There's only one thing Sherlock can stare at in that warm café; and it's not the decor.

He sits with his back straight, his lips melted into a mix of impatient and longing, tongue set on his lips with a drink waiting under his chin, settled in between his hands. His leg is splayed into the aisle on the right, and a slight grimace is sent through him when he moves it.

"So," Sherlock says, taking a sip of his earl grey. "Are you going to reveal your country of deployment? Or shall I force it out of you?"

"What?"

"Where you fought. Come on, John, listen. You have ears, use them. You have a brain, interpret my words and respond." Sherlock purses the full of his lips into a rough line, mocking disappointment sparkling in his eyes. "Unless," he adds, "you don't have a brain, which in that case, ignore my previous comments entirely and I will excuse myself to enjoy a lack of conversation with unintelligent human beings-"

"Afghanistan," John says shortly. "I was deployed in Afghanistan."

Sherlock leans forward. "And your leg?"

He pulls his leg in, frowning uncomfortably at the pain, "I'm not entitled to tell you shit."

"I'm buying you fucking tea," he responds. "I think you're entitled to tell me a fair amount."

"Because being a regular person is entitling?"

"No, because I haven't been a regular person for anyone except you," Sherlock says calmly, rolling his eyes as if it's the most obvious thing. Maybe it is the most obvious thing, and the way John almost pushes himself up to walk away gives Sherlock a thrill that stealing has never given him. He's playing a gamble, here, talking to John Watson.

John scoffs and sips his tea, trying to hide the warm flushing his cheeks. "Regular," he whispers. "You don't know the first thing about regular."

"I'm learning, John, I'm learning."

John puts down his tea quite suddenly - it splashes up and onto the table they share. "Do you do this to everyone you meet?"

"Take them on dates?" Sherlock smirks.

"No," John hisses. "Break into their flats, steal vital furniture-"

"The coffee maker is a minor-"

"Shut up, you. Steal vital furniture" - Sherlock scoffs in dissent - "and leave movies that are dumb and stupid and signing some stupid signature that's probably not even your real initials because you want to be cool and mysterious but all you really are is a thief, and-"

Sherlock's voice is a whisper. "You... didn't like the movies?"

"Wh-" John gets halfway through the word before looking at Sherlock, entirely dumbstruck, the syllables not even adding up in his mouth. "The... the..."

"If you want to be angry at me for breaking into your flat, go ahead, but don't be angry about the movies, for God's sakes." Sherlock says it like John is audacious, and he takes a casual sip of his tea.

"Just-" John yells, slamming his fist into the table, "fucking tell me your name!"

The café quiets. The men and women surrounding turn, appalled by the state of events, their lips still open to receive food, and Sherlock anxiously scratches his leg before turning to the people that are staring and gesturing for them to go back to their boring conversations.

The low thrum of vacant talking fills John's head as he turns back to Sherlock, who is staring rather judgementally at him. "Must you know?"

John nods firmly.

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes squint. "Mm, yes... I do believe that's what I said the first time."

"No, it's just..."

"What?"

"I don't know," John says, shrugging. He takes a sip of tea, looking at Sherlock because he's the only nice thing to look at.

"Your leg?" Sherlock repeats, folding his hands under his chin.

John grimaces, and takes another sip. It tastes more like gin than tea; his taste buds are even annoyed with this kid. "My leg is my leg. I got shot, trying to save some stupid kid" - John mimes an assault rifle with his hands, cocking it and setting it over his shoulder - "and then, wzzt, I was falling, it was black, I woke up, David's dead and my leg is burning like the hells of fire."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Are you going to use the cane?"

"No."

"Because it makes you feel defeated, correct?"

John stares for a moment, just one almost okay moment, and then he pushes his tea away and shakes his head. Defeated? John Watson doesn't feel defeated. He is defeated, and he knows this. That's what the doctors say. "You aren't going to be able to walk the same way ever again," and "Take the medicine to numb the pain for a little while," and "Are you using the support for your leg?" They sport meek little words meant not to offend, not to insult, referring to the crippled as the less fortunate and the dying as the sleeping.

John knows it's all bullshit. "No," he responds. "I don't feel defeated. I'm not a lost child."

"Well..." Sherlock is thoughtful. "What do you think of me?"

"Besides that fact that you're probably insane?"

"Besides that, yes."

"Well..."

"Look at me."

"I'm looking."

"Tell me what you see."

John watches Sherlock as he moves, his chest rising and falling in time with the clock. His pupils are dilated, his pink lips slightly parted, the clean white of his shirt separated by a stripe of creamy skin that has chocolate sprinkles dotting the length of his neck.

"Oreos," John whispers, looking at Sherlock's beauty marks, each one a conundrum, each one entirely unsolvable.

"Hmm?"

"Your..." John stutters. "You, oreos and cream."

"What about me? Don't be shy," Sherlock says, leaning closer. "If feeling helps, then do it."

John peers over and lifts the collar of Sherlock's shirt, careful not to touch his flesh. It isn't awkward to do - Sherlock is doing his very best not to watch John as he observes his skin, his clothes... he's attempting to lower his heartbeat, he's trying to focus on the salt shaker to his right.

"You're not wealthy," John murmurs absently. "Your clothes. They're pristine, but too worn, too soft."

Sherlock nods.

John looks into the smile in Sherlock's eyes, searching. "You don't need wealth, if you can steal."

"Good, John."

"Intelligent, obviously. Not one to be too easily caught up in normal human beings, maybe a bit too arrogant for your own good."

Sherlock shrugs into John's hand, which is still hanging onto the lapel of his suit. Well, hanging on is rather an understatement - he's gripping, like it's the only thing keeping him halfway awake. "Maybe," he whispers. "My brother said that I was a good-for-nothing know-it-all."

