#cute johnlock

Sherlock : They're just giant balls of gas

John : Don't ruin the moment-

Sherlock : And yet none of them are as big as my love for you

A/N: So I just came up with this idea and thought I should write it.

Summary: Sherlock gets bored, so he shoots the wall, causing John to rush to him in both annoyance and fright. Sherlock decides to occupy himself by entering his mind palace for a bit, but when he leaves it, he catches John staring at him. This causes both a question and a plan to arise in the detective’s head. Did John love him? To him, there was only one way to find out.

~

The sound of a gun being fired resonated through the small little flat on 221B Baker Street as a bullet lodged itself in the wall, destroying yet another centimeter of Mrs. Hudson’s wall, as well as her “lovely” wallpaper.

“Bored!” yelled Sherlock, his baritone piercing and successfully shattering the peaceful (well, for Sherlock, not so peaceful) silence that still existed just mere moments ago. His body was slung lazily in his grey leather chair, his legs spread out, his ankles crossed, and his right arm on the other end of the armrest, his hand loosely holding John’s pistol.

John came running out of his room in slight distress, but mostly annoyance. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded with a slight edge in his voice.

“Shooting the wall,” Sherlock answered simply. “Obviously.” He raised his arm that was holding the gun up, starting to aim at the wall with the gun.

John strode up to him and grabbed his gun, yanking it harshly out of Sherlock’s hand. “Yes, I can see that, but why?”

Sherlock glared at John and pouted. “Because I am bored. Give me the gun back.”

John still held the gun in his hand, close to his body, not budging even a half of a centimeter.

Sherlock sighed. “Please?” he asked.

John still didn’t move.

“John, just give me the gun, God damn it!”

“Where did you find it, anyway? How did you get to it?” John asked, ignoring Sherlock’s request–demand was more like it–while inspecting the gun.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I went into your room while you were at the surgery. How else?”

“Yes, but I usually keep my gun locked away.”

“I know, John. It’s quite easy to pick locks, you know,” he said. He looked at John’s astonished expression and threw his head back in annoyance. “Yes, I, the world’s only consulting detective who knows just about everything except silly human things knows how to pick a lock. How fascinating!” he gasped, sarcastic amazement written dramatically over every feature on his face.

John sighed. “Yeah, whatever.” He sat down in his red armchair and placed his gun on the coffee table, which was scattered with papers, articles about murders which Sherlock thought were interesting and worth saving forever, therefore giving him the right to litter the coffee table with papers that were years old. Sherlock sunk even more down into his chair and steepled his hands, his fingers resting on his lips. He sighed and rolled his head back slightly, closing his striking eyes so he could be even deeper in his mind palace. His eyes twitched behind his eyelids and his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. He let out a short sigh before his face relaxed again, his wrinkles suddenly disappearing, all age erasing itself from his face.

John looked at Sherlock, studying every shape, line, and crevice in his face, how his nose curled down to meet his stunningly angular lips and how his lips slowly curved to an end, introducing his slightly rounded chin. John’s eyes trailed down to his cheekbones. Oh, those cheekbones. They were brilliant, beautiful, and obviously capable to cut through glass. They gave him character. Whenever he smiled, the skin on them would expand to fit his lips as they formed his smile, the smile that was more amazing than any other smile in the world, the smile that, whenever John saw it, lit up his day.

John’s gaze rested upon Sherlock’s closed eyes. He imagined what they would look like if they were open, so serious, so focused, yet so revealing and full of emotion, burning a hole through whatever object met his gaze. Those crystal-like eyes were the most striking, astonishing objects on his face, giving away every emotion that he was feeling, whether it be sadness, happiness, or anger. Sometimes, they captured the colour of the Pacific ocean. Other times, they were a cold, ice blue colour. They could change to the colour of the grass, the sky on a good day, and sea foam. There was a never-ending list of colours that they could fade into, but it was all depending on light.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, catching John’s gaze for a split second before the doctor looked at his lap, fidgeting with the fabric on his legs, his ears dusted with a light crimson colour. Sherlock smiled a little at him, still looking at John even though he broke his gaze with Sherlock. He looked at him, how he breathed heavily when he thought no one would notice, how his chest rose and fell unevenly, matching his heartbeat, which was most likely wild and audible to John through every part of his body. Sherlock’s mouth twitched up in a smile again. Did John love him? This called for drastic measures.

