A collection of Sherlock oneshots (including Johnlock fluff)


2. inexpertness

"God, Sherlock!"


Sherlock stood over John's bed, his duvet spilling out of his arms. John leaped out of bed, shivering in his striped pyjamas. He was angry, but couldn't help smiling at Sherlock's innocent expression. Sherlock's face broke into a smile as well, and John felt his knees buckle. He mentally slapped himself. No, John, no.


"I want you to come to St Bart's with me. There's something I was to test."


John sighed. Ever since John had moved in with Sherlock, he had felt a growing attraction. It wasn't something he quite understood yet, though, and as he felt a stronger pull towards Sherlock, he was unsure of what to do. It wasn't clear whether Sherlock felt the same, although he didn't say anything when Mrs Hudson made comments about them being gay. He wasn't sure if he should make a move or not, having no experience in the field of love.


"Sherlock! You left the kettle on!"


Mrs Hudson's voice travelled up the stairs and Sherlock groaned. He stomped out of the room and downstairs, where Mrs Hudson was telling him off. John picked the duvet up from the ground, sighing. He was imagining multiple scenarios involving him, Sherlock, pyjamas and his bed, but they were all lost when he went downstairs. John could hear Mrs Hudson and Sherlock having a heated argument, but didn't want to interfere.


After John made his bed up again, he took a quick shower and pulled on some old clothes. In the shower he had pondered his situation and decided to, eventually, make a move. It was now or never, John reminded himself. He was getting older and opportunities for love were becoming scarce. Remembering this, he took off his old clothes and put on something a little nicer, somewhere between casual and smart. He went downstairs, where Sherlock had finished his conversation with Mrs Hudson and was now sipping tea from a cup and saucer in his chair. John felt the corner of his lips twitch slightly, but managed to stop them turning into a smile. He slumped down into his armchair, pulling the Union Jack cushion from beneath him and placing it on his lap. Sherlock caught his eye and lifted the cup to his mouth, his gaze still on John. John awkwardly turned his feet inwards and looked away.


"So, John." Sherlock broke the silence. "As I was saying earlier, I wanted to go down to St Barts and test some samples for the case." 


"Yeah, right. More like to see Molly." John said under his breath.


Unfortunately it wasn't quiet enough because Sherlock then said: "What? Why would I go see Molly? I don't understand?"


"Never mind, Sherlock."


John got up off the sofa and went to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea.




Half an hour later, John and Sherlock were walking down Baker Street, Sherlock's collar turned up and his scarf wound tightly around his neck. John walked quickly to keep up with his long strides. Passers-by noticed Sherlock and started whispering about him. That's him, Sherlock Holmes. The consulting detective. Apparently he's a genius. Who's the guy next to him? That's Dr Watson, his partner. Are they on a case? Do you think it's a murder? Sherlock didn't seem to register any of this, and continued to walk with his eyes fixed ahead. John was more aware of them. Sherlock had fans. John secretly worried about this, that he would become some sort of symbol or idol. Sherlock would take the fame very badly, he knew. For now, though, it was good that he didn't notice.


The air was chilly and John regretted not putting on a scarf. He pulled his coat tightly around him and looked at Sherlock. He didn't seem to feel the cold, even though he wore the same coat and scarf all the time. The wind blew harsh and strong, and while John was shivering in his thin jumper, Sherlock didn't bat an eyelid. They had reached St Barts. Sherlock swung open the doors with a big push and John followed behind. Underfloor heating had never been so welcoming as John stepped into the whitewashed room, rubbing his hands together. Sherlock took off his scarf and promptly made his way to the laboratory.


"Hi, Sherlock!" Molly Hooper nervously greeted him as he strode down the corridor.


"Molly! Nice to see you. I hope your new boyfriend isn't a psychopath."


"How did you...never mind." Molly rolled her eyes, while Sherlock chuckled.




Molly turned the corner and pushed open the door the lab, opening it wide enough for both Sherlock and John to get through. Sherlock made for the microscope immediately, while John sat down on a chair in the corner. Molly took a long look at Sherlock before leaving him and John alone in the lab. The first few minutes were in silence. It wasn't an awkward silence: it was a silence between friends, the type that you're glad to have after a lot of talking. It's the type of silence that reminds you of the bond between you, that you don't care that there aren't any words to say but you can still feel safe and happy in each other's company.


But John didn't want it to be that kind of silence anymore. Not a friend silence. He knew he was kidding himself, that there could be nothing between them, but he didn't burn out that tiny flicker of hope. And that bit of hope had been driving him to do something, however small, to show Sherlock how he felt. It had invaded John's life from the moment he set eyes on Sherlock and he knew that had to stop. He sat still for another few minutes, while Sherlock was seemingly absorbed by the object underneath the microscope. Making a move was easier said than done. John had spent time on the battlefield and fought in the war with ease, but this had reduced him to a bundle of nerves. Finally, after calling himself several obscenities, he mustered up some courage.






John opened his mouth to say something but no words came out. Sherlock turned his head to John, waiting for what he had to say. But he couldn't. All he needed was three little words, but he just couldn't. He looked up at Sherlock and said: "Nothing."