"Brother. You're estranged with your family because you're an arse?"

"I'm estranged with my family," Sherlock growls, "because they don't approve of my... preference."

"You're queer." John's eyes dart from Sherlock's, and right then, only then, does he notice that he's still holding onto Sherlock's lapel. He lets go. He leans back. He breathes.

"Never said that," Sherlock replies, adjusting his shirt, trying to scratch off the itch that John's fingers left.

"You're straight, then?"

"I never said that either, John."

"What are you?"

"Why do you need to know?"

"Because, I..." John's voice trails weakly into the air, his cheeks flush, his heart beat quickens, and he's way too close, way too close, afraid to back away but afraid to stay as is.

"You're very, very attracted to me. It's obvious. Every time I lean closer, your eyes dilate, your heart rate quickens, your lips part to take a breath..." The smirk behind Sherlock's eyes is literally tangible - John can feel the heat of it on his tongue, in his hands, pulling at his hair, touching the oreo freckles on Sherlock's neck. John attempts to stutter out an objection, but Sherlock overrules it with a wave of his hand and John falls silent. He's aware of his lips moving, and aware of no sound coming out. "The question is..."

John finds himself hanging onto Sherlock's words, he finds himself leaning closer, every click and vowel and every gnash of the teeth more magnetic, more drawing. "The question is if this is a date."

"No," John stutters out immediately. Is he supposed to say, yes, in fact, going out with attractive strangers is my favorite pastime? "No, you just bought me a cup of tea."

"Of course it's a date. Don't be ridiculous." His every word is a mix of chastisement and flirtation, and John doesn't know what to do - he hasn't a clue, hasn't the foggiest.

"No," John objects sternly, putting his cup down before struggling to help himself to his feet. "No. I'm leaving. This is awful. I don't want to see you in my flat. I don't want to see you, you can go take your crazy talk somewhere else, to where people are more inclined to hear it-"

"I bought you tea, for goodness sakes!" Sherlock reaches deep into his pocket before picking out a crumpled up note to throw on the table. "You like me. Granted, most people do."

John hobbles to the cashier, handing her a few pounds in exchange for a goddamned muffin, for fuck's sake, hurry up.

"You like my movies, and you like the mystery of me, and you like my name," Sherlock insists, following John as he tears the muffin away from the woman and limps out the door. "And you like me."

John walks. He hears Sherlock yelling at him, something about oreos and how annoying he acted, and something about a man named "Mycroft," and John gets a sense that Sherlock is trying to tell him something important - but he pushes through, treading across the cold dark snow. He's walking stubbornly away, but Sherlock refuses to relent, he refuses to back down, and suddenly John is just turning on his heel to face him. "What the fuck do you want?"

Sherlock stops dead in his tracks, letting the snow drift onto his nose and his eyelashes and all of him, his everything. "Well," he starts, but John cuts him off.

"I don't know you. You break into my flat every day to give me stolen movies! You think we have something? You think that knowing about an inkling of my past is an accomplishment? You think this is like - like, love at first sight, just because you're arrogant and rude and beautiful? Go away, sir!" John pushes himself up the stairs of his flat complex, the streetlights shadowing Sherlock's face, making it angular and harsh and dark and angry.

"Hey!" he yells, cupping his hands around his mouth. "John!"

John hurriedly fishes out his flat keys, breathing hard; the cold winter air is unforgiving, and he can see his breath erupting from his nostrils at every beat of the heart.

"John!" Sherlock calls at the bottom of the stairs. "I'm..."

"You're what?" John suddenly snaps, whipping around to face Sherlock. Hot tears are in his eyes, but maybe that's just the wind. "What are you, for fuck's sake? Are you a thief, are you a fairy godmother, are you even fucking human?" John shouts, stomping his injured foot manically. "Maybe you're the best thing that's happened to me this week; hell, this year. Maybe you're attractive, and funny, and exciting, maybe, you are so fucking interesting and mysterious and maybe I want to fucking kiss you, but I can't,and I shouldn't, and I won't!" John yells, taking some snow off the ground and throwing it in Sherlock's direction. "So what if maybe I like you, and so what if maybe I'm attracted to you?" he shouts. "So what if you don't treat me like a dying child, so what if you make me forget how to use words, so what if you write notes that give me butterflies in the mornings? So what if you steal really brilliant movies to make me happy because I can't afford to pay my fucking rent with this pension, because my leg is never going to work again?"

"John."

"And so fucking what if all I can think about, all day, all night, is you?"

"John," Sherlock says, clambering up the steps, their bodies getting closer and closer together. "John."

And then he's right there, he's so close, he's high quality imagery and so warm and so real and so full, and John can taste it, taste the butterflies that are flying out his mouth.

"I'm not going to let myself like you," he bumbles mindlessly. "I refuse to, I-"

And then Sherlock is kissing him.

He cups the gentle curve of John's chin, he grazes the flesh that's barely there under the layers of cheap sweaters John is wearing, a hot stripe of fiery impulsion where Sherlock's fingers touch. John is vaguely aware of his heart being violently ripped from his chest, but it feels too good to feel bad, and John just wants the warmth and the fullness of it all, he just wants to feel full. There's a burning in his cheeks, his lips alight with a touch of fire, his eyes screwed shut, and his kiss open mouthed and soft.

And then... Sherlock is gone.

John doesn't open his eyes; he's afraid that he's dreaming.

A/N: Imma go like hyperventilate now mmkay thx bai

also wattpad took sherlock and John down

I'm working on it

also I'm crying

that was the best thing I've ever written pls and thank you