Title: Tipping Points

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Johnlock

Author's Note: It's my own personal headcanon that Sherlock is asexual, and that John is straight, so they might be in a relationship but sex is not a part of it. Don't ask me why, but enjoy!

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There was no declaration of love.

There was no sexual identity crisis.

There was nothing really, no specific moment that created the tipping point. It had instead been a very slow and very gradual slope to obtain their footing in what most called a Relationship.

When Doctor John Watson had originally became flat mates with Sherlock Holmes, he had meant it when he had stated he wasn't "asking him out", and Sherlock had meant it when he had said he was in a sense "married to his work". There had been no secret attraction, nothing that would've pointed to them being where they were now.

At least in their eyes there wasn't.

When John had moved in, he had most certainly took the bedroom upstairs. Sherlock had said he would tidy up, which hadn't been a complete lie. He had moved his stuff about so the army doctor had some place to put his cup ever morning. A spot for his laptop. A little corner to cook at. It was better than nothing, and John for some reason already knew that this had been a big gesture for Sherlock and would be all he would get as far as cleaning up goes.

Sherlock had truly been alarmed that first night when John had complimented his Deductions, taken aback for only a half a second before responding. But he had been even more startled at the seemingly idiot Doctor's intelligence, and how he had shot the Cabbie after such a short time. It felt good to have someone not be, disturbed by his self.

Though they bickered the men became inseparable and extremely close after that first case together.

The warning John had received that first night was soon forgotten, and he trusted the Detective one hundred percent. And for some unfathomable reason, Sherlock trusted his soon to be blogger as well.

The tip started with the texting.

Sherlock would holler John over, and then instruct the Doctor to fetch his phone from his own pocket, or sometimes table, and send a text for him. Or if he was being particularly odd he'd tell John to send a text from the Doctor's personal phone. At first John's reaction had been one of, 'Are you kidding me?' and the occasional, 'Bloody Hell, Really Sherlock?'.

In the end he had given up trying to reason with his flat mate, and just resigned to doing what was demanded of him. He put it up as one of Sherlock's quirks, along with the Skull-Friend, the non-eating, and many other absurd things he had come to realize the past few weeks.

Which was partly true, when Sherlock had initially done it he had done so with little regard to how rude and lazy he seemed. But when he continued to do it, and John complied with little to no argument anymore, he became curious. Most people would've told him to piss off by now, or some other obscene remark. Curiosity though, stemmed from his lack in experience in having friendships with people. So, he attributed it to that.

It tipped further though when John Watson began to blog about their cases.

At first Sherlock had found the notion to be quite annoying, especially considering he had his own website that he put details he deemed actually relevant.

John was putting too much nonsense into his writing, as far as Sherlock had been concerned.

He made no notion to stop though, and continued to write his blogs about his adventures with the Detective, and even though Sherlock would never admit it he was finding the entries a bit endearing. Flattering.

Having someone write about the cases in such a romanticized way may not be the angle he was going for, but at least someone appreciated his genius. And by golly, the blog was getting a good many hits.

Soon Sherlock found himself reading the entries John typed as he was typing them, making his own little comments here and there. John didn't really mention the sudden interest, though he did notice it. He noticed it greatly. It made him feel good to know his flat mate was taking a keen interest in his writing. He liked that feeling. Being proud.

The next change was John making them both food, tea, doing the shopping. Sherlock didn't eat much, but when he did eat John found he wanted the detective to eat something worth eating. Sure, his cooking may not have been the best, but it was better than whatever Sherlock had managed to eat before. If he didn't eat out that is.

Tea was always made, prepared for the detective for when he needed it. Sherlock never thanked the Doctor, never made any mention that he appreciated how much he did for him. But inside, whenever he saw that John had laid out these items for him, he felt a warmness in his chest.

No one since he was a boy had taken such care to make sure he was fed with foods he liked, and his tea was made. John ranted and raved at times about how inconsiderate Sherlock was, and how he needed to 'get off his lazy arse and do something for himself'. And yet, every day he continued to do these basic things for Sherlock.

He was definitely fond of John.

Their first hug though, that was a big moment.

It had been a complete accident, in the sense that Sherlock didn't realize he had pulled John into a hug until after it had happened. Why he did it, he really couldn't even say. Why he continued to hug the shorter man, and squeeze him tightly when he realized what he was doing.

John had just stood there at first, not really knowing what on Earth was going on. His hands held this awkward pose, like an invisible bubble was around Sherlock that prevented him from touching the taller man. Finally he let his arms fall loosely around the other, hugging him back.

