Chapter 1: The Proposal
This story portrays an asexual character. I am asexual myself, so I am drawing upon my headcanon and my own personal feelings. Speaking of, not every asexual person is the same. So this portrayal of Sherlock does not ring true for every asexual person. That being said, this fic has a lot of fluff, and mention of sex at some points. Nothing explicit. This is mostly me channeling frustrations about the lack of awareness of asexuality, in the fun, harmless form of Johnlock. Enjoy!
Over the past few months, a comforting routine had settled in 221 B Baker Street. There was hardly any discord among its occupants. John and Sherlock had fallen into step with one another; they could anticipate each other's moods and check and balance each other's shortcomings. Sherlock upsets a witness, John comforts them. John is irritable, Sherlock smoothly distracts him from his ire. It is a system that took a long time to perfect. They were almost at the point where they could finish one another's sentences. It was no wonder that most of New Scotland Yard suspected they were dating. They weren't, of course. They weren't.
Sherlock was lounging on the couch, staring absently at the ceiling thinking about God only knows what, and John was slouched in his preferred chair, a cup of tea in one hand and the morning paper in the other. The two friends were content in their companionable silence, a quiet they grew to appreciate after the hustle and bustle of a crime scene or a noisy chase down a crowded London Street. It was one of those days that warranted relaxing... never mind that there was milk that needed to be picked up or experiments that needed attending to. This was a quiet day for thinking. And while neither occupant was aware of it, they were both thinking of one another.
Over the past year, John had noticed that he was completely enamored in his flat mate. His overbearing, irritating, attractive, completely unaware and completely unavailable flatmate. John was careful not to overstep bounds. He was careful not to stare, not to touch, not to upset. He was resigned to the fact that nothing could ever come out of his adoration for his friend. He was okay. Really.
"John." Sherlock's voice pierced through his thoughts. He absently noticed he had been staring at the same sentence for quite some time. Sighing, he turned to his friend, who was still lying motionless on the couch.
"Yes," he intoned dutifully. He had been enjoying the quiet, the time to think, but if Sherlock saw the need to say something in the midst of the serenity, it meant something important. So John patiently waited for Sherlock to finish the conversation he had started.
Suddenly, the younger man shot up out of his sprawl. The sudden movement from complete stillness made John's muscles twinge in sympathy. Before he knew it, Sherlock was towering over his slouched form.
"John," Sherlock said again, a little less sure. "Do you want to… go out some time?"
Whatever John had been expecting, it certainly hadn't been that.
"Ah, what?" His brain needed a moment to recalibrate. Was Sherlock asking him out? Him out?
"I notice how you look at me, and I think we would be a compatible couple, all things considered." He spoke the last bit quickly, maybe even shyly, eyes never leaving John's face. He was searching for denial, joy, doubt, anything anything that would give him a hint into what John was thinking.
"You… what?" John felt like he was suffocating. This was a dream come true, but such uncharted territory, so unprecedented…
Sherlock made an impatient noise. "I want to go out with you. On a date."
"Yeah, but I thought you were…" he made an indiscernible noise, and Sherlock stood patiently before him, arms crossed and frowning slightly.
There was a pause, and John didn't dare to look up from his feet. Finally, the silence was too much and he looked up at Sherlock's face, only to see confusion.
"So…?" John echoed, feeling out of his depth.
"I still want to be in a relationship with you," Sherlock said, smiling lightly with just a tinge of uncertainty.
John let out a loud breath, working through all of the data he had on Sherlock in his head. This latest development just set fire to about half of his mental filing cabinets.
"But, with the Woman… you didn't…" Sherlock made a face, and John felt remarkably stupid.
"Even if I wasn't asexual, I still wouldn't want to be with Ms. Adler. She is most definitely not my type."
"So what is your type," John blurted impulsively, a confused little flutter of hope igniting in his chest. Sherlock smiled pleasantly, causing little creases to form by his eyes.
"Why, my dear John, my type is you, of course."
Chapters will be short. There are four in total, and then it is over.