Deducing Love

"What have you been thinking about this whole time?" John asked. Sherlock had been standing resolutely at the window, violin
in hand, playing a tune John didn't recognize. He was composing as he went, as he did when he was particularly upset.

"The Woman," Sherlock said after a brief pause. His voice was tense. John sighed and folded the newspaper loudly into his lap.
"You sure have been thinking about her a lot," John said, barely hiding the jealousy in his voice.

"Well, there's a lot to think about, isn't there?" Sherlock replied, turning his head slightly. John caught a glance of his
sea green eyes over the shoulder of his flowing house robe.

"Not really," John stood abruptly from his chair and turned purposefully into the kitchen and started preparing himself a cup of tea.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, laying down his violin and striding across the room, looking inquisitively at John.

"Nothing happened between the two of you," John said, refusing to make eye contact with Sherlock, "Or did it?" He barely
turned his head to look briefly at Sherlock. He cocked his head.

"Well, no. She still calls me the Virgin, you know," Sherlock stepped into the kitchen and ran his hand along the scratched
table.

"And...is that accurate?" John asked. He felt his ears flushing bright red as he focused on boiling the water. There was a
tense silence between the flatmates. Sherlock took a deep breath as if he were about to speak, then stopped. John turned
slowly around as he waited for the response and rested against the counter. He pursed his lips, "Well?" he asked.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes closed and nodded sheepishly.

"Really?" John asked.

"Yes," Sherlock said, barely above a whisper.

"And that doesn't bother you?" John asked.

"Of course it bothers me, John. What do you think I am?" Sherlock flushed bright red and turned on his heel. He sat violently in his chair and rested his chin on his fist.

"Well," John said, suddenly neglecting his tea. He left the kitchen and sat down in his own chair, opposite Sherlock's, "If
we're on the subject...what are you?" John did his best not to blush.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked.

"Gay, straight...?" John asked.

Sherlock crossed his legs and looked up towards the ceiling. He scratched his chin as if he hadn't heard John's question but
was painfully aware of the color creeping into his pale cheeks.

"Sherlock?" John asked, leaning forwards. Sherlock tore his attention away from the cobwebs in the corner.

"Mrs. Hudson needs to dust," he observed.

"You're avoiding my question!" John said.

"Maybe I am," said Sherlock, cocking one eyebrow.

John looked inquisitively at Sherlock. Their eyes met and Sherlock's face flushed bright red.

"The hell with it," John said. In one movement he swooped out of his chair and planted a kiss squarely on Sherlock's lips. He
giggled a bit as he pulled away and sat back down.

"I see you're better at making deductions than I thought, Dr. Watson," Sherlock smiled.

John bridged the gap between his own body and Sherlock's in a matter of moments and kissed him again, hard. Sherlock didn't
react at first, shocked by the sudden physical contact. John pulled away.

"Are you okay? Is this okay?" John asked, running his hands across the fabric of Sherlock's too-tight purple shirt.

"Yes," Sherlock nodded quickly, "Yes, definitely," he said, leaning in to meet John's lips. Tentatively, Sherlock's hands
traced up Johns' legs and up to his chest. He balled up the striped jumper in his fists and pulled John closer in to him.

John straddled his legs on either side of Sherlock, sitting on his knees and sliding onto Sherlock's chair. He tangled his
fingers in ridiculous curls he'd always wanted to get lost in and felt Sherlock opening his mouth under his own. John was suddenly aware of the taste of Sherlock's tongue exploring his mouth.

This was all completely new to Sherlock. He relished in the the feeling of John's mouth on his own and cautiously explored
the intricacies of getting off a jumper mid-makeout. He felt the surprising tight muscles of John's military body under his hands and was aware of John fiddling with the buttons on his own shirt.

"Okay?" John asked breathily, "This is okay? Not too fast?" he asked.

"No, no, no," Sherlock replied quickly. The two of them stood and collapsed onto the sofa, Sherlock on his back, the shirtless John above him.

John cupped Sherlocks face in his hands and leaned into the kiss.
"Sherlock," he whispered, "I had no idea," he said.

"Oh, I did," Sherlock said, smiling cheekily at John.

"Do you want to go...further?" John asked, snaking his hands towards Sherlock's trousers. Sherlock blushed violently, "It's
okay, Sherlock, you don't have to." Sherlock nodded shyly, letting John know that was as far as he wanted to go.

"Bit of a kill joy, aren't I?" Sherlock said sheepishly.

"Never," John said. He kissed Sherlock on the cheek and layed down beside him, resting his head on Sherlock's wide chest.