This was Sherlock, the boundaries and lines of social etiquette were always skewed. He didn't think twice of it.

And from that day on, periodically Sherlock and John would hug. There was never really any specific reasons, accept that Sherlock sometimes liked the feeling of John.

But then Moriarty happened.

Moriarty.

Bombs. Bombs on John.

Snipers aimed at them.

That night Sherlock hugged John, and he just couldn't let him go. He didn't understand what he was feeling. All he knew was that he needed John as close as possible. Needed him to stay right there.

So that night they slept in the same bed. John let Sherlock place his hand on his back the whole night, and that was as much as they touched. Sherlock didn't really sleep, he went to his Mind Palace, but kept his hand firmly planted against John's back. It was comforting.

Neither felt the need to define what they did.

And just like the hugs they periodically slept like that. It was a great reassurance.

The Woman had happened not too far down the road from the Moriarty meeting. John hadn't been jealous, no-no. That would imply that they were something more than flat mates. Best friends. Detective and blogger. Jealous? No- John Watson was simply concerned about the well being of his friend and the impact The Woman was having on him.

When she had disappeared the first time, presumed dead, Sherlock hadn't let John near his bed. And didn't let him near his person.

Still, John was not jealous.

Even as he had asked her in that accusatory tone of his if she had indeed flirted with Sherlock Holmes, he remained firm he was not jealous.

Even as she told him that he and Sherlock indeed were a couple, he stood tall in his stance of being concerned. Because that's what friends do. And really, he did want the best for Sherlock. Even if it made him feel, funny.

A few weeks after she was gone for good, there had still been nothing between the two men. But Sherlock seemed, fidgety. Not that that was completely different from how the Detective usually was when a new case or puzzle didn't present it's self. But he seemed fidgety any time his Doctor came near him.

Then one night, it happened. It was an ordinary night, nothing special going on. John was typing away at his blog, sitting at the desk. Sherlock had been laying on the couch, staring blankly at the ceiling. At least, that's what he had been doing the last time John had looked up.

Suddenly he had that feeling, that eerie feeling that someone was standing behind him, watching him. Knowing exactly whom it was, John continued typing waiting for his friend to make some comment about how he wasn't presenting the right facts. And when that never came, but the feeling remained, John rolled his eyes and turned to look behind him.

Indeed Sherlock was standing behind him. Right behind him. They were almost touching. The Detective wasn't looking at his blog though, he was staring directly at John, very intently.

"What-"

John didn't even try to finish his sentence as Sherlock's eyes flickered to stare him directly in the eyes. It was quite unnerving if he did say so himself, but he stared back, refusing to 'back down' incase this was some test or insane experiment.

"John, as I'm sure you are aware I am deeply fond of you."

A nod was all John could make himself do to respond.

"From what I have observed, you consider yourself a heterosexual male. Correct?"

Another nod, though now he was curious as to where this was going.

"I wanted to inform you, despite the former statement, I don't do sexual activities."

John raised an eyebrow, and finally found his voice again, "Sherlock, what on Earth are you going on about?"

"Don't intentionally be dense John, I'm discussing our currently predicament. Obviously."

And then the stare down happened. John stared hard at Sherlock, not wanting to admit out loud that he really didn't understand the 'predicament' that his flat mate was mentioning. And Sherlock was staring John down, waiting for a response.

In Sherlock's view of what had just occurred, he had been very open about what he wanted to happen. He also was fairly irritated, because here he was being open and vulnerable and his Doctor was saying nothing. If anything, he was acting like a complete idiot.

When nothing was further said, Sherlock stormed off, leaving a very bewildered John Watson in his wake.

After what John considered the most confusing conversation of his life, things between the two went back to how they were before The Woman. The occasional hug, the occasional sleepover in Sherlock's bed. Things were good at 221B Baker Street, and no other odd conversations or changes took place.

Until they returned home from a case that John had dubbed the Hounds of Baskerville.

This was the final tipping of the iceberg. If pressed for answers as to why he did it, John would never be able to give an answer. He still considered himself straight. It was just an impulse.

Sherlock had went to walk passed John, and within a second the Doctor's hand had shot out and grabbed Sherlock's. Both stood still for a second, neither saying a word. John stared at his hand firmly grasping his friend's, not sure how that happened. He wasn't even sure why his thumb had stared rubbing back and forth ever so softly.

Eventually he shifted his gaze upward, to look at Sherlock. And that's when he understood. All this time everyone calling them a couple, and then finally Sherlock having that crazy conversation with him. He was the last to realize that he and Sherlock were a couple. And that conversation had been Sherlock's way of setting down boundaries, and asking if that was okay.

