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John
I had moved into 221B Baker Street fourteen months ago. In those fourteen months, I had lived through more adventure, had laughed harder and felt my pulse race more than I ever had before in my life. I loved every second of it.
There was just one downside.
The downside was the same reason for all the good things mentioned just now. Sherlock Holmes.
He was gorgeous, cleverer than anyone I’d ever met, witty, and I could listen to him talk for hours. I had done that, in fact. On multiple occasions.
He had expressed, very early on, his thoughts about relationships. With other people, but also, well – me.
I still cringed when I thought back to it, that first night at Angelo’s, and how Sherlock had tried to delicately explain to me how he was married to his work and was flattered by my interest, but.
It didn’t matter. I’d gotten over crushes before, had gotten my heart broken plenty of times – I knew I was going to be alright.
But – God.
It didn’t help when you lived with the person. When every day you were reminded of just how amazing they were, and how good they looked in everything they wore, from a three-piece-suit to a ratty old T-Shirt and pyjama pants.
And I’m not even going to start with the hair. Those curls were going to be the death of me someday.
Therefore, I dated. Not very successfully, but I managed to meet some nice people, sometimes even felt something akin to love starting to form in my chest. The feelings had never come close to what I felt for Sherlock, though, and if these people didn’t break it off with me after a while, I ended up breaking it off with them. It just wasn’t fair.
Sometimes, of course, I met someone I quite liked. That definitely was the case with Maggie. Her brother had come to Sherlock with a case, and that’s how we’d met. We had had a really nice chat, exchanged numbers, and had gone on a few dates.
Yesterday had been our fourth, and we’d gone back to Baker Street together. I knew Sherlock wasn’t going to be home, and probably wouldn’t be until the early hours of the morning, so Maggie and I had sat on the couch, a glass of wine in hand, and had just talked.
Until talking had evolved into… something more.
To keep it short, I had enjoyed myself. And Maggie seemed to have, too. Which is why I was a little surprised to wake up in the morning and find that she was already gone. When I looked at my phone I saw that she must have left about an hour ago. Her text said:
Had a great time, John. Up early for work. Have a good day!
Her work started an hour after mine, so that didn’t really seem to be a very good explanation for her hurried exit. I was still musing over the text when I came down the stairs.
Sherlock was up too, reading something on his laptop at the desk in the living room. He was wearing the blue dressing gown. I loved the blue dressing gown. It looked stunning on him.
God, John, you’re fucking hopeless.
“Morning, Sherlock”, I said, masking my hopefully-not-blushing-face with a yawn. But Sherlock didn’t even look up from his laptop.
“Mh, morning John”, he greeted back, but didn’t seem very interested in a conversation with me.
I, unfortunately for him, was.
“How long have you been up?”
“Your lady-friend left an hour ago”, he replied, skipping my question to give me the information I had actually wanted.
“Lady-friend?”, I repeated, raising an eyebrow at him.
He neither replied nor looked up, but I saw one corner of his mouth quirk up.
I shook my head at him, quite fondly regrettably, and walked into the kitchen.
I sent Maggie a reply on my way to work, but didn’t hear back from her. I waited three days before sending another message, asking whether she wanted to meet up for coffee or a drink. I pretty much expected either a No, or no reply at all, but after two hours she said Yes, and named a time and place.
I showed up where and when she wanted to meet and expected a nice evening of some chatter and gin tonics, mentally already calculating how much money I could justify on spending on the completely overpriced drinks while still having enough for the cab ride home.
But after maybe ten minutes, Maggie sighed and put her pint down.
“John, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”
My ears perked up.
“Yeah, sure, what is it?”
“It’s about what happened last time.”
“Last time?”
“When I was at your place.”
I nodded slowly – I had no idea what she was talking about. But maybe this would explain her hasty departure in the morning.
“Right…?”
“I mean, don’t get me wrong, it was hot. But, I don’t know, the next morning when I woke up… I’m all for living out your kinks but next time, just talk to me beforehand, you know?”
My brows drew together.
“What – what kink, Maggie?”
Now she looked confused, too.
