It's the littlest things that make a difference. The smallest actions, the concise words, the shortest moments. Things that Sherlock had always taken for granted. Words had always come easily to him, an intelligent vocabulary already at his disposable by age eight. By age twelve he could even win debates in several languages. But one word had always held as silly to him. Love. His scientific approach to life had him questioning how and why those ordinary humans around him allowed their bodies to incubate love, or rather why the body fired off the necessary dopamine to stimulate a romantic response when the end product was so time consuming and in many cases he had observed, a fruitless pursuit.
Friends and strangers put his indifference to love down as inexperience, how would a virgin understand? And yet they were wrong. The detective had experienced. Several times. Granted they were in his younger years, Sherlock having spent two years personally undertaking his own sexual research. Though some of his partners had been quite talented he found himself still at a loss as to why basic human desires drove people to sacrifice everything for one night of intercourse. He was better than them. He wouldn't allow himself to be ruled by his hormones. At just twenty-two years old he swore off sex for good. Or so he thought.
John Watson changed all of that. John Watson changed everything. For as long as he could remember the words freak and machine had followed Sherlock around. Some used them simply as a joke, but most spat them with disgust and vitriol. Both hurt in equal measure. He would never show them that though. With each hateful slur his skin thickened, each bullies hit making him colder until he became the detached detective known to public. John however saw through that. And Sherlock saw something different in him.
The feelings grew from the very first brilliant. It was rare that the detective's deductive abilities ever received praise these days so when he did he found himself swelling with happiness. John gave him it in abundance, always awestruck by his newly found friends mind. And not only that, the doctor began to take care of him too. Of course Sherlock adopted a frustrated facade whenever John forced him into bed or slipped a meal in front of him. But he appreciated it more than he ever let on. It felt nice to be cared for. To have a friend. Feelings, new strange ones began to grow within him. One that he grew to learn to be jealousy becoming prevalent.
The first spike of it had been felt when John first began work at the clinic. Sarah Sawyer's initial interest had Sherlock scoffing, she was timid and boring, hardly enough for a man like John. Yet then the interest bloomed, by the end of the black lotus' reign of terror he was a little thankful to them for ending that relationship. Needless to say he wouldn't allow anyone else a chance to pull his friend from his side. And though he constantly complained about Sherlock dragging him from his dates, John never once refused his request.
And then Moriarty had come into their world. A hurricane mixed with the intense fury of an imploding volcano. To those simple minds the criminal could easily play the role of Jim from IT, heck for a short time Sherlock too was fooled by this disguise. The man at the pool had been vastly different. The playful facade remained, but clear behind it lay a madness. The clear willingness to destroy anything and everything for control. It was in the dull lights of the swimming baths that Sherlock realised that his everything was the man crouched nearby. The man holding his strength outwardly whilst a panic raced within. Love had crept up on him, entrancing his mind to hone in on all things John Watson. Without even a realisation he'd taken a sledgehammer to his mind palace all to make room for John. Wonderful, beautiful, strong John.
For the first time that night the detective felt fear. The idea of losing John unbearable to his heart, the organ which had for so long been hidden behind a wall of steal now revealing itself to the genius' mind. In the moment their eyes met he knew John felt the same, the gaze tethering them together in what could've been their very last moments upon the planet. Of course Jim was too theatrical to go out like that, there was no showmanship to a charcoaled corpse. The game would wait. For now at least. And for the meantime that moment in the pool had lain forgotten, the hunt for Moriarty taking precedence, leaving the pair hiding their blossoming feelings once more.
The arrival of the Woman had been a spanner in the works however. She had been an unknown quantity, a fascination for his superior mind. A challenge. It was clear the curiosity was returned from their very first meeting, her disarming technique effective though not arousing as he believed she intended. And then there were the texts, theme of them sexual indeed. And yet he felt no desire to allow her into his bedroom, even as she snuck herself in there. She was simply mental stimuli. Her effect on John however was interesting. The jealousy was visibly raging within the short yet strong frame of his best friend, every muscle in his body tensing when he shared Adler's presence. On one eventful and memorable morning the night after she departed Sherlock awoke to find John cooking breakfast dressed in nothing but a small pair of red briefs. The detective had been so shocked that John's obviously faked explanation about spilling something upon his robe had barely registered on a conscious level. No nothing more than the delicious way those delicious often hidden muscles disappeared under the fabric of the pants to form a surprisingly firm arse had his attention that day. Nor the entirety of the night either as he found his need for sexual stimuli growing instantly.
From that point on he began to watch John, cataloguing each and every detail. The small quirk of his lips when he found something humorous, the sharp rise of his eyebrows when he was shocked, the way the register of his voice rose higher in moments of anger. Though those moments were growing fewer and father between. Sherlock had found himself becoming more considerate and conscientious regarding his best friend. The towels from his showers had begun to find the rack rather than lie in a heap on the floor, even milk had started to appear in the fridge without John having to buy it all. A happy John made for a contented detective.
Baskerville was when it all changed for good. Though doubt and fear had become familiar sensations over the months he was completely unprepared for the abject terror of seeing the impossible. The hound. It was easy to deny from afar, but seeing it with his very own eyes shook up everything he knew. He was truly scared. John didn't mock his fear, he comforted him. He had taken Sherlock's hand and led him up to their shared room, pulling him onto the double bed the staff had assumed they'd require. Had he believed in fate he may have laughed in that moment. But as John's strong arms wrapped around him he found himself calming. Mentally at least, his heart was another matter. It thrummed wildly in his chest at the proximity to the man he loved. And somewhere in the secluded privacy of the small bedroom he found himself raising his head to look his friend deep in those soft, kind eyes.
The first press of lips had been hesitant, fearful almost. Everything which they hd built together resting on a precipice waiting to fall, waiting for one to pull away and run. But neither did. Instead the kiss became deeper, more passionate as the desire both men had been burying for so long burst forth, rushing through their veins until each and every part of their body was filled with wanton need. The night had been perfect, their bodies moving in perfect synchronicity as they made love. Sweat slicked skin was marked with tender marks, lips growing bruised as the kisses grew more desperate, teeth nipping and pulling upon the pink flesh. Together they had come, Sherlock with a reverent cry of John's name over his lovers hand, John buried deep within the man he loved.
Only as they huddled into one another underneath the warmth of the blankets had they spoken. Words of fondness, declarations of love and promises for the future exchanged quietly in the darkened room. And in that moment Sherlock truly understood how one could risk anything for love. For John he would do anything.