»»──────　JW　──────««

"And so do I..." John said, the silence of the bathroom emphasising his words even more.

Sherlock, who had been miles away judging by his absent-minded appearance, raised his head in surprise. A shallow wrinkle wedged between his eyebrows.

"What do you mean?" he murmured, and his warm breath blew upon John's face.

John blinked in a daze. "Can't you guess?" he said, challenging him with a playful smile.

Was it just a figment of his imagination, or had he just seen a glimmer of hope in Sherlock's beautiful but wary eyes? And did he even have a chance? John, a plain, boring, retired army doctor with a bullet wound in his shoulder and barely average intelligence (at least by Sherlock's standards)?

Even grossly overweight, Sherlock was a damn attractive man.

His features, although not as sharp as before, still formed an atypically pretty face.

From this intimate distance, he could count each black lash lining the large, bewitching eyes. Recognise almost every shade of those multicoloured irises. Inspect the structure of his straight, perfectly shaped nose. See the tiny pores on his pale, hairless, alabaster skin, smooth as silk.

No, the word "pretty" didn't do justice to the detective's appearance, as John decided in the end. Sherlock's face looked like a beautiful marble bust, carved by the angels.

John smiled inwardly. If Sherlock could read his mind, he'd surely be cringing at his poetic view of the world and his need to romanticise things.

The detective, however, seemed to be preoccupied with something else. The determination, with which he had leaned towards John, waned. Instead, a hint of uncertainty flickered across his face, and he looked like he would go into reverse at any moment.

"Is this some kind of... joke?" he wanted to know. His voice wavered at the end of the sentence.

John's stomach clenched.

Sherlock was a master of reading between the lines. He must have figured out what John's words meant! John wanted Sherlock for who he was, not for his famous hat, coat, or interesting, adrenaline-filled cases. He knew that, right? Or had Sherlock's self-esteem sunk so low that he questioned not only his abilities but even his worth?

'Not on my watch...' John decided and cupped Sherlock's face as gently as if he was picking up a porcelain doll. "Joke? No! "No, Sherlock, this is not a joke," he assured him, brushing his thumbs across Sherlock's cheeks.

John knew he had just crossed the imaginary line of friendship. There was no going back now, but then again, who said he wanted to back out?

They stood so close now that he could feel Sherlock's wildly beating heart. Rounded places where sharp bones would have been poking John's torso before. A bulging tummy that enveloped John like a soft pillow. Stiff, flexed back muscles—wait, what?

John hesitated when he heard a strange change in the detective's breathing rhythm. His chest, which had been rising and falling—albeit irregularly but within normal limits—suddenly tightened.

Sherlock stiffened under his touch. The tension spread like an infection through his robust body, emanating from his torso and gradually penetrating his neck, shoulders, and arms down to the lower region of his loins.

A terrifying thought popped into John's head. What if he hurt Sherlock somehow? Or had he misinterpreted his interest?

Sherlock's flabby abs tensed as he tried to suck his disliked part into his robe as deeply as he could, and John's insides squirmed.

"Sherlock..." he whispered. He'd rather hold him close instead and never let him go, scattering tiny pecks all over the detective's pale skin to kiss away all these intrusive doubts.

As tempting as it was, they had to talk this over properly and in all seriousness for the obstinate detective to finally believe it.

With his hands still placed on both sides of Sherlock's pelvis, John prevented him from running away, which, according to his expression f a wild nocturnal animal caught in the glare of a flashlight, he was most likely about to do.

"Sherlock..."

The man in question jerked and bowed his head to avoid John's gaze.

John lowered Sherlock's head to close the height difference between them, and pressed his frehead against Sherlock's. Before Sherlock could deduce what he was up to, John planted a short but effective, silencing kiss in the left corner of Sherlock's mouth.

"Look, I get that you're not... comfortable with some parts of your body." John began deliberately, then slid his hands higher. "But, believe it or not, I am. How could I not be when it's a part of you? I like you the way you are. You never have to change for me. You're perfect just the way you are."

Sherlock opened his mouth to recommend a near visit to the optician, but everything he had to say got stuck in his throat at the sight of the blonde doctor. John was looking at him like he'd just come up with one of his best deductions, his pupils dilating so much that his grey-blue irises were nothing more than a thin outline.

John cupped his face in his palms and slowly and predictably made his way towards the pink lips, giving Sherlock plenty of time to process it. The distance between them was closing, bit by bit, until he could almost feel the tip of the detective's nose on his own. Both breathing the same air now, they felt the captivating, warm closeness of each other, the hint of mouth against mouth...

