written for the 'First Kiss' contest at the fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic tumblr

i just wanted to write some shmoop okay

John is an intelligent man.

He's not as smart as Sherlock, who is leaps, bounds, and twenty-thousand-bloody-leagues ahead of him in that aspect, but John can confidently say that he's a smart man. He aced his classes throughout high school, college, and Uni. He graduated from Bart's third in his class. And, occasionally, he's been a source of inspiration to the second-most genius man in all of England (those seven measly points of difference in IQ between the Holmes brothers are seven massive points of contention).

John is not an idiot, despite what Sherlock seems to believe about him. As a matter of fact, there are things that he knows a great deal more about than Sherlock; social skills and a sense of tact, for example. John's made a few friends in New Scotland Yard ever since Sherlock swirled into his life, even meets up with a few of the lads for a pint at the local near the police station, and is always in the know on the latest office gossip.

Which is precisely how he knows that everyone at NSY is under the impression that he and Sherlock have been shagging for years.

The insinuations and waggling eyebrows are nothing new—he's been dealing with the knowing looks and innuendos ever since he suddenly started hanging about with Sherlock, but he's long since resigned to the fact that nobody was going to believe otherwise.

He used to adamantly protest the assumptions, but when it became apparent that no one would listen, he'd simply decided to grin and bear it.

There are nights, true, where Sherlock shares his bed, but only when the man barges in, unannounced, and begins shouting his train of thought at John, needlessly chattering through the millions of ideas running through his brain until exhaustion settles into his bones and he sags onto John's soft quilts and succumbs to sleep.

John, more often than not, simply sits on his bed with his laptop open and clad in nothing but a pair of soft cotton pants and his reading glasses, and watches with fondness as Sherlock paces and rants and raves and ultimately dozes off. He tucks the spare quilt at the foot of his bed around Sherlock's slim shoulders and turns off the lights, climbing under the covers and falling asleep easily enough.

It may all be a bit domestic, but Sherlock is the greatest friend John has ever had, and after the year and a half spent apart after Sherlock faked his death, well…

John's not too keen on letting the detective out of his sight for a long time.

Six months later, Sherlock is still apologizing to John. Not in words, no, but in small gestures like not putting human tongues in diluted acid inside of John's favorite mug; buying a box of the chocolate digestive biscuits that John likes so much; occasionally making a cup of tea and bringing it to him without prompt.

John's long since forgiven Sherlock though the memory of his deception still smarts at times, and doesn't so much as bat an eyelash when Lestrade (who, despite John's best efforts otherwise, will not be persuaded from believing that the two flatmates are utterly, madly in love with one another) makes small jabs about the two of them.

Quite frankly, John will put up with a lifetime of people assuming that he's shagging Sherlock as long as he knows that Sherlock is alive.

(Not to mention, the fact that people believe Sherlock would be interested in shagging him is something of an ego boost.)

The fact of it all still stands: everyone, everyone, in Scotland Yard is under the impression that he and Sherlock have been buggering one another for years now.

Which is why the only person surprised by the following events, is one John Hamish Watson.

He's come along with Sherlock to a crime scene that's…well, more than a bit odd. Someone's broken into a local café and utterly ransacked the place and left the owner in the kitchen with a bruises around their neck and a bashed in skull. John, at this point in his life, has seen enough dead bodies for the sight of this one to not so much as faze him, but as he surveys the kitchen he feels a bit of unease twist his stomach.

Then again, that might be the twenty hours he's gone without a proper meal.

One would think that some sort of grand battle had occurred in the kitchen, a struggle between the murderer and victim, if it weren't for the sheer amount of food strewn across the ground. Half chewed remnants of vegetables and fruits and pasties stored for the next day's sale are mashed into the tiles of the floor, as if someone had only been able to stomach half of each object before desperately moving onto a new piece of food.

Every cabinet is open, the fridge has been completely ransacked, and even an unfortunate and moldy piece of bread seems to have a large bite torn out of it.

John feels a bit sick. "Christ," he mutters, eyes roving the room as Sherlock flits around the body with his magnifying glass. Then louder, "Any ideas?"

Sherlock's voice is tight when he responds with, "A few," and oh, damn it, John knows what that means: Sherlock has ideas, he always does, but nothing concrete or that makes total sense, and he's getting frustrated.

John and Lestrade share a look as Sherlock kicks out at a half-gnawed carrot, muttering quickly under his breath and his pale hands flicking about his own head. John's stomach rumbles, suddenly, disrupting his friend's concentration, and the force of Sherlock's glare would fell a lesser man.

John rubs a hand across his stomach even as Lestrade appears mildly impressed with the sheer volume his body has produced. "Sorry," he apologizes, half-hearted. "Sherlock, would you mind if I popped across the street to Gregg's for a bite? My stomach feels like a bloody black hole right about now."