Of course, this would happen to him.

Of course, he would fall into this predicament.

And of course, Sherlock would just assume he understood where they stood.

And yet somehow, he was so used to it, it didn't bother him. Not really. So he smiled up at his-what should he call Sherlock? The Detective still called him a 'friend', s maybe that title should stay. It was much more appealing to say then boyfriend. And since neither were actually interested in 'sex' they weren't technically lovers. Partners maybe?

"I should probably cancel that date I have this weekend, I'm assuming."

"I assume you should under the circumstances, John."

Sherlock huffed to his spot on the couch, making John laugh as he sent a text to his date with some bullshit excuse as to why he had to call it off. If he noticed the faint smile on Sherlock's lips at this, he didn't say anything.

Things were good, better than good actually. John slept in what was now 'their' room every night, even if Sherlock very rarely joined him. But when he did it was the same routine. John on his side, back to Sherlock, and Sherlock's palm pressed firmly against his back. They hugged, in private of course. They held hands, but only at home.

Sometimes, if Sherlock was feeling particularly 'cuddly', he would stretch his legs out across John's lap. This worked for them, never crossing either's personal boundaries. Sure, John missed sex, but he was still straight in a sexual sense even if he was devoted one hundred percent to his new Partner. But he couldn't have sex with him, even if Sherlock was willing to.

Actually, Sherlock was very against the idea, and was very pleased indeed that John did not want to engage in that activity. For as much as he enjoyed pleasing John, there was nothing in this world that could make him want to engage in the act.

And as long as that understanding was there, things were grand.

That is, until Sherlock committed suicide. And John's entire world fell apart. But not just his world, his entire concept of self was gone.

It was almost as if there was no period of time that Sherlock hadn't been in his life, and him being gone left John with no idea of what to do with himself.

He left Baker Street, but that was a given. The only things he took of Sherlock's was the man's broken cell phone, and his scarf. Even though the cell service for the broken phone had been turned off a while ago, he kept the phone charged. He enjoyed looking at the things Sherlock kept archived in the device, even if almost one hundred percent of it had been crime scene evidence.

The scarf he kept on his now small mattress, on the side that Sherlock always slept on. He missed the feeling of the taller man's hand pressed against his back, their version of spooning. But at least he could have the faint smell of the man as he slept. It was better than nothing at all.

His limp came back, which had made him laugh bitterly.

He avoided Mycroft. He knew the older Holmes kept tabs on him, but he couldn't look at the man. Couldn't handle seeing the resemblances in personality traits, it hurt him too deeply. Which was also why he tried not to see Lestrade. Besides the memories Lestrade brought, and the knowing looks he gave; John also knew him and Mycroft had been an item for a long time. He couldn't handle knowing they were happy when, he was so miserable.

John didn't date. He didn't even try. He knew he had been involved in the most unconventional 'relationship' in the history of ever with Sherlock, and for some reason he would trade anything to get that back.

And now, three years later, only some things had changed. He still lived in his run down apartment, working at some mundane job, eating cardboard food. He could finally go out for a drink every week or so with Lestrade now though. He could even talk about Sherlock and smile. He shared his relationship with the other man, and even though he was still unwilling to see Mycroft, he would always tell Lestrade to say hi to the older Holmes.

After three years he didn't expect his dead partner, friend, whatever they called each other to be sitting in his beat up couch after he returned from work.

The formerly dead Detective stood up with swift and grace, and stared patiently at his former Blogger.

John's mouth went dry, and he felt like he couldn't breathe. His chest was tight, and the only word he could get out was, "No."

Sherlock silently stepped towards John, and caressed the shorter man's face in his palm. How long they stood like that, John couldn't say. Sherlock only pulled his hand away when John had finally calmed down, and then both laughed.

They laughed because even though there was so much that needed to be said, it couldn't be addressed yet. The situation was too fresh, too new. Too raw.

Eventually the laughing quieted though, and Sherlock's hand went back to John's face. John took the man's other free hand into his, thoroughly enjoying the intimate moment they were sharing.

And then Sherlock kissed John.

It was tender, full of all the apologies that the Detective would never utter. It was full of John's unspoken 'I miss you'. And when Sherlock let a little tongue slip in, his message was, 'I am still very fond of you'.

John was still a straight man, in a relationship with his male best friend.

Sherlock was still an asexual, infuriating genius in a relationship with his Blogger.

The kiss was loving, but it was not sexual. There was still so many questions. So many unspoken thoughts.

But that's how it would always be.

Finish.

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