderstandings, John earned a reputation as a love 'em and leave 'em type of bloke. It haunted him from the University of London, through his residency, and into the Army. Three Continents Watson, they called him.
It was after a particularly grueling case involving three mimes, a ventriloquist, and an antique bassoon that found John sitting on the couch with Sherlock's bare feet in his lap and a rugby match on the telly when John realized that he hadn't been on a date in two months.
He didn't miss it.
John was truly happy for once in his life, though it still surprised him that it was with Sherlock and his moods and crazy adventures that he finally found contentedness. He could even overlook the kidnappings because those generally weren't Sherlock's fault. However, John should have known that it was too good to be true, too good to last. More and more often John would catch Sherlock giving him that look, the one he reserved for the most challenging of puzzles. The sudden kiss was startling.
It wasn't unwelcome.
After a moment's hesitation, John returned it eagerly. He'd never had a problem with a good snog. It didn't matter that it was Sherlock. Or it did matter because it was Sherlock, but John didn't mind. When Sherlock finally pulled away the picture he presented would always be burned in John's memory. It was Sherlock after a good case, but more. He was out of breath, flushed, and bright eyed, more alive than John had ever seen him. It didn't take long though for Sherlock's brain to begin whirling, processing the information for whatever experiment he's conducting. John pretended he didn't notice, instead kissing Sherlock again.
Nothing really changed.
Sherlock kissed him at random intervals, and John was always willing. Though he would admit that it's a bit awkward at the crime scenes, it was more than a bit amusing to seeing the detectives and coppers get so riled up. Things were simple and easy. John knew it wouldn't last.
John wasn't so much shocked as saddened to find a naked Sherlock sleeping in his bed one night. It had only been a matter of time. With the enthusiasm of a man about to face the firing squad, John changed into his pajamas, his years in the Army having stripped him of modesty, and climbed into the bed beside Sherlock. It definitely wasn't made for two people, but Sherlock rolled and wrapped long limbs around John, reducing the likelihood of either of them falling from the bed. John didn't mind this. In fact, he was rather fond of cuddling. It was what would be expected next that he wasn't fond of.
Unlike most people, he'd never had the desire. He understood the biology, and definitely wasn't a virgin, but he'd never understood the fanfare surrounding it. It was nothing spectacular, and truly made no sense, especially when looked at from a medical perspective. Generally increased temperature, heart rate, and blood pressure with muscle spasms and wildly firing neurons were not a good thing. Somehow that was all acceptable in sex. As the minutes ticked by, John contemplated his choice, not enjoying any of the imagined outcomes. His racing thoughts were interrupted by Sherlock's words: "Shut up and go to sleep."
Snorting in amusement, John drifted off.
Waking to a kiss and a warm body against his own was a novelty, but not an unpleasant one. It was when long, nimble fingers began plucking at the buttons of John's shirt that he snapped fully awake, his hand tight around Sherlock's wrist before his brain caught up with his movement. Instantly, John dropped his hand and forced himself to relax.
Sherlock missed nothing.
"You don't want to have sex with me," Sherlock stated.
John shook his head. "No more than I want to have sex with anyone."
"You enjoy dating. You take pleasure in kissing and have no problems with physical contact. You are not impotent and are in perfect health for your age. You're not ashamed of your body. You've had sex before?"
It was more statement than question, but John answered anyway. "Of course."
"But you don't enjoy sex. The idea is distasteful." Sherlock's eyes were sharp as a hawk's, his stare accusing. "Despite that, you would have sex with me, if I wanted, if I asked."
"Yes," John easily agreed.
"Why?" Sherlock asked, the tone raw and childish in the need to understand.
John couldn't help but grin at him, always amazed by how the simplest things were lost on Sherlock. "Because you're Sherlock Holmes, and I love you."
At his side, Sherlock's body immediately tensed and then his features softened with realization. "Oh," he breathed, his eyes bright and clear as he met John's gaze, the pieces suddenly falling into place. "Oh," Sherlock repeated again, clearly at a loss.
Taking pity in him, John leaned over for a kiss, smiling against Sherlock's lips as he shivered and snuggled closer. It was that simple.
Sherlock never asked.