“The whole thing you have going on with your flatmate? Or partner. Honestly, I don’t care if you’re open, or poly, or whether it’s just that and you’re platonic otherwise, but like, you have to talk to people about it. You couldn’t have known whether I was going to be into that.”
“Into – into what?”
I was so confused that I didn’t even correct her about Sherlock and me not being a couple – or in an open relationship or polyamorous, or anything at all.
“Voyeurism, John?”
I gaped at her.
What the hell?
“I’m sorry – I – I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”
Maggie looked at me for a long moment, and I watched her take a sip of her beer. All this time she gave me to make sense of the situation did nothing to lessen the confusion in me. If anything, it just made it worse.
“So, you’re telling me you didn’t agree to that”, she said slowly.
“Agree to what?!”
“Being watched while you have sex.”
“By who?!”
“Your flatmate? Sherlock?”
I choked on my own spit. Genuinely, choked, coughing, eyes watering and everything. Maggie even started hitting me on my back, but I waved my arm, trying to signal that I was fine and she didn’t need to do all that. Even the bartender was giving us a concerned look.
Maggie took the opportunity to flag him down and ordered me a water, which I gratefully took.
“Thank you”, I said, and cleared my throat. “Jesus.”
Maggie kept watching me intently. When it finally seemed like I’d calmed down, she said, sounding genuinely curious: “You had no idea?”
I shook my head – but not just in answer to me not knowing.
“No, I – listen, Maggie, I’ve no clue what you saw-”
“I know what I saw”, she stated very clearly. “We were on your bed, you were going down on me, I was facing the door, and I saw that it was open just the slightest bit. I kept an eye on it, and just before you made me come, I saw something move. Later on in the night, the door was closed. Plus! Your mate couldn’t even look me in the eye the next morning. That told me everything I needed to know, but I thought, hey, fuck it. I thought it was hot, maybe he’s a bit shy about it.”
None of this made sense. None of this made any goddamn sense.
She must – she must simply be wrong. I had no idea why she would be lying, per se, and I didn’t really believe that either. Because, why would she? I really didn’t think she was that kind of person.
But then – what, in God’s name, had she seen?
“Christ, Maggie. I mean – I’m not saying you’re making this up, because why would you. But – you have to see how insane that sounds to me.”
Maggie narrowed her eyes, but otherwise seemed completely calm.
“Huh.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Yeah, no, I was just – I really thought you had a. Thing. An agreement, at least.”
“Maggie, I promise you, whatever you saw, I do not have some kind of agreement with Sherlock that he gets to watch me have sex. Maybe we had a break-in?!”
She raised an eyebrow.
“A break-in? From a guy with very light blue eyes and dark curly hair? Who just jerked off while he watched you fuck through a crack in the door and then disappeared?”
I almost choked again, this time on my drink.
The image Maggie had just put in my head, was – God it, it was.
I mean, it shouldn’t have been.
On any level.
Should it have been.
But – Christ.
It was kind of hot.
“I – I’m not – it can’t. It can’t have been him, Maggie. I don’t know what you saw, but it can’t have been – it cannot have been Sherlock.”
“Why are you so sure of that, John?”
The question actually gave me pause.
I was incredibly sure that whatever Maggie had seen, whoever had been there, it couldn’t have been Sherlock. Especially not Sherlock – doing that.
“Because he… because”, I was scrambling for words. “I mean – right, maybe it was. Maybe he – God, I’ve no idea why in hell he would do that, but let’s say it was him, right? Then I’m sure he wasn’t doing – he wasn’t – just, no. There’s no way.”
“Again, you seem very sure about that. Like – you can accept that he was there, but not that he was enjoying the view?”
I was actually starting to feel lightheaded.
“Yes, because he – he’s not like that.”
“I’m not saying he’s some kind of immoral pervert, John.”
I couldn’t quite believe how calmly Maggie was talking about this, while I felt like my whole world was being turned upside down.
“No, I know, that’s not what you were – no, fuck me, I don’t even know. He’s just – I mean, would that imply that he’s, Christ, I don’t know – attracted to me? Or you?”
“Well, he’s never looked at me with much interest, the few times we’ve met each other. You, though, on the other hand…”
My heart just about leapt into my mouth.
