Disclaimer: I make no money with this, swear!

Aah, it's been a long time since I wrote anything. Been into BBC's Sherlock Holmes lately, hurdur. Needed to write something, anything. So here is a silly little Johnlock. Ta.

When Sherlock and John meet for the very first time, the setting could not be more romantic. Later, when Sherlock will enlighten John of this fact, John will snort, but the spark in his eyes will not fade, never. He might not agree, but John will always understand.

So then, they meet. It is on a particularly dark night in London, a heavy mass of nimbus having plagued the island nation for days on end, managing to dampen every last street corner with their presence. Sherlock likes these kinds of nights. The darkness and rain seem to heighten the intelligence of criminals and often lures out the brilliant ones who know how to feed all the unwanted evidence to the weather. This might make the police moan from the hindrance, but that is only because they fail to see the beauty of a challenge which Sherlock is willing to welcome with open arms.

And so it is that there has been a series of murders, the rainfalls finding the bodies faster than the police ever could, all the while Sherlock gets closer and closer to the killer even as the rains refuse to grow lesser and lesser.

But this is nothing new, no. Sherlock, you see, always catches up with the killer and has done so now as well. They are on a dirty alleyway, surrounded by more hastily made graffiti than they are by brick walls, the smell of rotting garbage mingling with the mist that the rain has brought with it. The only lighting available to them is the one that the main street's streetlamps let slip to the alley, but it's not much. Sherlock is blind, alone on an alleyway with a serial killer.

And then there is John. Sherlock would say it is the moment he feels all the signs of physical attraction. His breath gets caught in his throat and his legs feel weak. His heartbeat fastens. It skips a beat of two. Pupils, they dilate. Sherlock can't think straight. There is a funny little tingle at the tips of his fingers.

John would argue that it's because the killer has Sherlock in a chocking hold with no intention to let go until Sherlock dies. That is why John's first instinct is to draw out his slightly illegal gun that he is not supposed to be carrying around, aim for the killer and shoot.

Sherlock gasps for air, his head pounding mercilessly from all the blood that is rushing in all at once. He falls onto his knees despite his struggles to stay upright, but Sherlock does not mind, compared how the killer lies down fully, a trickle of blood flowing down his forehead from where the bullet entered his brain.

"Oh God," says John.

Sherlock's brain is still a bit disoriented, all kinds of thoughts flying here and there as he tries to find the appropriate thing to say.

Like, 'Who are you,' maybe.

Or, 'I'm with the police.' A lie which he can back up with a card he has snitched from Lestrade.

In the end he thinks it's safe and simple to go with a dull, 'Thank you,' but what his strained vocal cords croak out instead ends up being, "There's no God."

John's first answer is silence, a bit of a stunned one, maybe. Then he shrugs and says, "Each to their own," lowers his gun and suddenly remembers his situation again. "I am getting into trouble for this, aren't I?"

Sherlock pays no attention to the muttered question, assuming John was doing that thing where people were talking to themselves. And they call Sherlock insane! At least he has the poetic sense to talk to a skull.

"I wanted milk, not trouble!" John wails, clutching his hair to add to the drama. Then he takes a good, pleading look at Sherlock. "You wouldn't mind if I just ran away, would you? No, that would be bad, very bad indeed. They'd catch me and there'd be more trouble. Are you all right by the way?"

Halting his fingers from trying to soothe his tender throat, Sherlock blinks at John.

"Yes," he manages to answer. "I'm fine."

"You don't sound fine," John counters, his brow furrowing in concern.

"Here, let me take a look," he says as he traipses over to where Sherlock is still on his knees and crouches down in front of him.

It is a moment too late when Sherlock realises that his body is not usually this trusting of strangers. The neck is a weakness, one that had just been attempted to put into good use. But John's cold fingertips are already pressing gently against his jugular, the skin feeling rough and worn as they move against Sherlock's throat.