Sherlock's hand begins to arc in a dismissive wave when suddenly, he freezes. His pales eyes grow wide and his head slowly, so very slowly, swivels to look at John. "Say that again," he demands.

John's mouth twists in confusion. "Erm. I'm going across the street to—"

"No, the other part!"

Lestrade shrugs when John shoots him a confused look. "My…stomach feels like a black hole?"

Sherlock's eyes alight and his mouth pulls up at the corners as an idea begins to formulate fully in his gorgeous mind. "Oh," he breathes, striding across the room with large steps. John takes a step backwards, himself, as Sherlock insinuates himself into John's personal space and grabs him by the back of the neck.

It's not that Sherlock doesn't do this often, it's just…getting a touch harder to ignore the way his heart races when he feels those hands pressed against his skin.

"John," Sherlock says, very seriously, and knocks their foreheads together. "You are brilliant."

Which is precisely when Sherlock pushes a hard kiss against John's mouth.

It lasts hardly more than a second, just the brief press of lips against lips, but John's just romantic enough to say he feels it all the way down to his toes. He doesn't have enough time to formulate a response of any kind, before Sherlock is spinning away and rhapsodizing about Prader-Willi Syndrome and manic behavior and insatiable appetite. It all sounds rather familiar to John; or rather it would, if it weren't for the dull roar in his ears.

Sherlock walks out of the kitchen and the heavy door shuts behind him with a resounding 'click.' John shakes his head once, blinks, and looks toward Lestrade. The DI looks a bit shocked himself, but shakes out of it easily enough and claps John on the shoulder.

"Chuffed for the two of you and all, but I think I prefer when you keep the PDA away from my crime scenes."

John can only manage a raspy sounding exhale as the breath he didn't realize he's been holding, suddenly releases.

OOOOO

John can't stop staring at Sherlock. He hasn't moved from his armchair in about an hour, having long since given up the pretense of checking his email, and currently is having trouble tearing his eyes away from Sherlock's profile as the other man lounges in his own chair.

The case has been solved, the murderer arrested. It had all been a bit tragic, really: Geoffrey Simms, a heavyset gent who suffered from Prader-Willi Syndrome, had succumb to the more unfortunate side-effects of the disease; mainly, the deterioration of mental health and the raging, insatiable appetite. He'd broken into the café out of desperation to fill what he perceived to be a painfully empty stomach, and had panicked and acted violently when the café's owner had surprised him mid-snack.

Apparently, John's remark about his own hunger had been the thing to spur Sherlock towards his revelation about the murderer, but how Sherlock made these leaps of logic John can't even begin to imagine because he's still fixated on that damn kiss.

"You might as well speak if you're going to continue staring at the side of my face, you know," Sherlock drawls, and he sounds a touch smug.

"You kissed me," John blurts out. He shuts his laptop and places it on the small wooden table next to his chair, then leans forward with his elbows on his knees. "You kissed me, Sherlock," he says again, a touch more calm.

"Excellent observation," is Sherlock's sarcastic mutter. "Truly, a revelation. You must teach me how you've done it."

"Sherlock," John says, voice deep. "Why?"

The detective's eyes finally slip from BBCOne as it plays on the telly and he looks at John with those cool, keen eyes. John stares back, doing his best to find any sort of hint in the sharp angles of Sherlock's face. They sit like that for a few minutes, gazes locked and nothing but the sound of the nearly-muted TV and their own breathing to fill the room.

"You're attracted to me," Sherlock says, finally. It's a statement, not a question.

"I—yes," John admits.

"Human nature dictates that mutual attraction is expressed with displays of affection."

"Mutual…sorry?"

Sherlock's eyes roll so sharply that John's surprised they don't fall out of his head. "Oh, for God's sake," he mutters, before he's lifting himself out of his chair and looming over John and pressing a hand beneath his chin and another back behind John's neck. Sherlock lifts John's face up and dips his own head down, pressing his impossibly soft lips against the thin line of John's mouth.

It's a bit uncoordinated, since John isn't sure that Sherlock's kissed anyone before, but it's hot and wet and feels so fucking right that it's all John can do to press his palm between his friend's shoulder blades and hold their mouths in place. They kiss slowly for a few minutes, sharing oxygen and the taste of one another, before Sherlock finally pulls away.

"Oh," John says softly. "I see. So, um…you're sure—"

Sherlock rubs his thumb along a small scar beneath John's chin. "Shut up. Of course I'm sure. Don't be an idiot, John."

John huffs out a laugh through his nose and raises his face for yet another kiss, content to push aside any fears or doubts he has about Sherlock's regard for him and just hold on to Sherlock for as long as he can; for the rest of his life.

He would have to be an idiot to risk losing this.

John is an intelligent man.