“Uhm. Sorry, what?”
“When you were on the case together! He always looked around to see where you are, always asked for your opinion, always talked to you about everything first – I mean, he went around opening doors for you, holding up police tape, everything!”
He does always do that for me, doesn’t he?, a little voice in my head reminded me.
No. No, fucking hell, no, she got it wrong, she must have.
“Right, yeah, no. I don’t know what you saw, Maggie, but. Sherlock Holmes does not have feelings for me. Romantic, or sexual, or… in any other way. He doesn’t feel things like that. And if he did, he wouldn’t feel that way about – me.”
My heart was beating fast and heavy against my chest.
Maggie’s face turned a little sad.
I was suddenly very eager to change the topic.
“Okay, right, just – I’m really sorry this happened. I’ll – I’ll talk to him. Let’s just – talk about something else for now, yeah?”
“Sure”, she said, and took another sip of her beer.
We made it another hour in that pub, which was pretty good considering the fact that my head had started spinning after just one drink – so whatever I would have liked to tell myself, it wasn’t from the alcohol.
I paid for our drinks and we stepped out into the cool night air.
“You good?”, she asked once the door had shut behind us.
“Yeah. Yeah, I mean – I’m fine. I’m just really sorry about… whatever happened three days ago.”
“God, John, it’s fine! Not your fault, right?”
“No! I mean, God, I don’t know. I had no idea. But I’ll talk to him.”
Maggie smiled and bumped my shoulder.
“Sounds like a good plan.”
We walked down the street for a minute in silence.
Just before we got to a crossing where we had to head in opposite directions, I couldn’t help asking what had been on my mind for the last hour.
“You really thought Sherlock – had those kinds of feelings for me?”
Maggie regarded me over her glasses, and something in her demeanor changed. It was now much – softer.
“I didn’t, John, I do. After what happened on Monday more than ever. It’s clear as day that you like him -”
“I’m sorry, how’s that?”
“You talk about him all the time, John. Like, incessantly. Sometimes you complain about what he does around the house, but most of the time it’s just about how smart and brilliant he is when you two are out on your little adventures. Which is sweet! But like, that’s why I thought you two were – something.”
Something.
Because yeah, what do you call an unspoken connection of undying devotion with an apparently (un)healthy dose of voyeurism?
If that’s even what was happening here.
“Right”, I sighed and raked a hand through my hair. “Right.”
“So, you’re going to talk to him about it?”
“I feel like that’s what I should do, but… I mean, how in God’s name do you start a conversation like that?”
“I don’t know”, Maggie said simply. I admired her carefree attitude. “You know what I would do?”
“I’m certainly open to ideas.”
“Next time I was having some me-time, I’d just pay very close attention to any doors or windows.”
And with that she winked, kissed my cheek, and walked away.
And left me stood there, on the curb, with one more image in my head that was absolutely not helping my hopeless case.
The next day I tried so very hard to pretend that everything was normal. I especially tried to pretend that after thankfully not running into Sherlock when I came home, that I didn’t wake up with a highly suggestive dream of a certain dark-haired man touching himself to the thought of me getting off with someone. Or alone. Honestly, the latter was even worse.
Because, well – that would imply that it was me he was interested in. Right?
I had no idea. I went to the practice, tried to take my mind off of the whole thing, and it worked. For the most part.
It was just that the thing Maggie had said, about what she would do if she was me - it stuck in my head and wouldn’t leave.
I walked through the door of 221B in the evening and heard the rustling of paper as well as footsteps, probably in the kitchen.
I couldn’t just ask Sherlock about what Maggie had said. Right?! I mean, there were two possibilities. One, whatever had happened was not what Maggie thought it was, and Sherlock would think I’d lost it. Or, even worse, from something I’d say or do, the way my eyebrow twitched or something, he’d know how I feel about him, and that I found the thought of being watched by him somehow exciting.
Option Two was that he had, in fact, done that. If that was the case, I had even less of a clue on how to handle that.
I took off my shoes and walked into the living room.
In the words of Sherlock Holmes: I needed more data.
“Hi there!”, I called, putting on my best tired-from-work-voice.
“Kitchen”, was the answer I received.
