Sherlock finds himself savoring the taste in his mouth John leaves. Not that he literally has been tasting the man - as far as Sherlock knows, the only feelings John return are the ones that convince him to share the notes, back and forth, every day.

Regardless, he loves the twist of his penmanship, the way his letters shift and ease into each other. He considers their relationship, as platonic as Sherlock had rather unintended it to be, to be his favorite pastime. Hours, spent at the door, sending back and forth messages on a cramped piece of loose leaf. Words written that couldn't possibly said aloud, lest they sound like overeager attempts at courtship - Sherlock scoffs at the thought (even if he likes the thought).

His day is no longer composed of staring longingly at the rides in the fair while smoking cigarettes; to be honest, he likes it this way. Now, he knocks three times on John Watson's door, and slips a note under. Then he waits. Barely a minute.

He hears the padding of bare feet in the hall, and he ruffles his hair into place, despite the fact that John probably won't open the door. It's a silent agreement, one that does not require discussion. Sherlock will send the notes, and John will send them back without question.

Namely, their conversations begin with a simple hello, and then they divulge themselves into seemingly interesting conversation. When Sherlock takes the notes home, he reads them over and he realizes he spent his entire evening discussing the quality of chocolate bars. Sometimes, this is so hard. Sometimes, he knows he's wasting his time, being caught up in this, but sometimes, he contemplates writing his phone number on the slip of paper he and John share.

***

I'm sorry, did I wake you?

-SH

Only barely.

Do you usually sleep this late?

-SH

Only sometimes.

So, what's the reason for this?

-SH

The time is fucking 4:30. Sherlock has been fucking waiting, all fucking day, writing note after note after fucking note, for John to get up and come to the door:

Hello, John. Wake up.

-SH

Where are you?

-SH

It's 12:03.

-SH

You're usually out by now.

-SH

I would break in, but that's very rude.

-SH

John.

-SH

I.

-SH

Am.

-SH

Bored.

-SH

And also very anticipatory of your return.

-SH

If you could kindly.

-SH

Please.

-SH

Fucking - pretty please.

-SH

The landlord is giving me a less-than-approving look. I shall simply dissolve if you don't fucking come out.

-SH

Of the closet.

-SH

(Sherlock scrapped that one.)

John, I am going to say this very clearly, very explicitly, grossly so:

I am going to dissolve.

-SH

Because I miss you.

-SH

And I don't want to smoke.

-SH

Just - come out.

Please.

-SH

By that point, it had been 12:09, and he'd run out of paper. Out of respect for John's privacy, he'd gone to the office supplies store and bought more. And by the time he'd gotten back, there was a note underneath the door.

I'm here, you needy git.

Sherlock had excitedly shoved the pile of loose leaf onto the floor, pulling out his fountain pen, and writing a response, which had lead to the question, "So, what is the reason for this?" to which John had replied, "I was just especially tired, today. Got kept up late. You know how it is."

Indeed. I bought you some food.

-SH

Food?

That is what I wrote, is it not?

-SH

I'm just a little awed.

Why?

-SH

Because, it's fucking - food?

It's not as if I bought you a thanksgiving dinner. It's just a morsel, expressing my gratitude.

-SH

Your gratitude for what?

For just... being here. There.

-SH

I'm not here. I'm on the other side of the door.

A low grumbling laugh rattles in the back of Sherlock's throat.

I mean, with me.

-SH

Yeah?

Yeah. It's a croissant.

-SH

A crescent roll?

A croissant, John. Very different. I bought ten, stole some butter, strawberry jam, blueberry, peach, orange, I didn't know which type you liked.

-SH

Oh.

What?

-SH

I'm just sort of grateful. Thanks.

"Open the door," Sherlock says, picking up the papers and a basket. He means to hand them off and close the door, run away, but as he gives the basket to John he pulls Sherlock in by the arm.

Sherlock hears his voice as John trots into the kitchen. Something about, "Won't you share?" followed by a mumble when John drops the basket onto the table. His voice is just as captivating as before, mild and rough and calloused, painted with the type of kindness you would assort with - vanilla cookies.

"What?" Sherlock snaps, lifting his head up to see John inches away.

"I said," John repeats gently, "go eat."

"But, I-"

"Sit," John insists. "I'm making us some lunch. Er. Dinner. Pasta."

Sherlock does as he's told, sitting experimentally in a chair that's much too small for his waist. He waits as John boils the water, observing the small cramped space. There are empty ramen packets everywhere, and the garbage is full of fruits and vegetables and eggshells. Spices fill the cupboards, chicken is in the freezer when John opens it, and there are meats stacked up in organized sections.