Sherlock turned back to the microscope and John bit his lip so hard a drop of blood oozed out of a crack in the skin. He didn't have any self-confidence. He was so afraid of Sherlock not feeling the same. He closed his eyes and his sister flashed in front of him. She was so happy in childhood, but then the alcohol came. It devoured her, making her into a mess that was more inside rehab that out. She didn't have the strength to get back up on her feet, and John didn't want to help her. Every time he did, she just walked all over him and got chucked back into rehab. He still loved his sister, underneath the wall she had built around her, even though he didn't show it. He decided to do it for Harry, have the strength that she never had. It was cheesy, John knew, but what was love if not cheesy?


He stood up and walked over to Sherlock, so they were standing side by side. Sherlock did not look up. John sidestepped so his foot was touching Sherlock's. He paused, waiting for Sherlock to move his foot. But he didn't. John gained a bit more courage and let his arms swing by his side. Back and forth, back and forth. Swinging back, he caught Sherlock's pinkie finger with his own, then slowly interlaced his fingers with his.


For a few seconds Sherlock did not do anything, and John feared he had made the wrong decision, but then his hand twitched. He looked up from the microscope and stared at the wall ahead. Then, Sherlock curled his fingers round John's. John sharply in took breath and turned to Sherlock. At the corner of Sherlock's mouth, a smile grew and he squeezed John's hand.




They stood there, in silence, not moving or speaking, just enjoying each other's touch. John longed to go further, let out all the feelings he had held in from the moment he saw Sherlock. He was emotionally overflowing, all of his senses had been kicked into overdrive and he wanted to get closer to Sherlock. Doubts about whether he loved him or not were gone, replaced with a pressing sense of how fast he should take this. Most of him was overcome with desire, desperate to take the relationship further quickly, but part of him was reluctant, mainly because of what Sherlock would want.


"John," Sherlock broke the silence. "We need to figure some things out."


"No, we don't. Not yet. Please, can we just..."


His voiced trailed off into silence, failing to find the words without making himself seem desperate. Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, taking in his feelings, deducing his way to the best response. Finally, he went over to the door and turned the lock, the click sounding throughout the whole room. He pulled the curtain down over the small window in the door. He went over to John, put his hands on his shoulders and tilted his head towards his. He bent down until their foreheads were touching, then angled his head so their lips brushed against each other. Sherlock's curls fell over John's forehead. John, relishing Sherlock's touch, put his hand at the back of his head and pulled him towards him. Their lips met in the middle. John closed his eyes. He and Sherlock were one, their lips tangled up together, feeling love for the first time after a while. The kiss lasted for eternity, they never wanted to be separated, just stay together forever. They forgot their friendship, forgot their professions, and indulged in the moment that the universe had held from them for so long. They broke apart when the door handle rattled.


"Sherlock, are you alright in there?" She failed to mention John.


"Yes, we've just finished something that could have caused a bit of a bang. We locked the door to be on the safe side."


"Oh, okay."


In a way, it was exactly what Sherlock had said. If word got out about Sherlock and John - the detective and his blogger - being in love, the media would never leave them alone. Sherlock put on his coat and walked to the door, ready to go out, ignoring John who was still standing in the position he left him.


"Is that it then Sherlock?"


"Is that what?" he replied without the looking back. 



"One kiss and you're going to leave me here. Was that really all?"


Sherlock turned to him, chuckling.


"John," he said softly, "Of course it's not."




John and Sherlock lay side by side in bed, their hands intertwined beneath the duvet. John turned to face Sherlock, brushing his curls away from his face and leaning in to place a kiss on his forehead. Sherlock smiled, and took John's hand in his. They wanted to be close, make up for the times where neither of them had to courage to admit their love. They decided to keep it a secret, from everybody. Eventually, they knew, it would come out but for now they could enjoy each other's company without disapproving comments from people who didn't think it was decent. John reached up and started to unbutton Sherlock's shirt. He got to the second button but was interrupted by Mrs Hudson calling from downstairs.


"Boys! There are reporters outside the house! What have you done? Make them go away: it'll upset the neighbours!"


Sherlock leaped out of bed, doing up his top two buttons and grabbing his coat. John followed him out the room. He thundered down the stairs and flung open the door. John came behind him and stood next to him in the threshold. Reporters were clustered outside 221B, microphone and notepad in hand, demanding answers. Through the din, John caught one statement, repeated over and over again. It was impossible. It had been not even two hours. How did they know? Are Sherlock Holmes and John Watson boyfriends? It came in different forms, from different mouths and different directions, but the message remained the same. Sherlock and John were aghast.


They stood in the threshold of the door, frozen, unable to move from the shock. It was a big break for the media. The detective and his blogger, lovers. Who would have known? The reporters were taking photographs, scribbling down the news, and a crowd was slowly forming as random passersby wanted to know what was going on. Sherlock and John remained in the doorway. Then they did the unexpected.


Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, in front of a crowd of a hundred reporters and strangers, held hands.



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