John was in a good mood. He and Sherlock had solved a case that morning, he had made it on time to his afternoon shift at the surgery, and Sherlock had finally finished whatever experiment it was that he had needed the decomposing feet for. When he first walked into the flat after work he found, not his lanky detective, but rather a tall blonde woman standing at the window. After taking a moment to decide that she probably wasn't an assassin sent to kill them, he continued into the room with a smile.

He offered her his hand. "Hello; I'm John Watson."

She shook his hand with an equally warm smile. "I'm Lucy, and can I just say that I am a huge fan of your blog."

"Well thank you," he answered, feeling his ears heat up just a bit at the praise. "But I'm sure that you're here to see Sherlock and not me. I'm not sure where he is at the moment, but you're free to have a seat until he gets back. Would you like some tea while you wait?"

Before the woman had the chance to answer, Sherlock's deep baritone voice interrupted them as the detective entered the sitting room from the kitchen. "John, stop flirting with potential clients. You're the one who's always going on about professionalism."

John rolled his eyes. "I'm not flirting - I'm being polite - there's a difference; not that you would know polite if it bit you." He turned to face his partner and was surprised to see the detective carrying a tray with tea things.

Sherlock smirked. "Well, if you're the personification of politeness, then you did bite me last night, and I assure you, I knew who it was." John coughed and sputtered, his cheeks turning red. Sherlock set the tray down and winked at their visitor, making her giggle. He then turned and kissed his friend, cutting off his embarrassment.

"And I'm the one with a lack of professionalism," John teased after they pulled apart.

"Oh she isn't a client," he replied blithely. "John, let me introduce you to my little sister, Lucy Holmes."

"Sister?" John asked, unsure if he had heard correctly. "You never told me you had a sister."

Sherlock shrugged. "Well, to be fair, I never actually told you about Mycroft - he just meddles."

Lucyna laughed, stepping forward to join the conversation. "Come now Shelly, you know you like me much better than Mycroft."

He glared at her. "Don't call me that."

"Don't compare me to Mycroft," she countered, raising her eyebrows at him.

"Shelly?" John asked, making an admirable effort to keep himself from laughing.

She nodded. "When I was little I couldn't really pronounce "r" and so I called him "Shelock," which was naturally shortened to Shelly.

"Naturally," he answered, causing Sherlock's glare to deepened. John reached over and took his friends hand to make sure that he knew that it was just a bit of friendly teasing. Not so surprisingly, Sherlock relaxed, feeling slightly less defensive.

"I made tea," Sherlock interjected, hoping to stave off any more embarrassing stories about himself.

John nodded, still smiling. "I can see that; good for you." He paused, examining the tray for a moment before frowning and looking up at his friend. "Sherlock, why are there four cups? There are only three of us."

It was Lucy who answered. "Oh Mémé should be here any minute now."

"Mémé?" John asked, not sure which sibling he should be speaking to.

"Mémé is our paternal grandmother," Lucy clarified.

"Ah," he answered quietly, "and she's coming to visit as well I take it." When Sherlock nodded he sighed. "Why do I get the feeling that I'm still being punished?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not punished. I just wanted you to meet my family; I met yours." John smiled, but before he had the chance to say anything there was a knock at the door. Sherlock darted to the door and opened it, allowing an elderly woman to enter. The woman was tall and slender, like Sherlock, and her gray hair was pulled back into a fashionable bun at the nape of her neck. She was well-dressed in an obviously expensive black pantsuit, and her jewelry, while understated, probably cost a fortune. The detective leaned down and kissed her cheek, letting himself be pulled into a hug.

John stood and offered his hand to his visitor. "Hello, I'm John Watson. It's nice to meet you."

"Branwyn Holmes," she answered, shaking his hand with a surprisingly strong grip. "But you can call me Wynnie, everyone does. I was so happy when Shelly called me; I've been dying to meet you."

He smiled. "Well I'm happy to oblige. Sherlock made tea. I can't promise that it hasn't been poisoned, but if it doesn't kill you it'll probably be very good." Sherlock scowled at him but it didn't have much heat and they all settled in for what turned out to be a rather pleasant tea.

The four went to dinner that night, and afterwards they separated - Wynnie and Lucy going back to their hotel and Sherlock and John returning home to Baker Street. The cab ride was silent, but Sherlock looked pensive and John found it hard to relax. When they got home Sherlock went straight into the kitchen and began looking at blood cultures under the microscope without a word. The doctor bit back a sigh as he began to make tea for the both of them; he knew he just had to be patient and eventually Sherlock would get around to saying whatever it was he needed to say, and John might just get some reading done in the meantime.

