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The Dumbest Smart Person That I Know

Chapter Text

The day started out like any other.

John spent his morning at the surgery, ran some errands in the afternoon, and then returned home to 221B Baker Street in the evening.

"Oh good. You're home." Sherlock greeted as soon as John came through the door.

"We're going out tonight. Get changed." The taller man ordered.

John huffed and rolled his eyes. Typical Sherlock.

"Any particular occasion?" He asked while on his way to the kitchen.

"We're going out to catch a serial killer."

"Naturally," John commented, as he put away the few groceries he had arrived with. "Need me to wear anything specific?"

"No. Your normal attire will suffice."

John simply nodded and then headed upstairs to grab a change of clothes.


A hot shower, fresh change of clothes, and a spritz of cologne later, John returned to the living area.

He found it to be empty, so he sat in his armchair and picked up the paper to rifle through.

John was halfway through the entertainment pages when Sherlock emerged from his room, looking very well put together, as always.

"I need you to go along with everything I say tonight." Sherlock instructed as he buttoned his wrist cuffs.

"Yep." John confirmed his cooperation.

Then added, "Want to fill me in on the details? Or would it be best for me not to know yet?"

A smirk played across Sherlock's lips.

"I have a tip off from the homeless network that someone I've been after for a while has resurfaced, guy by the name of Gerard James. He's supposed to be at a nightclub called 'The Black Crow' tonight."

"Right. Shall we go, then?" John asked as he stood from his chair to grab his coat.


Their cab pulled up to the curb of the night club and stopped to let them out.

"Stay close tonight." Sherlock ordered, before paying the cabbie and exiting the vehicle.

The crisp night air felt nice against John's skin as he emerged from the taxi to follow Sherlock to the front of the line.

Upon seeing the detective, the bouncer allowed the men through.

"Should I even ask how they know you?" John inquired on their way to the bar. "Did you ensure a death or save a life?" He laughed, but quickly dismissed it. "No. Never mind. I don't actually want to know."

"That's probably for the best." Sherlock chuckled.

Both men stood at the bar and when the bartender came 'round, Sherlock ordered drinks.

"I thought we were on a case?" John said.

"We are. But we may as well settle in a bit. Wouldn't want to draw too much attention to ourselves, and besides it may be a while before our guy shows his face." Sherlock explained over the loud music.

"You're not planning on dancing tonight, are you?" John laughed.

His friend smiled shyly and shook his head. "That would definitely draw attention."

John wondered how he had meant that. Good or Bad attention?

Maybe John would have to find out on a different night.


A few beers in, John felt very relaxed and quite cheerful. He was leaned back, braced with both elbows against the bar.

He wore a slight smile on his face, between his conversing with Sherlock.

He was beginning to wonder if this guy would even show up tonight.

A few minutes passed by in companionable silence while the two men sipped on their beers.

Until suddenly Sherlock perked up and asked, "Do you trust me, John?"

John startled briefly. His posture tensed and he brought an elbow off of the bar to turn towards his friend. "Of course I trust you."

The words came across his lips before his brain had fully processed the question. It was an automatic answer because it was the truth.

John watched curiously as Sherlock brought himself much closer. "Good." The taller man stated.

John raised an eyebrow as one of Sherlocks hands came to brace the hip under his crooked elbow.

"Sherl...?" John began to question when the detective's other hand reached up to rest at the crook of the soldiers neck.

He doesn't get to finish the inquiry, because Sherlock's lips have silenced John's.

And now John is thankful that at least his muscle's have memories, because his brain has short circuited. Alas, his free arm automatically rises up to pull Sherlock in by the waist and keep him impossibly close.

The kiss isn't wild. It's quite chaste in fact. Yet, John's heart is racing wildly. He's never kissed a man before, but this doesn't feel wrong, because it's Sherlock.


When Sherlock pulls back he can see the confusion play across his friends facial features, as was expected. But what happens next was not what he predicted would happen. John stares deep into his eyes and smiles. Then his gaze falls down to Sherlock's lips and back up again before he leans back in to initiate a more passionate kiss.

Now it was Sherlock's turn for a brain malfunction. The addition of tongue felt so...erotic. And in public! He could have scolded John for his boldness.

But isn't that what Sherlock admired about John? His commanding presence, his surety, his, well, boldness.

The bliss of kissing John was very much short lived as a bar patron nearby exploded in rage and disgust at the display.

Ah! Yes, that was the reason Sherlock kissed John in the first place.

The detective pulled away to confront the drunken man who had stumbled over to yell profanities at them.

"...Can't stand your kind!...I oughta sock ya right in the jaw...doing something like that, and in a public place!..."

John was immediately alert and at attention. It made Sherlock smirk, because he knew that John could take him down with a single blow.

"Don't like it, don't look. There are plenty of other couples here displaying their affections towards each other." Sherlock stated calmly.

This apparently infuriated the man further, because he proceeded to shove Sherlock aggressively.

Sherlock fell into John, who caught him and uprighted him.

"Piss off ya wanker." John warned in a dangerous voice.

"Hey, ya heard him. Piss off." The bartender shouted, now that he had been alerted to the situation by the commotion of it all.