Sherlock unwraps the basket, and paints a croissant with butter. He pauses at the jam. "What jam do you like?"

"I don't like any one in particular," John says absently. Sherlock watches his hands work as he adds spice, pouring tomato sauce into a pot and simmering it. "Alright. Should be okay for a few minutes." He makes his way over to the table, where Sherlock is surveying the different tastes carefully.

"Orange? Blueberry?"

"Well, you're eating it, you choose."

"I..." Sherlock shakes his head. "I've already eaten."

The look John gives him - skeptical would be an understatement. "Just choose a flavor."

"Um. I haven't tasted any of them."

"Then do that, Sherlock." John pops open the seals one by one, placing them back on the table. "Take a bit," he says, gesturing.

Sherlock looks at John for a moment, and John nods, motioning. "Try it."

Sherlock dips his finger in a jar experimentally, and then puts his index finger to his tongue. Citrusy. A bit sour - Sherlock enjoys it. It has personality. "It's a bit tangy," he says. The next one is "sweet and tasteful," and the third is "entirely surprising."

John agrees, tasting each jam after Sherlock does.

"Your favorite?"

"Blueberry. Yours?"

"I liked the honey."

"Half blueberry, half honey, then."

Sherlock shakes his head. "I told you. I already ate, when I'd gone shopping."

"Your stomach has been growling nonstop. And I'm making pasta. For us. Sherlock. Just - have dinner with me, okay?" John grimaces and gets up, trying very hard not to strain his leg. "You're very lucky, Mr. Holmes. You can be healthy, you can run and play and be someone. I find it insulting when people don't take opportunities that I don't have the... capacity to take. So, just fucking eat." He says all this while stirring his sauce, tasting the mixture in nonchalance. "More salt..."

Sherlock sits in silence, buttering croissants.

***

Regardless of how early in the evening it is, regardless of how light is outside, now seems like the perfect time to have dinner. Tea, biscuits, croissants, meatballs, pasta, all before 7:30.

"So," John murmurs, shoveling into his pasta. "What have you been doing recently?"

Sherlock scoffs and bites into a meatball. "You know that isn't a good catalyst for conversation."

"I'm interested," John says. "What does the elusive Sherlock Holmes do in his spare time?" John puts food into his mouth with a fork, smiling warmly at the man besides him. There's an overhead light hanging, giving Sherlock the shadow of a smile.

"I smoke cigarettes and steal things."

"Come on."

"Yep."

"That's it?"

"I do believe that my daily pastimes are rather limited. I have a routine."

"Like...?"

Sherlock breathes in deep before putting down his fork and swallowing down food. "I get up at 4:30. I put on clothes, and then I sit on my bed until five thirty. I get up, I go outside, I sit on this cliff that overlooks a small fair, and I smoke. At ten you're awake, I visit you. Talk until two on most days. At two thirty I walk around, by four I visit home again, watch TV. At six I eat, at six thirty I take a shower. At seven I sleep. Wash. Rinse. Repeat."

John grimaces. "Exciting."

"Throughout the course of the day," Sherlock adds tediously, "I have random and uncontrollable urges to steal." He shrugs. "I've learned to channel my unfortunate illness into a positive; it's a way to get what I want easily. I used to take no pleasure in it, but it became a normal for me, and now I regard it as an asset."

John eats food more slowly, carefully stabbing a caper and dragging it off his fork with his teeth. "I tried reading," he says quietly. "So I wouldn't, you know, panic."

"And?"

"And I couldn't."

"Why?"

"All of the books reminded me of David. He loved books," John states. "Do you want more pasta? I don't have much of an appetite."

"Yes, thank you."

"So," John says, getting up. "No movies. No books. Music, I can listen to, but it's not something to do. Sport is completely out of the question." He takes Sherlock's plate and fills it with pasta and meat.

"Drawing?" Sherlock asks, as John pours sauce over the pasta. John looks up at Sherlock, a warm gleam in his eye. He says, "I used to dabble. Now, my arm doesn't work as well, you know-"

"Well, you should certainly try."

"I haven't the time."

"That's all we fucking have," Sherlock growls. "Time is what defines the meaninglessness of our existence. We have too much of it."

"Time isn't a fucking thing you can have too much of," John says, putting down Sherlock's plate. "Besides. Painting, pastels, it just isn't in the cards for me."

"How can you tell that there are cards? What if it's not a card game? What if it's a poker game, and you're bluffing so hard that people aren't sure if your tell is too good to be true?"