At eleven o'clock John decided that he could continue to be patient while sleeping his nice warm bed. He dropped a quick kiss and a 'Goodnight Sherlock, love you' into his lover's unruly curls and smiled at the mumbled 'love you too' he got in response. He still half thought of the bedroom they used as Sherlock's room, but it felt weird to climb the stairs the the smaller, sparser room that was still technically his. So he curled up in the big bed by himself and did his best to steady his breathing. He had just fallen asleep when he was roused by the sound of the door opening and his tall, lanky consulting detective tiptoeing into the room. He blinked lazily, trying to clear at least some of the sleep out of his eyes and watched as his partner stripped efficiently and crawled into bed next to him. John let Sherlock arrange him to his liking (pressed into his side with his head resting on the supposed sociopath's chest, long arms wrapped around him protectively), and was just about to drift off again when his friend finally spoke.

"John," he said quietly. "Did you have a good time tonight?"

"Yeah," John answered, his voice thick with sleep.

"And you got along with Mémé and Lucy?"

"Yeah," he replied. Something in his friend's voice struck him as being off and he frowned. "Wasn't that the point of this whole thing?"

"Of course John. Now go to sleep; you're exhausted," Sherlock answered, tightening his grip on his doctor.

John smiled and dropped a sloppy kiss on the bit of skin nearest his lips. "Sociopath my arse." He fell asleep again to the sound of his partner's rumbling chuckle.

When John woke up the next morning Sherlock was still in bed with him, which was a rare enough occurrence to be considered special; the fact that the man was actually still asleep was practically miraculous. The peace didn't last long, however, and within a few minutes Sherlock's phone was going off. Within fifteen minutes the man had whirled himself out of the flat on the promise of the autopsy of an actual leprosy patient. John, on the other hand, settled in to a quiet day in. A little after noon there was a knock at the door and John found Lucy standing on the doorstep.

He invited her in with a smile. "Sherlock isn't here, sorry."

"I know," she answered cheerfully. "He texted me something about a dead body and leprosy. I came to see you."

John blinked at her a few times in surprise. "Me? Why did you want to see me? And if this is the 'break his heart and they'll never find your body' conversation, then I can assure you that Mycroft has well and truly taken care of it, but if you still feel compelled to threaten me, might I offer you some tea."

"Is tea your answer for everything?" She asked, laughing.

He shrugged. "Pretty much. I find it soothing. Now, how about a cuppa before you go into too much detail about how you'll break my legs."

"I think that I'll leave the cloak and dagger and threatening in Mycroft's very capable hands," she answered happily. "I just wanted to have a bit of a chat about Sherlock. I think there's some things about him that you ought to know, and he probably won't ever tell you."

John nodded, his smile fading slightly. "Right then, we'll definitely be needing that tea." A few minutes later there was a tea tray on the coffee table and Lucy and John were seated in the easy chairs in the front room.

"Mycroft is seven years older than Sherlock, who is six years older than me," Lucy began softly, "so he was already gone by the time I came around. Sherlock was there though; he was always there. Our parents have never been the affectionate type, and Sherlock was the only thing that made home bearable. He taught me everything: how to walk, how to talk, how to read and tie my shoes. When I was older he taught me to play the piano and do math and chemistry. He taught me how to ride a bike, and when I was old enough he came home and taught me how to drive. He was my best friend and he has never not been there for me when I needed him; not once. I know that he has done things that he's not proud of - I'm not blind - but he's my big brother, and I still can't help worshiping the ground he walks on just a bit; and even when he was too high to care what happened to himself, he always cared about me; he even got sober for my graduation ceremony.

"Sherlock has always said that I got both our shares of social skills; he used to tease me about it when I was a kid and I came home from school talking about a new friend I had made. Sherlock has never really had friends, or acquaintances really. He was an odd child, to put it lightly, and no one really knew what to do with him. Well I was odd too, but I was better at hiding it then he was. I'm just as smart as my brothers, and we all matured fairly quickly. I always wanted to be a vet, and Sherlock was never one to discourage my scientific curiosity. So, for my ninth birthday he found a dead rabbit in the woods near our house and performed necropsy on it so that I could see how it worked. Unfortunately, our nanny, Anna, noticed that we were missing and came looking for us too early. Sherlock heard her coming and told me to hide. Anna freaked out when she saw him dissecting the animal; she wouldn't believe that he hadn't killed the rabbit himself. She told our parents and they had him sent to a series of psychologists; Mycroft was twenty-two at the time and he came home for a month to help decide what to do with Sherlock.