Their arms and legs entwined as they lay there, John planting kisses along Sherlock's trademark cheekbones.

Suddenly, the door to 221B opened and the voice of Mrs. Hudson trilled through the flat.

"Sherlock, you've got a few friends here, they say they need to see you!" John and Sherlock leapt from the couch, only to be greeted by the horrified faces of Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson.

"Hello, friends," Sherlock smiled. John leapt for his jumper and dashed into the kitchen where he pulled it over his head and took the boiling tea of the stove. When he came back into the living room, Donovan was laughing hysterically, while Lestrade and Anderson just stared, astonished, at the shirtless Sherlock. He was sitting smugly in his chair, houserobe left carelessly open over his broad chest.

'I knew it!" Lestrade said, eyes wide, "And you said you weren't gay!" he looked accusingly at John.

"I, uh, I'm not." he coughed.

"Nice try," Anderson said, "You clearly are."

"Good job, Anderson. The science of deduction is CLEARLY your calling," Sherlock said, that double-chinned smile still plastered on his face.

"So, you're a couple?" Lestrade asked, trying to get a grip on the situation," John's eyes darted from Sherlock, to Lestrade, then back again.

"Are we, John?" Sherlock asked. John coughed and gave a slight nod.

"If that's...what you want," he said, doing his best to ignore Lestrade's prying presence.

"We're a couple!" Sherlock announced, still smiling.

"Don't look so pleased with yourself," John said under his breath, sitting on down on the sofa, "So, what are you here for?" John asked, although his mind was anywhere but the matters Scotland Yard had to discuss with them.
---
Of course, a day with Sherlock wouldn't be complete until you'd visited at least one crime scene, and within only a few minutes of speaking with the Scotland Yard officers, John and Sherlock found themselves face to face with a dead body. It was as if everyone in the place could tell that something had happened between the two of them.
Sherlock's mind was clearly elsewhere, he missed observations even Anderson could pick out, and John couldn't seem to stop giggling. How was it that they'd gone from completely platonic friends to being in a relationship ten minutes later?

John stared intently at Sherlock as he worked, watching the mesmerizing eye movements and thought processes he went through every time he worked out a particularly tough case.

"It was the owner of the restaurant," Sherlock said. John hadn't been paying particularly close attention to the case, but he listened to every word Sherlock said, "When we spoke to him, he was missing his belt, quite evident by the way his trousers kept slipping off. Can you honestly believe it's a coincidence this body showed up outside his restaurant, choked to death by a belt? And anyway, they were clearly ex... lovers," Sherlock glanced over his shoulder and looked at John. He blushed.

Sherlock continued with his deductions, "She's got half a wrinkled photo of him in her pocket, clearly ripped up in anger, bruises on her wrists, they got in a fight, she tried to storm out, he didn't want her to go. They yelled, she cried, you can see her mascara stains here," he pointed at the corpses streaked face, "Bad break up, and he couldn't take her anymore. Put an end to her endless neediness late at night in the parking lot. With a belt no less. Not very clever. Child's play, really." Sherlock said,sounding disappointed.

He turned away from the crime scene and stood beside John. They walked in time away from the shady restaurant, Sherlock lifting the caution tape so John could duck under it.

"So," John said, "Where to?" he asked.

"Doesn't matter," Sherlock said.

"Why not?" John asked, confused.

"Because I'm with you," Sherlock said. He reached down and took John's hand. If John had had any doubts about this sudden relationship, they melted away as he felt the protective hand enveloping his own and looked into Sherlock's endless eyes.

"Sherlock," John said, stopping dead in his tracks, "Sherlock, I think I love you," he said.

"I know," Sherlock responded. He leaned down and kissed John.

"Not here," John giggled, "They'll laugh," he shot a glance towards the crime scene.

"I don't care, do you?" Sherlock asked. A pause.

"No," John shook his head and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, bringing their lips together in a passionate kiss that turned heads.

After being shooed away by a disgusted Anderson, Sherlock and John decided to walk back to 221B, hand in hand. The sun began to set and for the first time in his life, Sherlock felt like he was with an equal. Somebody he didn't have to talk down to, someone he could truly be himself around. Somebody he loved. John squeezed his hand tighter and Sherlock knew he felt the same.

As they reached the flat, Sherlock turned and looked into John's eyes.

"I'm a terrible romantic," Sherlock said, "I'm afraid you might have to cover for the both of us."

John stood on his tiptoes and kissed Sherlock lightly on the lips, "Gladly."