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"You're just wasting your time, John-"

"And so fucking what."

John snaps it so harshly, Sherlock isn't entirely sure what to say. The pause is pregnant with tension, and it takes a few moments for John to register that what he just said was uncalled for.

"Sorry, I - I get agitated. Irritable. It's a symptom. I'll be fine one second, and then..." he trails off dejectedly. "Sorry."

Sherlock nods once. The moment it takes for him to speak again is too long, too strained. "You know, John..." Sherlock eats his pasta tentatively.

"Yeah."

"I don't care."

"About what?"

"Your disorder."

"That's absolutely lovely to hear."

"Because it's part of you, John, but it isn't the essence of who you are. I firmly believe in decisions, John. Faults we find in ourselves can either be changed, or they cannot. Circumstance, coincidence, fate - it's all garbage. There is consciousness, and choice, and will. I can't choose whether or not I steal. You can't choose to be angry, or to have flashbacks. As much as these things make us who we are, they aren't the baseline for which we make ourselves. The only person who can choose who you are is you."

"That sounds awful."

"I take comfort in it."

"How?"

"John, you cannot change the irrelevancy of human existence. On the contrary, you can sure as hell make your own fucking choices in life. You can decide" - Sherlock waves his fork around to accentuate his speech - "how to live. And I choose to live in routine. Spontaneity is welcome, but I associate spontaneity with... urges. And you associate living, in general, with David. Because you're alive, and he's not."

"Yeah," John shrugs heavily, buttering a still warm croissant.

"But not painting, it seems," Sherlock muses, tilting his head in curiousity. "Painting, you can do."

"Yeah."

"I advise you do it."

"Okay, alright," John mumbles, putting down his croissant and standing up, pacing. "Jesus. I..."

"You?"

"Humans try so hard to have meaning. And I just thought... in the war. That I gave enough." He paces around, flustered, his hands clawing through his hair to find a semblance of sanity. "You don't know how it feels, to be told at 25 that you'll never be able to walk the same way again. So I thought I gave my all. I gave my best friend."

Sherlock stands. "I'm sorry."

"And then you can do so much."

"Yes?"

"And I am made of so little."

Sherlock walks towards John. "You are made of atoms, John - everyone is."

"Atoms that make nerve endings that are totally fucking useless, Sherlock. I resign myself. It's easy. And simple. Some people aren't meant to leave impact."

"And then, some leave craters."

"Regardless, I don't find the appeal in it, anymore. But you..." John looks up at Sherlock. The only light in the room is the swinging overhead bulb, and it makes Sherlock into a tall, dark shadow; his lips, his nose, his cheeks - they're nothing. Just his eyes. That's all John sees. His eyes.

"You..."

"I..." Sherlock whispers, his palms brushing John's long sleeve shirt.

"You're just fucking... captivating, I..."

John's breath hitches as Sherlock twists the fingers of his hand into John's, a quiet gasp escaping his debauched lips. A tremor runs through him, a guilty pleasure, a silent slip of the finger, and John pulls Sherlock's hands oh so gently to the curve of his chest. His heart is imploding in on itself. Sherlock can feel that, right under the cloth of his shirt.

He'd be lying if he said he didn't feel it, too.

The first kiss is slow, soft, deep, warm, and Sherlock's hands twist into John's hair like they're the only things keeping him from falling to his knees. He pants heavily and pushes John into a wall, his thigh pressing up in between John's legs to keep him in place, but it hardly works - John slips Sherlock's coat off his shoulders and it pools on the ground.

"I've never seen you like this," John breathes into the silence, watching the rapid rise and fall of Sherlock's chest.

"What," Sherlock purrs gently, "Like this?" And he kisses and suckles at John's neck, his tongue painting stripes of cold along muscle and vein. John dares not hold him any closer; if he does, he's afraid his heart will stop. He can feel the muscle of Sherlock's forearms tighten and flex under his hands, his stomach, his hip bones, angled precisely, made perfectly. Porcelain smooth hands tug at John's hips, a candy pink mouth pressed up against rougher skin, everything is so quiet, John is feeling nothing but this.

Every brush of skin feels like a promise.

A/N: pls like this

i sold my soul and my mother to write it and idk ahhahahafdhshs pls like pls pls like this is important hahahauahgsghdd pls pls kk im gonna die now hhahahagahaahhagsggddh

as you can see smut is not my forté so like mm no

and I'm sorry about the bold letters I find bold letters to be horrendous auagahhaha okayokaago bai pls vote/comment