"The doctors diagnosed Sherlock with sociopathy and Mycroft gained him admittance into Nicholson's School for Troubled Boys. They kept him on a pretty tight leash before he left, but he managed to sneak out the night before they sent him away. He sat me down and explained what a sociopath was and that he had to go away for a while. He also told me that everyone was afraid that he would hurt me, so he wouldn't be able to play any more. I didn't see him again for almost a year, and I spent most of that in therapy because I wouldn't admit that my brother had hurt me.

"John, I can count on one hand how many times I've seen my brother cry - I mean not because he's shamming at being normal - and there are even less times when it was more than just a few tears. I've never seen my brother as wrecked as he was that night, and I was there when he detoxed. It destroyed him that his own family thought that he'd hurt anything - he's always loved animals and he was bullied too much as a kid to take any pleasure in hurting another person - let alone me. Being a teenager isn't particularly easy for anyone, and it was especially difficult for Sherlock. All he wanted was for our family to approve of him, and they never did. And the fact that they wouldn't even let them in their home broke his heart."

John shook his head. "That's awful."

"It was a long time ago," she said with a shrug, "and I didn't tell you all this so that you could pity him. I just thought that it'd help explain why Sherlock is the way he is, and why his relationship with Mycroft is the way it is. I hated Mycroft for a long time for the part he played in what happened, but as I grew up I realized that he was just trying to do the right thing - he just came out on the wrong side of it. But just because I've forgiven my brother, doesn't mean that I will ever ask Sherlock to do the same. This thing between them isn't petty or childish; please don't trivialize it."

"I wouldn't dream of it," he answered seriously. "I've always taken Sherlock's side; I'm not going to stop now."

Lucy sighed. "Look, I'm not going to threaten you or any such nonsense. My brother loves you with every piece of the heart he wishes he didn't have. Please be careful with him. I don't want to even imagine what would happen to him if you break his heart; Sherlock doesn't love easy, but he loves very thoroughly when he does. I don't know if he would recover from losing you."

"I'm not going anywhere; I promise," he replied quietly. "That crazy nutter is my whole world, and I know him pretty well; I wouldn't have started this thing if I didn't think it could work."

She smiled brightly at him. "Good. Now, I'm sure you've got some great stories to tell, and I'd love to hear them."

"I may have a few," John said with a smirk.

When Sherlock got back to the flat after observing the autopsy he found John and Lucy in the sitting room laughing like they were old friends. He felt a pang of jealousy at the sight - although he really wasn't sure why. They both turned to face him when he came in, but John's phone went off simultaneously and he went into the other room to answer it, flashing a quick smile at his partner as he left.

"Did you have fun playing with corpses, Shelly my dear?" Lucy asked as she stood up.

"Don't call me Shelly," he said, narrowing his eyes. "And I do not play with corpses."

She leaned up slightly and pecked his cheek. "Sure you don't, Shelly."

"How are you so happy all the time?" He asked, fighting back a smile.

Lucy just grinned at him. "With practice. You should really try it some time."

"I'm fine, thanks," he answered simply.

She just rolled her eyes. "Suit yourself. Your John has just been telling me about some of your less legal cases. He's quite the story teller that one." Sherlock's smile finally broke free when she called John his, but before he had the chance to say anything else the man himself came back into the room, his expression serious.

"There's been an accident on the M1," John said, his jaw tense. "It's a huge mess, and they need all the doctor's they can get."

Sherlock frowned. "But you don't work in an A&E."

"No," he answered, shaking his head. "But it's all hands on deck, and I'm a damn good trauma surgeon when I don't have an intermittent tremor. I probably won't be back till late; don't wait up. I love you."

"I love you too," Sherlock answered, leaning down for a kiss before John walked determinedly out of the flat.

Lucy smirked at her brother. "Aww aren't you two so cute and domestic." Sherlock glared at her, but it didn't have much heat and he didn't say anything.

John didn't get home till two the next morning, and by that time he was so exhausted that all he could think about was a shower and then bed. Sherlock was already asleep so he was as quiet as he could be, and by the time he finished showering he was running completely on autopilot. He stumbled into his own room and collapsed into bed, barely managing to get himself under the covers before falling asleep.

When Sherlock woke up the next morning, the sheets beside him were cold and it quickly became obvious that John hadn't made it into his bed the night before. After a few moments of blind panic where all Sherlock could think about was everything that could have happened to his friend to keep him out all night (including but not limited to John being mugged, shot, kidnapped, or that he simply hadn't wanted to come home), he managed to get himself together enough to venture out into the rest of the flat in search of more data. He was greatly relieved to find John's shoes by the front door, but was still confused as to why the man hadn't come to bed. Never one to ignore the obvious, the detective went upstairs to check the other bedroom. He found John still sleeping soundly, his arm wrapped tightly around a spare pillow. Sherlock quietly shut the door and retreated downstairs, not wanting to disturb his friend.