Sherlock wonders where his reflexes are. His hand should have been in a fist the moment he saw John approaching. There should have been a chart of weaknesses printed on his retina and he should have used every single one of those against John when he stretched out his hands towards Sherlock's neck.

There are but two things in the world that Sherlock trusts. Firstly his mind. Secondly his instincts.

Yet here he is, trusting John without a question, having his spine be rattled by the mere touch of his fingers and watching in a daze as their vaporizing exhales of carbon dioxide meet and merge in front of them.

"He was a serial killer," Sherlock says, suddenly having an unbearable urge to say something, anything.

John lifts his gaze from his throat and looks surprised before visibly relaxing some of the tension from his body. "So he wasn't a very nice man. That's –good."

Sherlock swallows. "Yes."

Letting out an amused chuckle, John withdraws his hands, failing to take notice how Sherlock's body unconsciously follows them a fraction of the way. "I suppose we'd better call the cops, then," John says, clearly uneasy about having to deal with all this.

"Don't worry, I'm with the police," Sherlock says quickly before John manages to take out his mobile phone and turn himself in. Upon the look he receives from the other Sherlock feels the need to specify his claim a bit. "Sort of."

John only raises one doubtful eyebrow.

"Look," Sherlock sighs out, feeling a bit nauseous as he stands up. "Here," he takes an ID from his pocket and gives it to John to examine.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade? Wait, the guy on the photograph looks nothing like you!"

"Of course he doesn't." Sherlock rolls his eyes at John for being so obvious.

"That's the guy whose job it is to catch that-" Sherlock points with a thumb behind him where there is a dead man still lying on the ground. John makes a face. "-man over there. I'll send him a text of the body's whereabouts so that he and his incapable team can pick it up and finish the case."

John opens his mouth and then closes it. Opens it again and manages only a small confused noise. Meanwhile Sherlock sends his text.

"Where did you even get this?" John finally manages to ask, though his priorities seem to be a bit lacking.

"I pickpocket him when he's being particularly dull. You can keep that one, I've plenty more."

Putting his phone back into the pocket of his coat, Sherlock looks expectantly at John.

"You coming?"

"Coming where? There's a dead body for God's sake! And I don't even know who you are."

"Away from here, obviously. You said you don't want any trouble and neither do I. As I said, the body will be left in the care of the good old Detective Inspector who should know how to do his job. "

Sherlock speaks with speed, the sirens of the police already echoing in the distance. He walks past John towards the main street, turning to look at the other before making his exit out of the alleyway. "And I am Sherlock Holmes. It is very nice to meet you…"

"John," says John, still looking a bit abashed by it all. "John Watson."

"John," the name rolls along Sherlock's tongue and out of his lips as he carves it in the stone walls of his palace so that he'll never forget. "Will you follow me, John?"

John will and he does without another question.

They end up sharing a very cheap hotel room for conveniences sake. Lestrade knows where Sherlock lives and he does not want to be found right now. He insisted John take him home with him, but John only muttered his refusals and general unwillingness to even return home. So they compromise, avoid surveillance and pay with cash.

They both shiver uncontrollably as they stumble into the room, soaked to the bone as they are. John ushers Sherlock to take a hot shower, which he would have gladly done if only the shower would have provided him with some heated water. Instead he exits the bathroom feeling as cold as when he had entered it.

John stares at him for a while before bursting out laughing. "Aren't we a miserable sight?"

"I'm glad one of us is amused by the potential hypothermia," Sherlock says, teeth rattling and voice so dry that he wishes it would have an effect on his damp hair. His words do not lessen John's amusement as the man continues to giggle. With a grave sigh, Sherlock sets out to decide which bed to slump into and make his apparent displease known, but takes notice that one of them has been stripped off its sheets entirely, while to other holds double the amount it's supposed to have.

Following his gaze, John has the decency to blush a bit, replacing his laughter with slight embarrassment.