I put down my bag against my armchair and faced the man who had been occupying my every waking (and sleeping, for Christ’s sake) thought for the last 24 hours.
He’d evidently just taken a shower, hair still damp and curling in perfect ringlets around his face. He was looking through a stack of newspapers, probably searching for something interesting to occupy his busy mind with.
“What are you up to, then?”, I asked, thankful about the fact that I didn’t have to feign the curiosity as well.
“Received an e-mail today about some robbery. Lestrade thinks it might be related to a similar case from about three weeks ago.”
“You don’t?”
“Seems unlikely, but not impossible.”
He finally looked up from the papers. The movement of his head made a drop of water fall from a curl hanging into his face. I found myself actually clenching my fist when I suppressed the desire of brushing it behind his ear for him.
I couldn’t for the life of me imagine this stunning, brilliant man getting any kind of gratification out of watching me get off. Me, of all people.
And yet…
“You seem tense, John.”
He was way too observing, really. Thankfully, I had taken that fact into account.
I rolled my shoulders and sighed.
“Yeah, guess I am. Work’s been hectic. But it’s just my shoulder, it’s nothing. Well, nothing I’m not used to, anyway.”
I was definitely trying to play up the damsel in distress part here, but what I’d said hadn’t technically been a lie. I was simply counting on the part in Sherlock that had chosen a career as a detective, devoting his life to helping people, as opposed to using his magnificent brain to become some kind of cold-blooded politician.
No offense, Mycroft.
“I can see that”, Sherlock said, voice low. I seriously hoped that taking off my jacket and going to hang it up in that moment covered for the shiver that coursed through me at the deep sound.
“Actually, now that we’re talking about it – could I maybe use your shower tonight? The showerhead’s got much better pressure than mine upstairs…”, I trailed off, walking back into the kitchen, and tried my hardest not to sound in any way nervous about what I was asking for.
About two months ago, there had been some repairs in my bathroom upstairs, and I’d used the one connected to Sherlock’s bedroom for a few days, until it was done. I’d made a comment about the nice water pressure then, but nothing more than that.
Sherlock looked at me rather intently, but I could see no trace of suspicion on his face.
“Of course, John. I can ask Mrs. Hudson to get someone to replace the one upstairs?”
It was a very kind offer, and the sentiment behind it made something in my chest ache. Any kind of comments or offers like these I usually just put down to Sherlock trying to appease me for something he did that annoyed me. But maybe it was just… nice. He was just being kind.
Or…
“No, uh – thank you, Sherlock, but that’s not necessary. Just tonight, would be good.”
“Of course, John. Anytime.”
Why does his voice sound like fucking velvet, Jesus Christ…
I got everything I needed from the shower upstairs, plus my towel and pyjamas, and then made my way to the bathroom that was more or less Sherlock’s bathroom. He’d said often enough that it wasn’t his bathroom, that we were both paying rent for the whole flat, but all of my things were upstairs, and all of his were downstairs. So, you know. I definitely saw it as Sherlock’s bathroom.
I closed the door behind me and took a deep breath.
I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.
I couldn’t be too obvious, but I also had to make sure that Sherlock knew what I was doing.
This is ridiculous. It’s absolutely ridiculous.
…
Why is this making me hard, for Christ’s sake?!
It was a stupid question, really. Of course, the thought of Sherlock getting off on watching me was arousing to me. I knew why. The whole situation was just – ridiculous.
I got undressed and turned on the water. So far so normal. However, before I stepped into the shower, I placed my phone so that the camera was pointing towards the door to Sherlock’s bedroom. The angle was perfect, just hidden behind a corner so that the camera would catch everything it needed to, but no one could see the phone. I still hesitated for a moment, shook my head in utter disbelief, but pressed the Record button anyway.
And then I got into the shower.
At first I tried to pretend that everything was just like it always was, which lasted for maybe a minute. I couldn’t really see anything through the glass of the shower, so even if Sherlock was about to look in through his bedroom door, there was no way for me to know or see it.
But just the thought…
I closed my eyes and leaned back against the cool, tiled wall.
And then I let my hand wander. As well as my mind.
