The Things We Didn't Say.

The first time Sherlock had interrupted one of his dates, was in the Chinese circus. He didn't think too much of it then. He figured he did it for the sake of the case and was completely oblivious to the concept of dating. He was too annoyed to think any deeper about it. But interrupting dates had seemed to become a hobby of Sherlock.

The second time, he was having dinner with one of his girlfriends, (he didn't even remember her name) when a text of Sherlock had come in.

John. Am in terrible danger. Need your help immediately. Fleet Street. Come at once. SH

He had excused himself to the girl, and rushed out of the restaurant without thinking about it. He didn't feel guilty for one second, never heard from her again, never thought about her either. As soon as he'd crossed the doorstep of the restaurant, he had already forgotten about her. Sherlock needed him. It was all that mattered. He ran until his longs hurt.

By the time he got at the crime scene, however, he saw Sherlock standing there good and well. There was police, and no danger whatsoever was to be seen anywhere within a few miles.

"Sherlock!" He ran to him. "Are you okay?"

"Ah, John". A pleased little smile. "Splendid, thank you".

"I thought you said there was danger?"

"Did I? Ah, yes. It's been taken care of now. But thank you for coming. I knew I could count on you". He patted him on the shoulder.

John stared at him. For some reason he didn't believe Sherlock's act of innocence. He was forgetful, but not that forgetful. There was something more going on here, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

"Dinner?" Sherlock smiled at him.

The third time he was having coffee with this girl. A pretty girl, definitely, maybe a bit young for him, but still. It was nice. Until his phone buzzed.

Might be onto serial killer. Inspecting bodies at morgue. Could really use your help. SH

He was going to ignore it, but a second text popped in his inbox.

Please?

Damn it, he thought, and shut his phone.

The texts had all been work-related at first. But as time proceeded, Sherlock started to text him about the most random things when he was on a date.

Could you pass me my laptop? SH

Or, on another occasion:

Ordered Chinese. Watching horrible telly. Care to join? SH

He ignored it and tried to focus on the woman in front of him.

Buzz.

Hurry up. Food is getting cold.

Buzz.

Honestly John, how can people like you stand to watch this?

When he opened the door to the living room in 221b Baker Street, Sherlock's smirk was triumphant.

The rest of the evening was spent on the couch, and Sherlock did not once say he was bored. They ate Chinese, -Sherlock extremely clumsily- and John laughed at Sherlock's eye-rolling and hilarious comments at TV shows. Like Dr Phil.

"Obviously he still has an affair with his secretary, can't these people see?"

John almost choked on a noodle.

Sometimes, when he saw Sherlock's lips curl up in a smirk after John bursted out laughing, he suspected him from making these comments just to amuse John. But he didn't mind.

In the end, every date he ever had ended in getting a text from Sherlock, and rushing to his side. Now John was no Sherlock, but he wasn't stupid. He knew he did it on purpose. So one night, he decided to ask him about it. They were watching a documentary about penguins. It was quite peaceful. Sherlock was leaning against him: eyes closed, head sinking on his shoulder, looking perfectly content.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"These texts you send me. Whenever I'm on a date?"

Sherlock opened his eyes. "What about them?"

"Why do you send them?"

A slight tightening of muscles in his face. "Why? Does it matter?"

"Is it because you're jealous?"

Sherlock frowned. "Don't be ridiculous John, you know I don't bother with sentiment, and if I would, why would I be jealous of you?"

He sighed. "No reason".

He didn't mention it again. But after that, Sherlock seemed to have grown slightly more distant. He didn't lay his head on his shoulder anymore when they were watching television, he didn't text him on the most inconvenient moments of the day. So when John mentioned he was going on a date with Sarah that evening, it didn't provoke any more of a reaction from Sherlock then:

"Hm. Dull".

And he turned his attention back to the wall.

John could sense something was bothering him, but he had no idea how to approach him. Whenever Sherlock was in one of his gloomy moods, it was usually best to leave him alone, he'd learned that much.

"Right. I'll be going. I might stay the night, so don't… text me, okay?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

"Fine. I'll see you soon".

He left the house with an unpleasant feeling. It always bothered him when he had been in a fight with Sherlock, but usually he knew it was going to be okay. But he couldn't help but feeling bad about this, as if he was somehow leaving Sherlock behind.

Sarah cooked dinner for them. Conversation was a bit stiff in the beginning, but as wine flowed, they both loosened up. It was a nice evening overall. Eventually she asked if he wanted to 'continue the conversation' upstairs. He felt weird on the inside, like there was a knot in his stomach. Still, he went upstairs with her, let her kiss him and take his jumper off. Soon, his hands were unzipping her dress, sliding over her skin. He tried not to think, to let the lightness in his head take over. But he had the feeling something was wrong, something was not right about this. Usually he would be happy to have sex, but he couldn't seem to get the hang of it tonight. He felt her tongue roaring around in his mouth, but it wasn't right. He felt her body, but it didn't do anything for him. Maybe it was because Sherlock hadn't texted him once. Sherlock.

He gasped and stopped kissing her. Sherlock. He hadn't texted. Why hadn't he texted? He always did. Of course it could just be because he was angry with him, but the feeling in his gut told him otherwise. Something had not been sitting right with him all night. A sudden overwhelming desire to be with his friend came over him. He didn't know why, but he felt he had to go to him. Check up on him, see if he was all right.

