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"It Started Slowly"
A Sherlock/John slash fanfiction by Ruby Willis-Powell

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A/N: Unfortunately neither Sherlock Holmes, nor John Watson, belong to me - they are the creation of the marvelous Sir Arthur Conan-Doyle, whom I love more than life for creating such a fantastically brilliant character. This fic is based on the BBC-Sherlock series, rather than the RDJude films or the original books, all of which I have read.

It started slowly.
A faint brush of fingertips as john passed him a mug of tea. The touching of their shoulders as they sat and watched what he descrived as 'crap television'. Feet meeting under the table when John actually convinced him to eat something.
Little things. Little things that began to confuse him. To muddle his thoughts and feelings. To render him helpless to the hunger and need to be touched; to be loved. Before the Doctor had arrived in his life, he'd had no need for such things - he had gotten by on instinct and brain power that was unparalleled to any man. But John Watson weakened his resolve. John Watson and his bloody accidental touches.

It picked up speed.
Sometimes a jumper would go missing from John's drawer for a few days, only to reappear later, although after Sherlock had subtly finished analysing the smell of his flatmate without arousing suspicion or being physically close to him.
He found himself paying more attention to the other man's face, focussing on the crinkle of his eyes and mouth when he smiled, or the lines that creased his brow when Sherlock did something wrong. Eventually he was able to read John's body language from merely the fractional amount an eyebrow was raised, but by that point facial features began to bore him and instead he watched the movements of John's hands, seeking the differences between his own long, slender and rather pale ones and John's shorter, tanned ones.

It continued.
Sometimes it was him who would initiate the contact, just to feel John's skin against his; to imagine the possibilities; to feel the crackle of electricity that ran through his body on the rare moments when they made contact. He tries to remember where these feelings came from (because he's Sherlock Holmes for Christ's sake, and he doesn't do feelings!) but the moment keeps slipping through his fingers, and the look of concern John is shooting him is making his brain go fuzzy.
"Sherlock? Are you okay?" John is looking at him again, and his stomach is doing flips. He's supposed to be single; no strings attached; married to his work. But John is part of your work now his brain reminds him, and he is ever-so-aware of John's hand on his shoulder, burning a mark through his shirt and onto his skin
"Yes, I'm.. I'm fine, John. Please, though, remove your hand from my shoulder." The look in his friend's eyes cuts like a knife through his chest.

He ignores it.
Prays that it will go away. But it doesn't, and he knows that he will have to come to terms with such feelings – to confront John, even. But not yet. He needs more time – he cannot face that at the moment. Besides, there is a case right now and he must focus, damnit, focus.
Two more cases pass. Three. Four.
It's getting ridiculous nnow. He finds it hard to talk to John for fear he will say something and his roomate will figure it out. He knows John knows there is something wrong. Tomorrow. He tells himself, Tomorrow for sure.

It continues.
And he succumbs to it. It takes up his time and energy, and he worries. He knows his feelings could ruin the friendship between himself and John, and he has read countless entries about how unrequited love affects the heart and the implications it could cause.

He takes it one step at a time.
Adds more 'accidental' skin-on-skin collisions to their lives to see if John complains, or more likely notices. Drops in a few comments about John's relationship (or lack of it) with that woman.. whatshername. He can't recall it, although that is probably because in truth he doesn't care. Watches a few films with John, curled up as close as he dares to him, although they do not get through many DVDs, as Sherlock has an annoying habit of spoiling the ending within the first 20 or so minutes, something that drives John up the wall. Not literally, of course, and he takes a mental note not to use that phrase due to the images of a trembling John pressed up against the hallway walls his subconscious is creating.

It breaks like a tide over him.
It threatens to drown him in a raging sea of lust and hormones and unbareable love. It is a cold morning in February, when John is half awake and making tea that his brain screams out to tell him, Sherlock, tell him!, and he knows it's now or never.
He shuffles over, watching as John leans against the worktop as he waits for the kettle to boil, a thin strip of tanned skin exposed as his shirt rides up a little. He has to fight the urge to reach out and stroke it, instead forcing himself to stay calm.
"John." His words are more of a question than a statement. "I.. I need to talk to you."
John's eyes widen and he steps forward, looking curiously into his eyes.
"Are you okay?" The familiar hand is on his shoulder again, the contact burning through the fabric once more, and he is overcome with the desire to.. well, do things to this man. Instinct takes over, and he finds himself tilting John's chin up and planting a passion-filled (but slightly sloppy) kiss on his lips. He head is reeling, and that's not the most beautiful part because John Watson, John fucking Watson, is kissing him back with just as much passion. In fact, the leg between his thighs and the force pushing him down onto the kitchen table suggests John has been waiting for this moment for a long time.
"Well, Genius," John murmurs softly as he kisses his neck, "It took you long enough."
Sherlock squirms lightly under John, his hands gripping the fabric of John's cable-knit jumper as his roommate moves to bite gently at his earlobe, the tanned hands Sherlock studied for so long sliding under his shirt and tracing circles across the sensitive skin where his hipbones jut out before moving to tweak at his nipples. Sherlock is moaning, tugging that damned jumper off John, running his hands all over the skin that he never thought would be his. Fingers are working across his buttons, pulling the shirt from his shoulders to expose porcelain skin and the rubbing of John's knee against is crotch is making his arousal harden and his back arch.
"J-John.." His voice is a gasp, throat struggling to force out the words, and he clutches at John's back as the ex-army doctor unzips his trousers with calloused fingers, thumbs dipping into the grooves where his underwear clings to his hipbones, making him writhe as his companion turns his attention to the growing erection in Sherlock's boxers, rubbing gently with his knee before slipping the remaining item of clothing from him and taking Sherlock into his mouth.

It grows.
He knows it with each moan that bubbles up from his chest and breaks over them both, John smiling around his cock as he bobs his head, watching the slimmer man above him buck and whine at his work, fingers travelling up his thighs and between his buttocks; fingers probing him, stretching him, readying him for what they are about to do. Oh god, Oh GOD JOHN rings in their ears as John pulls away and removes his own trousers and underwear.
He stares at his flatmate, eyes drinking him in as he approaches, sun throwing shadows across the tanned body in front of him. His breath comes out in gasps.
"Sherlock, do you want to do this? Are you sure you want me?" John is standing over him now, and ohgod yes please, yes he wants him. More than anyone. He thinks back, realizes it has always been John, and pulls the man down for a kiss.

"Always."

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It started slowly. But by the time John had finished fucking him against the table that cold February morning, Sherlock knew that there was no-one else in the world he'd ever fall for, beginning slowly or otherwise.

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A/N: I wanted to write smut but I can't do it right now, so for the moment I'll leave you to your own imagination and will come back to change this later on.