What if Sherlock is actually out there? Would he even see me when I lean back like this? What if I…
I stepped forward, the water now hitting my back, resting a hand as well as my forehead on the cool glass.
The moan I let out as I stroked myself was not loud, necessarily, but definitely louder than anything I would have let slip when doing this with someone present in the flat under normal circumstances.
I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can’t believe I moved closer so he can see me – if he’s even out there! Oh God, but if he is – could he really get any pleasure from this? Would he really touch himself – to the sight of me?
“Oh…”
I moved my hand more quickly, the noises of my wet fist on my cock absolutely obscene. This time, of course, I wasn’t trying in the slightest to stifle them.
I closed my eyes and pictured Sherlock. He was right there, at the forefront of my mind, right behind that door, listening and watching, stifling moans so much higher than his usual voice, beautiful blue-grey eyes watching me with the kind of intensity that was usually only reserved for the most complicated puzzles.
I imagined his hand, his graceful, long fingers shaking as they slid under the waistband of his pants, and a particularly violent shiver shook me when I imagined what those hands might look like closed around his cock.
The picture in my head nearly made me dizzy. I leaned against the glass with my side, so that, in theory, only in theory, anyone watching would see the silhouette of a completely debauched man stroking his cock faster and faster, while making small, incredibly poorly concealed noises of pleasure.
I got close so very quickly, just by imagining Sherlock’s hand on his own cock right outside this goddamn door. It was well and truly over for me, though, when the scenario in my head completely derailed and I couldn’t help but wonder what he would do if I stepped out of the shower to confront him about it. Would he be bashful – or put his hand on me instead?
“Fuck!”, I gasped, and came – hard.
The force of it nearly made me sink to my knees, and I had to lean against the cool tiles to catch my breath again.
It took another fifteen minutes before I stepped out of the shower and ended the recording on my phone. I dried myself, put on my pyjamas, and went straight upstairs. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.
With a racing pulse and shaking hands, I sat on my bed and watched the recording back.
Nothing happened. I had filmed a door, a dark one, and nothing else.
I cringed when I heard the beginnings of my ministrations in the shower, and I was about to just delete the video and try my best to delete the memory of the last few days altogether – but then I saw it.
A shadow, just barely, but when it stopped right behind the door, there was no mistaking it. That shadow was Sherlock.
And even though I had just had a very satisfying climax in the shower, I felt heat pool in my stomach once more when I made out the movements of an arm, stroking up and down on something in the middle of this person’s body.
Sherlock had leaned against the door. Sherlock had watched me, and listened to me, and got off on me masturbating.
Maggie had been right.
What, in God’s name, am I going to do now.
I barely slept that night.
I tossed and turned, trying to decide what the hell I would do tomorrow. I had a day off work, so I couldn’t even flee to my practice to distract myself from my voyeuristic roommate.
Here was the thing.
If it had been just me – I’m not sure if I even would have said anything. Which was, well, not great. Because I should have. In theory, I knew that this was absolutely not right. I mean, God, this was the kind of thing that could be brought into court.
Obviously, I had no interest in doing that.
The thing that was bothering me the most was simply that Maggie had been a part of it. She’d made it quite clear that she didn’t have a problem with it – this whole thing had amused her more than anything (I think she might have even found it… hot?) – but still.
Unfortunately, I was also incredibly curious just as to why Sherlock was doing this. If he had a reason for it – I mean, I’m sure he had a reason for it, Sherlock always had a reason for everything. But what, in God’s name, was it?!
A few possibilities came to mind, but in the end, I simply didn’t know.
Which was awful.
So, when I finally woke up the next morning, I felt a couple of things.
Curiosity, yes. More excitement than was really called for at the though of Sherlock getting off to me? Definitely.
But also, a smidge of anger.
It had been, after all, a breach of trust.
I just had to confront him. There was no way around it.
Please, God, Sherlock, please just tell me it’s for a weird case and I don’t get it and in reality, it just has nothing to do with me…
When I finally came downstairs at half past nine, Sherlock wasn’t home. I sent a text, and he replied that he was in the morgue with Molly, but that he’d be home in a few hours.
Great. Plenty of time for me to completely overthink this.