"Are you all right?" Sarah asked.

"I… I have to go", he muttered. He crawled up and zipped his pants.

"What? Why? Did I do something wrong?"

He picked up his sweater and socks from the floor. "No, it's… not you. I just have to go. I'm very sorry".

He left Sarah looking flustered.

Outside he held a cab. Texted Sherlock.

Coming home early. John

Usually the response came almost immediately, especially when it considered them meeting. But now it remained silent. Definitely not normal. Made the concerned feeling in his gut grow even more.

He hurried up the stairs. A sinister fear crept over him that he might not find Sherlock once he got upstairs. That he would be gone, and one of the last words he had said to him were don't text me.

"Sherlock?"

Opened the door. At first, he sighed with relief, because Sherlock was there. But after a second look he realized something was up. His body was lying in a strange position on the couch. Eyes half-open, mouth hanging open, body in a weird angle. White powder on his nose.

"Sherlock! Oh Jesus…"

He was by his side in a micro second.

"Sherlock, Sherlock…" His fingers slid to his pulse, and he felt a slight pulse there. "Oh thank God, Sherlock!" Grabbed his shoulders, shook him up. He stared at his passed out friend in blind panic.

"John?" he murmured suddenly. His eyes were open.

"Oh thank God", he repeated. He pulled Sherlock in a tight embrace, nose in his neck. "I thought I'd lost you", he mumbled against his flesh. Then he pulled free and looked at him. "Sherlock what the hell did you do?"

Sherlock pointed at something at the table. Some remaining white powder and a straw.

"Oh God, is that…"

"Perhaps taken a tad too much", Sherlock said in a husky voice. He sniffed.

John realized he should probably become mad at him, yell at him, but he just couldn't do it. He was far too glad he was alive.

"Just promise me you won't do that again", he just said, feeling a lump forming in his throat. "Just promise me".

His hand was still on Sherlock's neck. Sherlock put his hand on his, fingers intertwining. With their faces millimeters apart, John stared at the face he had been afraid never to see breathing again just a moment ago. He didn't move away. It was as if he was waiting for it. He didn't have to wait long. Sherlock closed in the small distance between them and kissed him. Sherlock's lips on his was like a warm shower coming over him. More welcome and passionate than he could have ever imagined. The alcohol made it easier, but there was no hesitation. He knew, with every fibre in his body, that he wanted this.

Sherlock kissed him like he was an experiment: explorative, but eager. Every now and then he would stop to study John's reaction before John pulled him back into a kiss. John let his hand travel up to his neck and into his hair. That God damn hair.

The kissing went on. Sherlock slightly tore at the collar of his jumper. Pulled him down on top of him. They shifted uncomfortably to find a right position. John placed small, quick, loving kisses on his lips, then also on his cheekbones, his nose, his eyelids, his forehead. He kissed every single spot on his strange, beautiful face. Sherlock kissed him in the neck. Nibbled. Groaned. God, he was aroused.

Not for one second did it feel weird, or strange. Everything about this felt as right and natural as breathing. More importantly, it felt like coming home.

He fumbled with buttons. Sherlock's fingers impatiently tugged at the edges of his jumper.

"God, I never knew you were such an eager little sucker for it", he mumbled to his lips.

"Shut up and kiss me", was Sherlock's response.

John smiled and did as he was told. As usual.

They got rid of their layers of clothes soon. Sherlock's chest felt smooth and warm beneath his lips as he kissed it. Sucked at his belly button. Sherlock let out a strange chuckle. John smirked. So he was ticklish.

Moans filled the room as they pressed themselves together. The feeling of Sherlock against him alone was enough to almost make him come. Rubbing, writhing, moaning. John's head felt so light it was as if he was high. He was not going to be able to hold on for much longer.

Shortly after each other, they let go. All over each other's stomach.

"So, Sherlock?" John asked some time later when they were curled up on the couch. "Why did you take cocaine? You could have killed yourself."

"Helps my mind stay focused whenever I don't have a case. It's very stimulating to the brain, you should try it".

"Oh, come on. That's not the reason, is it?"

Sherlock sighed. "Okay fine, if you must know".

John waited. "Well?"

"I couldn't bear with it".

"Couldn't bear with what?"

"You, with that woman. Cocaine makes my mind work at full speed, which I much prefer to feeling these emotions". He said 'emotions' like it was a dirty word.

He felt like his heart dropped. "Oh, Sherlock". He kissed him.

"So… what we just did. It wasn't just a one-time thing, was it?" John had to ask.

"I don't know, do you want it to be?"

"No".

"Good. Me neither".

They smiled.

So that was the start of it. The things that they did but didn't say. They never spoke about it. Never told each other how they felt, but John never dated a woman again. Needless to say that night's events repeated itself frequently. During a case, after a case - when Sherlock was so high on adrenaline it made him horny- when he was bored, or just because he loved him more than anyone.

At night he fell asleep with his comforting presence next to him. Often Sherlock's hand would seek out his and give him a little squeeze.

John squeezed back.

They both knew what it meant.

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