So just kiss me, sweetly and softly - johnlock

Preview:

“Yes but you are in love with John.”

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

John yawned, stretching his arms and turning over to look at the alarm clock. The time was displayed in rude neon letters and he had to wait for his eyes to focus until he could read the time. Half past seven. He sighed and allowed himself to lay back for one more moment.

Half past seven and he could hear Sherlock shouting downstairs.

But he could only blame himself, really. He had only agreed to come to the Holmes estate when Mycroft had practically bribed him into coming because his brother had only agreed to come and celebrate his own mother’s birthday if John would come with him (thinking John would never agree, John had suspected). Of course, Sherlock hadn’t bothered to ask John himself, so Mycroft had done it. He should have seen this coming.

Last night had been surprisingly pleasant. There had been nog fighting between Mycroft and Sherlock except for the occasional sneer, but a whole weekend without it would of course have been naive to ask.

John hurriedly threw on some clothes with the intention of going downstairs and save Mrs Holmes the unpleasantry of two shouting sons waking her. He was trudging down the stairs, rubbing his eyes, annoyed at this unsatisfactory end of what could have been  a nice trip, listening to what nonsense Sherlock and his brother were arguing about.

“But you let the milk go bad!” John shook his head as he approached the kitchendoor, thinking that if Sherlock was making a list of all the things Mycroft had done badly according to him, he could go on for ages, and then thinking he should better make an end to Sherlock waking up the entire house full of sleeping guests.

A loud slamming of the fridge door sounded, a deep sigh of Mycroft, and his voice when he said accusingly, just as John rounded the corner and entered the kitchen,

“Yes but you are in love with John.”

John stopped dead in his tracks.

John breathed in and out.

John stared at Mycroft, who looked as uncomortable as he’d ever seen him before, clearing his throat awkwardly and hastily making his way out of the kitchen.

John tried to consider his options quickly. If this was true... What would that mean for them? Would John have the courage to say yes, to finally give in after years of dancing around each other, after years of long-held gazes that seemed to give him little electric shocks, years of ignoring the other man’s physical attraction?

Then he stared at Sherlock’s unmoving back.

“John, before you say anything, I just want you to know that what just happened doesn’t in any way have to have any sort of-”

But John cut him off, demanding crisply and quietly,

“How long?”

Sherlock hadn’t turned around, though his shoulders had sagged and his breathing had quickened considerably.

“Do you remember... the day after we met, after you... after you killed the cabbie?”

John’s heart cought in his throat, and he took a moment to swallow around it and take a few careful steps towards the detective. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock turned around finally, revealing a face that seemed so unlike the Sherlock he knew; he seemed... scared or even frightened.

“John.” His voice was low and quiet, sounded like he was out of breath of having this conversation, and John could see his eyes darting around the kitchen, looking anywhere but at him.

John stepped closer and murmured, “You know, you can be remarkable thick for a genius.”

Sherlock frowned, looking like an indignant five-year-old. “What’s that supposed to-”

He cut himself off, though, when John took the last steps and tugged at the lapels of his jacket. John leaned his head up, his eyes fluttered and he said, “If you want, we could...” he looked down at his feet and grimaced at his own words but managed to start over, clearing his throat. “Sherlock,” he looked up, looked the man in those beautiful eyes of his. “you should have told me so, you bastard. We could have done this much earlier, and if you’re still interested... We could...?” He trailed off, staring at Sherlock’s tongue which darted out to wet pink lips.

“John,” he said, and his voice sounded somehow even lower as he said, “I’d like that, please.”

Then Sherlock ducked his head, and John closed his eyes as warm lips were placed on his. A soft sigh escaped his nose at the sweetness of the kiss. He allowed himself to enjoy the sweet, dry kiss for a long moment before drawing back to look at the man before him and inwardly kicking himself for not getting this on much earlier. Sherlock mirrored him, looking down at him smugly. He was about to say something, but John beat him to it.

“Did I ever mention that you are the most gorgeous man I know?”

If possible, Sherlock’s smile grew even more smug and he raised an eyebrow. “I figured by reading your blog entries, as did anyone who happened to stumble across that funny little blog of yours.”

“The Queen reads my blog.” Was all John could think of to say, which was stupid, so he moved his arms around Sherlock to rest one hand in his curls and one on his side as he leaned in for another kiss. Sherlock’s hands moved swiftly to his cheeks, and one went around to clutch at the back of his head, his hair, and he made the tiniest, softest moan-y noise.

John smiled against Sherlock’s lips as a wave of content washed over him; of long unresolved tension and of intertwined gazes at crime scenes; of unspoken words by lingering touches and of quiet longing to touch and to kiss, to be closer, and he deepened the kiss, which earned him another breathy moan of Sherlock.

Hands clasped his hair more desperately, and the one hand that had remained on his cheek stroked down his neck, down his side to lean on the small of his back, then pressed John closer to him. John pulled lightly at Sherlock’s wavy curls, which only seemed to encourage Sherlock as the kiss grew more desperate, and John groaned and backed Sherlock up against the fridge.

Suddenly Sherlock’s lips retreated and he drew back, gasping for air and giggling, his face contorted in beautiful  lines of bliss. John let his hands wander down to rest on Sherlock’s arms and smiled warily.

“What?”

But that only seemed to make it worse, and soon Sherlock was clasping at John’s arms to keep standing up.

“You- us- kissing- we both thought- and now-” he breathed, through a fit of giggles. But John understood and soon they were both giggling and clasping at each other like madmen, laughing out the years of unresolved tension and their thickness of not starting this whole thing sooner, and the sudden electricity and energy of the moment.

Eventually they were left staring fondly at each other, grinning, and John wondered if he, too, looked like the lovesick puppy Sherlock was currently doing a good job at impersonating. John’s grin became a fond smile as he gazed at Sherlock’s swollen and red lips spread into a crooked grin. Sherlock had always had an infectious laugh.

John broke the silence then, saying, “God, we must look ridiculous.”,  and that earned him another grin from Sherlock, which made him feel even happier, and wondered what he had done to deserve this man.

“See, this is why I didn’t do relationships.” And he bent down to place another quick kiss on John’s mouth.