When Sherlock finally came home I was dressed, had cleaned the entire flat twice over because of my bloody nerves, but had not even managed to eat more than a piece of toast for breakfast.
I was sitting at the desk and had placed another chair opposite me. Nothing terribly unusual, but Sherlock would definitely notice it the moment he walked through the door.
And he did.
“John?”
I looked up. Sherlock was standing in the door, dress-shoes and coat, crisp white shirt and still somehow immaculate hair even though the weather must have done its best to make that impossible.
He looked at me, forehead creased, his face a single, big question mark.
“Close the door and sit with me for a moment?”
Sherlock hesitated, but only for a second. He then did as I had asked, toed off his shoes, hung up his coat, and walked over to sit in the chair I’d placed there for him.
He almost looked a little concerned, but mostly just. Curious.
“Is something wrong, John?”, he finally asked, voice deep and calm.
For a moment I was almost about to abandon this whole thing. And again, if it had just been about me – I probably would have. Whatever Sherlock was doing, it wasn’t hurting anyone. Apparently, I liked being watched, so really, it was a win-win situation, wasn’t it?
But Christ, what if the next time I brought someone home, someone who wasn’t Maggie, it happened again? If they noticed, and they minded, which I absolutely understood, I’m not sure I could have done anything for Sherlock to protect him from whatever kind of consequences the whole thing might have for him.
I needed to prevent that.
“Yeah, Sherlock, there kind of is.”
A look of surprise passed over his face.
Does he really have no idea what I’m talking about? Or is he just pretending?
“Something I can do to help?”
“If anyone can, you can, Sherlock.”
He must have detected my dry tone, because his eyes narrowed for a moment.
If he’s really just pretending, he’s doing a really good fucking job at it.
I cleared my throat and pulled my phone from my pocket. I’d taken a screenshot from the video. While I did want to confront Sherlock with the facts, I really didn’t feel like hearing myself masturbate right now.
With my heart hammering against my chest, I selected the picture and slid the phone over to Sherlock. While he leaned forward to look at it, I spoke up:
“I will ask you a few questions, Sherlock, and you will just – answer me. Doesn’t need to be anything elaborate, yes or no’s will do, but… I really, really need you to just tell me the truth. You’re a fantastic liar, we both know that, but I, well… Just be honest, with me, that’s all I ask.”
I watched Sherlock’s face as his eyes settled on the picture I was showing him, but the only stirring I could see was every single muscle in his face setting into a completely neutral expression, like stone.
For a moment, there was absolute silence in the flat. I’d expected Sherlock to maybe respond to my request, but he didn’t.
So, I asked my first question.
“Is that you, Sherlock?”
A slight twitch of his right eye, and a sinking feeling settled into my stomach.
If it wasn’t, if this whole thing had been some sort of big misunderstanding, he would have just told me. He would have laughed at my stupidity, God, John, what do you think of me?
But he didn’t. He remained as before, not moving.
But also, not answering.
I took another deep breath, and was just about to open my mouth again, when I heard him say, so quietly I almost missed it:
“Yes.”
Fuck.
Okay. Okay, breathe, John, it’s alright, it’s fine, there’s an explanation for this, there must be – there will be – it’s all fine.
“Right”, I said, more to myself than to him. He didn’t look up, though. His eyes were glued to my phone. I would have loved to know what was currently going through his head. He honestly would have looked calm if it weren’t for the fact that he… wasn’t blinking.
Oh God.
“You took this yesterday.”
It wasn’t a question, but I still wanted to answer him. Well, he deserved an answer, anyway.
“I did. And I can tell you why.”
He still didn’t look up, but said nothing more, so I went on.
“I met up with Maggie a few days ago – the sister of the client you helped a while back, I’m sure you remember. And, well, imagine my surprise when she tells me that she – saw you. Sunday night. I really tried to defend you, tell her it couldn’t have been you, especially not doing what she implied you were doing, but she seemed quite adamant. And apparently for a good reason.”
Nothing. No muscle in Sherlock’s face twitched again, just… no movement whatsoever.
The complete lack of response did stir that small amount of anger in me, though. I tried my best to keep it at bay, but if he continued like this, I wasn’t sure how long that would be possible.