John stopped just about two inches in front of Sherlock's lips, his intentions laid out before the detective like cards on a table. He simply couldn't misinterpret them now. The final step, however, was only for Sherlock to take; he could either finish the few centimetres or pull away and erase this moment from his Mind Palace.

Sherlock didn't seem to take the hint, and John was starting to think he had made it all up. He was about to step out of Sherlock's personal space and apologise when, suddenly, Sherlock made the ultimate move and lunged forward to connect their lips.

John had experienced several mind-bending kisses in his life, but none of them stood a chance to match this one.

Not in terms of technique...

Sherlock seemed to have minimal experience with this method of "communication". (On the other hand, John wasn't too surprised, given how Sherlock met other people. If he had trouble establishing friendships, then romantic relationships must have been a tough nut for him to crack.) He was giving the impression of being anything but relaxed—his posture was so stiff and restless, John was beginning to fear he would jump out of his skin at any moment. Apparently, he also had no idea what to do with his arms, so he concluded that it would do no harm to let them hang loosely by his sides. And it should be noted that rather than a kiss full of passion, it felt more like a long innocent pout, as one would expect in fairy tales for children.

No, it wasn't because of the kissing skills that John considered this kiss to be the best he had ever received, although Sherlock was faring well for a beginner. It was that unique, solitary, and impossibly brilliant living being who made this moment so special. And although the said man wasn't quite sure what to do, the endeavour and sincerity with which he was catching up on his inexperience made John's head spin.

John smiled against Sherlock's lips, and his fingers caressed those marvellous, high cheekbones for the last time. Then he let his hands slide down Sherlock's neck so he could rest them on his broad shoulders.

Despite the considerable size difference, John had no problem maintaining the upper hand. He drew Sherlock closer and captured his bottom lip, giving it a light squeeze before sucking on it.

Sherlock gasped, letting out a deep guttural sound that was strikingly similar to a moan of pleasure.

John's heart had nearly quintupled in size; it was a wonder it could fit in his ribcage. Sherlock, according to John, has probably enjoyed minimal physical contact in his life, given that all it took to bring him to his knees was a single kiss. Quite literally, as Sherlock staggered a bit and his legs threatened to drop him to the ground at any second.

Well, if Sherlock wanted this moment as much as John did—and John thought he did—then he would gladly put an end to the detective's solitude and prove to him how irreplaceable, amazing, and gorgeous he was.

John's hands slid down Sherlock's long arms and wrapped around his waist, giving the detective some support. Their bodies pressed together, and the relentless pounding in John's chest intensified. John wouldn't be surprised if the thud-thud sound reached Sherlock's almost inhumanly sensitive ears, and to be honest, he wouldn't even mind if it had. Quite the opposite.

Sherlock deserved to know what he meant to John. He should know that the heat radiating from his pale skin, like from a living embodiment of the sun, almost made John melt into a pool of bliss. That his scent, a perfect blend of posh shower gel, the musky touch of aftershave, and the unique smell of Sherlock Holmes, was a heady drug, numbing all other senses. That he had made John the happiest man on this planet by allowing him to get this close.

Sherlock stood pressed to the wall, trapped between the cold tiles and John's warm body. He was stunning. His dark, almost black hair flowed in soft curls along his face, accentuating a dark blush on his cheeks, and his red, kiss-swollen lips hypnotised John like an ancient artefact.

"John... I know it's still pretty early to say this, but... I mean... I feel a deep affection for you," he said, tripping over his tongue. A flush tinted his cheeks; why couldn't he just say a simple "I love you" like any normal person in love? John should keep in mind that leaping into a relationship with someone who can't even properly express his emotions won't be a simple task.

Nevertheless, John, bright and intelligent, though not with the IQ of a genius, surprised Sherlock again. He seemed to know Sherlock better than anyone, maybe even better than Sherlock himself.

"I love you too, you silly twit..." he stated, absolutely certain, and clutched at the back of Sherlock's neck to pull him closer so he could kiss the tip of his nose.

Sherlock's heart swelled with joy, and tears pricked his conjunctivas. Even such an innocent display of sentiment ignited a spark of joy in his belly, filling him with the warm feeling of being wanted. Not only wanted but also truly loved; after all, John had just confessed his love to him, as unbelievable as it may sound!

Driven by this thought, Sherlock leaned down to steal another kiss, determined not to let go of John's lips this time.

AN:

Good afternoon! And the kiss is finally here!!
I have to admit that putting those two bullet-heads together was a bit difficult, but it's finally done! I apologize for bothering you for so long, and I hope your patience was rewarded.🙂

Thank you so much for your feedback!

Yours,
PaulineHolmes02🖤