EXPLICIT Sherlock/John SEX. Because there's SEX in this thing. SEX. Don't say I didn't warn you.
ONE.
The first time John Watson kissed a man, he’d just had a run through Whitechapel on the heels of yet another Jack the Ripper wannabe who’d left spray-painted messages addressed to Sherlock on walls and pavement. They’d cornered the bastard in a dead end after a frantic chase down very dark narrow alleys—just the kind of chase Sherlock really loved. After the police showed up and hauled the guy away, Sherlock grabbed John’s coat, pushed him against a brick wall, and kissed him, hard. John, stunned, could only grab Sherlock’s labels and hang on. Sherlock stepped back with a wicked grin, declaimed “Brilliant!,” and hailed a cab.
All of John’s questions, consisting entirely of variations on “What the hell was that about?,” were ignored or answered with distracted non-sequiturs. John chalked it up to a post-hunt high and put the kettle on as usual when they got back to the flat. He went to bed feeling a bit unsettled, but a good night’s sleep returned him to normal by morning. They didn’t speak of it at all.