"Well," John clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck in a nervous manner. "This night is already so weird and it's really very cold so I thought-"

"Body heat." Drawing his own conclusions before John has time to say it, Sherlock nods in understanding. "You do this often in the army? The desert must get awfully cold during the night," Sherlock chats as he settles underneath the blankets, making sure to leave room for John on the narrow bed.

"Not that often and we don't really talk about it afterwards. Sorry, how did you know?" John asks as he settles down as well, trying his hardest to avoid touching Sherlock in any way.

"It's what I do," Sherlock shrugs nonchalantly.

"You just know things, is it?" John sounds amused again, turning to lie on his side so that he can look at Sherlock who is lying on his back, sparing but a sideway glance at John and his question.

"I practise the science of deduction," he says, turning to face John fully. "I pay attention to detail and draw out the right conclusions."

"Elaborate," John asks of him, a spark of curiosity in his eyes.

"I knew you were in the army because of the weapon you carry, your instinct to shoot first and ask questions later and from how you were more concerned about getting in trouble than you were of having just killed a man. You have a tan but judging by the lines of it it's not intentionally gotten, so it suggests that you've been sent to a sunny country recently, probably to be of service. With today's politics I'd say either Afghanistan or Iraq but that's not relevant. Your concern about my injuries and skills in examining them tell me you're not just a soldier, but also a doctor. Now then, would you like me to move on to your awkward relationship with your relatives or have I gotten you convinced?"

There's still a coldness nesting in his bones, holding on stubbornly even as the blankets and John do a good job in warming his surface. But then a smile slowly crawls on John's lips and cheeks and eyes, his breath hot enough to make Sherlock's face flare and insides melt when he whispers, "That's amazing."

And it is amazing how utterly warm such a small praise could make Sherlock feel. Again, his body draws itself unwittingly closer to John's, and a bit hesitantly Sherlock asks, "Should we kiss now?"

"What?" John laughs out, his smile refusing to go anywhere. "I'm not into men, sorry," he says and doesn't sound sorry at all.

"I'm not into anyone." Sherlock says thoughtfully, nodding as if he understands John's reasoning.

They stare at each other in silence. John looks like he's trying to think, but Sherlock can't hear the sound of it so he supposes it is a battle lost for John. The atmosphere around them seems to get thicker and when Sherlock sees John swallow he does so himself as well.

When John lifts a hand to rest on Sherlock's cheek, he doesn't draw away from the touch. He can feel a thumb caressing his temple and it makes his eyelids shutter and lips part a fraction to let out a sigh. John comes nearer, his eyes heavy, slowly leaning in closer and closer, halting a little by the surprise of the feel of Sherlock's breath against his lips, then continuing to lean in the rest of the way.

Sherlock has never been kissed before. It had never seemed relevant that he do so.

Now though, with John here, it seems very important that they have this. For as long as he has John here, he would have this because it's John, John, John whose hand slides from his cheek and into his hair, caressing the spot where his spine meets his skull, a connection that is so easy to twist out of place but Sherlock doesn't care because John kisses him harder when Sherlock touches him in the exact same place.

John pulls him forward and Sherlock forgets what it was like to feel cold. He forgets his deductions that to be this close to someone brings nothing but inconvenience.

John draws back to get a gasp of air and to stare at him after he's had that, blushing a bit and then looking at the wall like it was sporting a tapestry with an interesting design.

"That was, um- Well. Maybe it's best if I just don't comment on it."

"Yes, maybe it's better that way," Sherlock says, sarcasm leaping through his kissed lips.

John dares a glance at him, embarrassed by his arms that are still wrapped around Sherlock but doing nothing to remove them. "It seemed appropriate," he whispers as if he needs to explain why he would kiss Sherlock like that.

"It felt very appropriate," Sherlock assures him, making John snort against his neck. Together they start laughing like tired fools.

And in the morning Sherlock will only feel like a fool when he wakes up to find John gone.

To Be Continued...

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