“So, Sherlock, was she right? Was that you, Sunday night?”
“Yes.”
His response should have calmed me a little, but interestingly it had the exact opposite effect.
“Christ, Sherlock, are you aware that – that that’s a crime? She could go to the police with this, you -”
“So could you.”
Now he finally looked up. His eyes were cold, almost detached.
I tried to swallow the anger I felt, but was entirely unsuccessful.
“Do you want me to? You want me to march down to Lestrade’s office right now and tell him that the genius master detective he’s been relying on for years is a peeping Tom?!”
At this, Sherlock looked away.
Shit.
I’d hurt him. Genuinely, hurt him. His cold expression slowly cracked, and, to my utter horror, I could see his eyes getting misty.
At this, my anger of course decided to dissipate completely.
“God, Sherlock, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean -”
“What?! No, John, stop that.”
Now I was the one who was confused.
Why exactly is he angry now?
“Stop… what?”
“Not being angry at me.”
Yeah, I think I’ve lost the plot now.
“You want me to be angry at you?”
“Yes – no – I mean – you should be angry at me!”
I passed a hand over my face and tried to calm both Sherlock and myself.
“Okay, Sherlock, listen. What bothers me is that you didn’t tell me, okay? Especially because it wasn’t just me. It could have very easily been someone who was not Maggie, and then we’d have had a big fucking problem.”
Sherlock was looking at me like I’d grown a second head.
“How can you be so calm about this?!”
‘Cause it was hot.
…
Yeah maybe don’t tell him that.
“I’ve more questions, Sherlock.”
His eyes were still frantically searching my face, but he nodded.
“Right. I feel like I know the answer already, but still. Was that the first time you watched me?”
Are his cheeks turning pink?!
“No.”
Well, if his aren’t, mine definitely are.
“… Since when?”
He swallowed audibly.
“Two months ago.”
My eyes nearly popped out of my head.
“Two months?”
“NOT CONTINOUSLY.” He looked like he was well and truly panicking now. I had never seen Sherlock like this. “I mean – I heard you. Sometimes. I – noticed. And two months ago, I… You used the shower downstairs, I genuinely had no idea how visible everything was through the door to my bedroom, it just – happened. It was five times, in total, not more than that, I promise.”
I’d also never seen Sherlock this flustered. What I found much more concerning, however, was the fact that at hearing that Sherlock had apparently “only” done this five times, I felt something akin to disappointment.
I’m a lost cause, aren’t I?
“Okay”, I said slowly, trying to take in all of the information. “Right. Okay. I’ve just one more question, Sherlock.”
He looked at me like a deer in headlights.
“Just – why?”
“Why?”, he repeated, quietly, incredulously.
I nodded. Of course I wanted to know why. He, of all people, should have been able to understand that.
“It’s… John, I can’t, I…”
“I genuinely just want to understand, Sherlock. That’s all.”
“I can leave”, he offered instead, and it almost sounded like pleading. “I’ll get my things. I’ll leave, right now, if you want. Or I’ll move out. You trusted me, and I did this, it’s understandable.”
“I don’t want you to do that”, I said quickly, perhaps too quickly. But Sherlock didn’t seem to notice.
He looked… small. Cornered, almost. He still couldn’t look my in the eye.
“Just tell me why”, I said, as softly as possible.
Sherlock looked like he’d rather throw himself out of a window. When his eyes wandered to the actual window on his right, I sighed.
“Whatever it is, Sherlock, I just want to know. I mean, is it for a case? Or some kind of experiment?”
Now he did meet my eye, but only to look very offended.
“Experiment? No, God, no, John.”
“Right, okay, what is it then? Is… I don’t know, is just looking at porn somehow not working for your brain?”
“What?!”
“I don’t know, like, it’s not realistic enough?”
Sherlock genuinely looked dumbfounded at that.
I shrugged and folded my arms over my chest.
“I don’t know, Sherlock, I’m guessing here! So just tell me.”
We stared each other down for another five seconds, before Sherlock huffed and folded his arms, too.
“Fine!”