While undeniably happy that John had in fact made it home safely, Sherlock couldn't help feeling a bit heartsick that John had seen it necessary to sleep upstairs, alone. His instincts were to burst into John's bedroom and demand to know what was wrong, but John tended to be grumpy when he didn't get enough sleep. So Sherlock lay down on the couch and tried to think of anything he might have done while he waited for his friend to wake up.

At ten thirty Sherlock finally heard the sounds of John getting up and heading into the bathroom. The younger man decided to make tea, hoping that it might at least go a little ways toward helping to make up for whatever it was that he had done. The tea had just finished steeping when John came into the kitchen. He took the mug Sherlock offered him with a smile, closing his eyes as he took his first sip.

"Thank you, love. This is great; just what I needed," he said, smiling up at his friend. Sherlock frowned slightly, confused as to why John didn't seem to be upset. John leaned in for a kiss and Sherlock met him halfway, still frowning and preoccupied. The kiss was perfunctory at best and when he pulled away John was frowning as well.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" He asked, trying to make eye contact.

The detective stubbornly looked away, focusing his gaze on the counter top. "You tell me."

"What do you mean?" John pressed, setting his tea down so that he had both hands free; he put one hand on Sherlock's waist and the other on his forearm.

"You slept upstairs last night," Sherlock mumbled. "Which implies that you're unhappy with me."

John sighed. "I'm not unhappy with you Sherlock. I was exhausted. It was closest to the bathroom and I didn't want to fall down the stairs. I was mostly asleep; I'm half surprised that I made it into any bed at all. I was tired; that's it. Nothing is wrong; everything is fine. Alright?"

"Alright," he answered, nodding slowly. He didn't look any less upset though.

The doctor rubbed his friend's arm soothingly. "Hey, what else is bothering you? Talk to me."

"It's nothing," he answered, forcing a smile. He tried to pull away, but John kept hold of his arm.

"It's not nothing," John said calmly. "You're obviously upset. How can I help if you won't talk to me?" Sherlock didn't say anything, but he was obviously thinking about what he should say so John led him over to the couch so that they could sit together.

"Come on, love; tell me what's bothering you." John intertwined their fingers and rubbed his thumb across the back of his friend's hand.

"You really get on well with Lucy, don't you," Sherlock said quietly, looking anywhere but at John.

"Yeah, I do," John said slowly, confused as to what that had to do with their current conversation.

Sherlock sighed, still looking away. "If you had met her before, you would have at least tried to pull her; right?"

"Sherlock," John said carefully. "I wasn't trying to pull your sister. We've talked about this…"

The younger man finally looked at his partner. "I know; I wasn't trying to say that you were. I just meant that you would have, if we weren't us."

"I don't understand," he answered, shaking his head. "If we weren't together there are lots of people I'd probably try to pull."

"Exactly," Sherlock said. "You're attractive, friendly, reasonably intelligent; you could go out tonight and have your pick of people."

John shook his head. "But I don't want to go out. I want you."

"I know, and that's one of the single greatest things that has ever happened to me," he replied earnestly. "But that's not the point. The point is that you can get anyone; I can't - I wouldn't want to. You're it for me; I wouldn't want anyone else even if I could get them."

"I still don't understand what's bothering you," he said, squeezing his hand. "I love you and you love me; what does it matter if I would go on the pull if we weren't together and you wouldn't?"

Sherlock sighed. "What if you change your mind? You could walk away and be fine; meet a nice woman, get married, live happily ever after. I wouldn't even be able to try."

"You're wrong," John answered kindly, pulling his friend even closer. "Just because I could find someone doesn't mean I could keep them, and it certainly doesn't mean that I would want to. Do you really think that I could go back to dating just anyone after being with you?" Sherlock shrugged morosely and John continued without forcing him to make a more eloquent answer. "Well I couldn't. You've completely ruined me for every other human being on this planet, and I wouldn't have it any other way. If the idea of you getting bored with me is complete and utter bullshit, then the idea of me changing my mind about you is equally bullocks. Okay?"

"Okay," he agreed, nodding his head. "Thank you."

John leaned in for a quick kiss before asking, "Is there anything else that's bothering you?"

"No," he replied earnestly.

The doctor smiled widely, relieved that there weren't any other issues he had missed. "Good. Now, will you please let me take you to bed?"