Sherlock quickly got up and strode slowly over to John, stopping in front of his armchair, waiting patiently for him to notice him. He started to lean closer and closer to him until John eventually noticed him, his eyes flickering up to him. John’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

“Sherlock?” he asked, his face just centimeters away from Sherlock’s, their noses grazing slightly.

Sherlock cupped John’s cheek and leaned forward a little more until their lips touched in a soft kiss. The feeling of John’s lips sent fireworks into Sherlock’s stomach and caused even more love to pool at the bottom of his heart, spreading slowly out to the rest of his chest. John was still immobile, however, stiffened by surprise. His joints locked and his brain was filled with thoughts and questions of what to do as well as the feeling of Sherlock’s surprisingly velvety, slightly chapped lips. As Sherlock’s gentle hand moved to John’s neck, however, and as he slowly slid down to sit in John’s lap, John seemed to regain his ability to move. He brought his left hand up to tangle in his messy curls and the other to hold his waist. Their eyes fluttered shut as their lips engaged in a soft, somewhat cheesily romantic kiss. No matter how cheesy it was, though, it still managed to stir the butterflies in the pit of John’s stomach, going crazy as Sherlock continued to kiss him. They died down, however, as Sherlock pulled away and looked into John’s dark blue eyes. His hand moved to hold John’s, the tips of his fingers pressed lightly against his wrist and his other hand dropped to his side.

Pupils dilated, pulse elevated, slight blush evident on the cheeks, ears, and neck, mostly on the cheeks, breathing unsteady. Yep. John was definitely in love with Sherlock. But a voice of doubt itched in the back of Sherlock’s mind. What if he didn’t love him? All the physical evidences prove that he does, but does he really? Did he really love Sherlock?

“Sherlock?” John asked airily and slightly out of breath, his arms still looped around Sherlock’s neck, resting on his shoulders. “Wh-What..What was..?” He was unable to finish his sentence due to his loss of words.

“John, I love you. I’ve loved you ever since you walked into that room in Saint Bart’s. I love everything about you; your hair, your cute nose, your lips, your eyes, your smile…just you, your personality, and the way you are. The list of reasons of why I love you is never ending. It stretches to the moon and back. Hell, it could even probably reach Mars…,” he admitted, a sigh escaping his mouth. “Where is Mars again?”

John chuckled a light, nervous but happy chuckle. “It’s the closest planet to Earth.”

“Oh. What’s the farthest?”

“Neptune.”

“Then my list stretches from here to Neptune and back,” Sherlock told John nervously, his hands shaking a little.

John smiled a little and raised his hand to Sherlock’s cheek, his thumb delicately grazing his cheekbone. “Sherlock, I love you, too…Always have,” he said. “Though, I didn’t realise it until the night before…before…” John took a deep breath. “I didn’t realise it until the night before you fell. God, I love you. I love how you can be the world’s worst arse but you still have feelings, I love how you shoot the wall when you’re bored, I love when you come up with witty insults…I love your brain, your intelligence. I love how you’re actually not a sociopath, I love how you can read people like open books. I love you every second of the day, even when you’re being an utter cock,” John grinned. “Oh, and how could I forget your eyes? Those eyes make my day whenever I see them. They seem to light up whatever room you walk into. They tell every secret about you.” John smiled at him. “I love you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

Sherlock grinned bashfully and hid his face in John’s chest, burying his face into John’s soft jumper. John chuckled slightly and wrapped his arms around the taller man, attempting to pull him up so he was fully on the armchair with John.

“I love you, too,” said the detective, his voice muffled by his blogger’s jumper.

“Boyfriends?” John inquired.

“Boyfriends,” Sherlock confirmed, his face still hidden in John’s chest.

June Sketchbook Challenge - day 3

sherlock totally stole it