I sat back and waited. But as quickly as Sherlock’s irritation had come, it disappeared again. But before I could open my mouth, he said:
“I have feelings for you.”
One second passed.
Then two.
Then five.
Then ten.
Or maybe time just stood still.
What… What did he just say?
“You – what?”, I asked, absolutely sure that I was just misunderstanding something here. But, oh my God, if his words didn’t send my pulse racing.
“I have feelings for you, John”, Sherlock repeated, but his voice was cold. There was no emotion in it. It was the complete opposite of what I thought he was trying to tell me. “Feelings of a romantic and sexual nature. You wanted to know why I did it? That’s why. I thought it could be like… a fix. One and done. I never would have even considered doing something like that, but – there was the shower. And you. And it – happened. It was as close as I was ever going to get to what I truly wanted.”
He sighed in frustration.
“I should have known myself better. Of course, I couldn’t keep it to one time. I’m sorry, John.”
I heard his words, but they weren’t registering.
He couldn’t be serious.
… could he?
“Are you serious?”, I found myself asking, completely breathless.
He still didn’t look at me.
“While I’d much prefer it if I wasn’t, unfortunately I am. I will… I will leave you now. You don’t have to look me in the face ever again.”
With that, he stood up.
I pushed my chair back with such force that it fell over. My legs didn’t feel like they could actually carry me, but I needed to get up, I needed to stop him.
“Wait.”
I caught Sherlock’s wrist.
God, his pulse is high.
He let me stop him, but he still didn’t face me.
“Sherlock, please, just – look at me.”
“Please don’t make me, John.”
My mouth was open, but no words were coming out. There were a hundred things I wanted to say to him, that he needed to hear, but nothing was happening. Only his name came out.
“Sherlock.”
Slowly, as if the action itself was agony for him, he turned.
And because words failed me, I closed the distance between us, took his face into my hands and kissed him.
For a moment, it felt like I was kissing a statue. A warm and soft statue, yes, but something unmoving nevertheless. And just when I felt Sherlock’s lips giving in, his mouth going slack and opening, and I thought my heart would beat out of my chest, he jerked back.
“What – what the hell are you doing?!”
I could only open my eyes slowly, the realization sinking in that I had just kissed Sherlock Holmes.
Kissed.
Sherlock.
Holmes.
Because Sherlock Holmes has feelings for me.
Similarly dumb and hazy was my answer to his question.
“Kissing you.”
He looked… shocked. I think that would have been the best word to describe it.
“But – why?”
I stepped closer to Sherlock, which meant that he was now backed up against a wall. He was watching me so intensely, like he couldn’t possibly miss just one thing I did, just one look I gave him.
“Because I love you too, you idiot”, I breathed, and something in his face shifted from shock to – hope.
“N-no, you don’t”, he whispered, and I almost screamed in frustration.
What exactly have we been doing for these past fourteen months? Have we really been so stupid and blind and – I can’t fucking believe this.
“I do, Sherlock. I really fucking do.”
I pushed him against the wall, having absolutely no clue how we’d ended up here, but apparently Sherlock’s confession had erased any kind of inhibition I’d ever had about – anything.
I put my lips back on his and my hands to his face once more.
I drank up the small gasp that escaped him, and the sudden need to get him to make more of those noises surged over me.
I moved my lips slowly, deliberately, and it wasn’t until Sherlock moved with me that I carefully let my tongue slip out and swipe over his full bottom lip.
Another gasp, and Sherlock opened his mouth, inviting me in, and fuck, how could I decline. I deepened the kiss and groaned myself. Though that was nothing compared to when I stepped forward, and somehow one of my legs found the space between Sherlock’s legs and I felt him press against me.
He's
He's -
Oh my God.
“I love you, Sherlock”, I breathed when I managed to disconnect our lips just to move mine to his neck. The pretty, pale neck that he was exposing now by leaning his head back, maybe not even consciously, but I put my mouth to it and got to work.
“J-John”, Sherlock moaned, voice raspy and hoarse. “I love you, too.”
His confession finally gave me pause, and I held onto Sherlock even tighter.
“Let me take you to bed, Sherlock.”
Finally.
“Yes – oh G-God, yes.”