"But you haven't even had breakfast yet," Sherlock protested quietly, his cheeks getting slightly pink. He wasn't sure why the idea of John taking him to bed just then made him so bashful, but he couldn't deny that it did; he supposed it might have been how deliberate it seemed.

He leaned in for another, brief, kiss before smirking. "Is that a problem?"

"I suppose not," he replied, suddenly nervous as well as bashful. "But are you sure that you don't want to at least wait until you have some toast."

The older man stood up, still holding onto his friend's hand, "I'm sure; I have my priorities straight." Sherlock's stomach flipped as he let the other man pull him to his feet, but he didn't say anything as he was led into what was almost their bedroom instead of just his.

John shut the bedroom door with a little too much force, the unexpected bang making Sherlock jump just a little bit. Without any further warning, John shifted his grip from Sherlock's hand to his hips, pushing him against the door and practically attacking his lips. The sound that that forces out of him sounds suspiciously like a whimper and the detective melts against his solid soldier for just a moment before rousing himself enough to wage is own invasion of his partner's mouth. John grinned when Sherlock attached his lips to his neck in a way that the doctor always said reminded him of a leech; he turned his head to capture his friend's earlobe, sucking on it in the way that never failed to make the other man's knees go weak.

While Sherlock's knees were still wobbly, John took the opportunity to manhandle him across the room to the bed. He paused momentarily to pull Sherlock's t-shirt over his head before pushing him roughly onto the bed, bringing forth another whimper from the typically stoic detective. He smiled, watching as Sherlock scooted up the bed so that his head was resting on the pillows, wriggling to get comfortable. John pulled his own shirt over his head, tossing it aside before climbing onto the bed so he could straddle his partner's thighs. Sherlock bucked his hips up into his friend when John leaned down to kiss him, ripping a groan that sounded almost pained from the doctor's throat.

"Shh, relax," John whispered against his lips, pressing against his shoulders. There's a tense moment before Sherlock gives a barely perceptible nod and goes limp, sinking into the mattress. John smiled and kissed him again, soft and lazy now that they weren't battling for anything.

Sherlock rested his arms by his sides, clenching and unclenching his fists in the sheets as John continued to snog him sweetly. As much as they loved their normal push and pull, give and take, they did this sometimes; one of them submitting entirely to the other. It was never rough like this and they had never even tried bondage: John was sure that it would send him into a panic attack, if not a full blown flashback, within seconds, and Sherlock thought it sounded boring and dull. Why would he submit to being tied up when John could make him go completely still with just a few whispered words and well placed touches? Besides, it was never about struggling when it was like this, and the idea of taking anything from the other in this situation had absolutely no appeal. Sherlock, who was usual quite (ridiculously in his own opinion) vocal in bed, was almost silent; his only sounds were the audible hitches in his heavy breathing and sighs where all the air left his lungs in a rush.

John was still focusing most of his attention on kissing Sherlock, deliberately keeping it soft and slow while simultaneously managing to gently fuck his mouth with his tongue. He stubbornly kept his hands above Sherlock's waist, but he touched exactly the right places to make Sherlock arch up into him. Sherlock, for his part, kept as still as he could, forcing himself not to thrust against the man above him and he tried his best to keep his breathing as even as possible. He kept his hands by his sides, resisting the urge to grab hold of his friend and pull him closer, and focused as much as his attention as he could on the kiss. John slowed his kisses until they were barely brushing lips, continuing to tease him lightly with his tongue. Finally he pulled away.

"You can touch if you want," John murmured. Sherlock immediately brought his arms up around him, gripping at his shoulders. In response John brought his cotton clad hips down harder against him, finally bringing out a proper moan.

Later Sherlock was on top of John, resting his head on the soldier's chest so that he could listen to his now steady heartbeat. John had one hand in his lover's curls and was using the other to trace meaningless patterns on his still bare back. Sex between the two was fantastic, but neither man would deny that afterwards was their favorite part, when they were both calm and completely content to just be still with one another. They both knew that before long they would have to get up, shower, and find something to eat, but for the time being they were going to move as little as possible.

"You know I wouldn't change anything about you," John said quietly, remembering the conversation that had led them there.

Sherlock smiled and levered himself up so that he could look at his parter properly. "Not even if I could grow a nice pair of breasts?"

"Not even if you could grow a fantastic pair of breasts," he answered, not bothering to hold back his grin. Sherlock grinned as well and leaned down for a kiss even as John started giggling.


This is the last chapter of 'Firsts'. Thank you all for reading; it's been a pleasure. I've already go the next story of the 'Broken and Twisted' series written; I just need to finish a few edits and then I'll upload it. Thanks again for reading and please review.