Fortunately for Sherlock and John, the drunken man turned his attention to the bartender.

"Oh, Yeah? And what are you going to do about it ya scrawny crock of shit?"

By the time a bouncer arrived, Sherlock was very pleased with himself for causing such a perfect scene and distraction.

"Come on, John. Let's go catch a killer." With that, Sherlock was off in a flash. John at his heels.


John's head was swimming with what had just transpired.

But it seemed like Sherlock had caught a scent, and if they were really pursuing a murderer, then John needed to have his wits about him.

There was still shouting and the sounds of a scuffle from the bar area, and everyone seemed to be drawn to it.

The distraction made it easy to press through the crowd, and because the fight was escalating, more security guards rushed over to help.

Sherlock locked eyes with a man dressed in all black at the corner of the club. John knew instantly that this was the guy they were after.

The man in question sent a few guys from his group after them, and then he made his way to escape into a back alleyway.

John made quick work of his henchmen in quite a display of power. Normally, he wouldn't have gotten away free from knocking out a group of guys in a club, but that was taken care of by the fact that the security guards were distracted.

Meanwhile, Sherlock had ran after the killer.


By the time John gotten outside and caught up with them, Gerard had the detective in a headlock with a gun against Sherlock's temple.


John stopped in his tracks roughly a hundred yards away. His hands went up in a defensive display.

The soldier locked eyes with the detective, searching for answers to unasked questions.

"ON THE GROUND! NOW!" The mad man demanded, the arm around Sherlock squeezing tighter with every word.

Sherlock seemed to struggle for air.

John obeyed, sinking to his knees in the dark alleyway, his hands still up and his fingertips coming to rest behind his ears.

His breath quickened as he watched Sherlock's face start to turn purple.

"If you don't want your boyfriend to die, then I suggest you stay exactly where you are. Don't move."

"Let him go! You're killing him, he can't breathe!" John Barked.

A wicked smile crept over the killer's face. "Old habit, I guess. It is so much more enjoyable to take a life slowly."

John's heart beat rapidly against his ribs. Sherlock was definitely being strangled by this crazy man.

"Sherlock!" John cried.

A horrible panic and rage coursed through John. He couldn't do anything, not yet.

Both of the detective's hands came up weakly to the arm wrapped so tightly around his neck, trying to fight but failing miserably.

Gerard, knowing that the life would leave Sherlock's eyes soon, turned his head to look down. And in doing so, the grip on his pistol loosened.

A shot rang out in the quiet of the night.

Sherlock's vision went black.

He could hear the sound of feet running across pavement.

"It's okay Sherlock. It's okay." A voice sobbed. It sounded like John.

The detective was aware of an intense pain in his head, the feeling of warm sticky blood running down his face, a burning in his lungs.

"I'm sorry John." He tried to say. But his throat was hoarse and he chocked on the words.

Sirens sounded in the distance. Flashing lights were the last thing Sherlock was aware of.


Lestrade was the first one on the scene. His heart jumped into his throat at the sight of Sherlock, covered in blood and collapsed into John.

"Is...Is he..?" Lestrade tried to swallow the lump back down, but the sting of tears kept it firmly in place.

"No. No. But, he needs immediate medical attention." John answered.

Lestrade let out a huge sigh of relief. "Oh Thank God. What the hell happened?"

"I killed him. He tried to kill Sherlock, so I killed him."

Greg followed John's gaze over to a disarrayed body lying on the pavement nearby.

Lestrade simply nodded. That was enough information for now. They needed to get Sherlock to the hospital right away.


It took several more excruciating minutes for the ambulance to arrive.

It took several more hours for Sherlock to regain consciousness.

It took several more days for him to regain his voice. (That was an odd thing indeed, a silent Sherlock Holmes.)

John was by his side for it all.

A week after the incident, Lestrade came over to get the full story and finish the report.

"...he had a gun to Sherlock's head. I couldn't shoot him, or it would have set off his pistol too. He decided to strangle Sherlock instead, but that God-forsaken gun was still pointed at him. As soon as I saw his grip loosen on his gun, I pulled mine and shot him in the head. Unfortunately, the killer's gun still went off, and the bullet grazed the top of Sherlock's skull. It was too close. Way too close." John grimaced at the memory.

"I almost lost you." He whispered to Sherlock.

"You did the right thing, John. I would have died if you had tried to stop him any other way."

Greg finished scribbling down notes before he spoke up. "You're one lucky bastard, Sherlock. You'd be dead right now, if it weren't for John. Don't go off chasing criminals by yourself next time."

His gaze shifted over to John, and his voice became less stern. "I'm glad your both okay. Make sure he gets plenty of rest." With that, he excused himself.

John looked over at Sherlock, laid out on the couch with a bandage around his head and a neck brace on, and thanked God that he was still alive.

How bleak would his life be without the pain-in-the-ass detective?

Chapter Text

A bored Sherlock was a loud and boisterous Sherlock. There was enough rambling and shouting lately to make up for the last several days of quiet when Sherlock had been unconscious.

"Could you possibly try to keep it down? Doesn't all that racquet hurt your head?"

"BORED!" Sherlock shouted at him.

John huffed in response and then retreated into the kitchen to make tea. It seemed as though things were going to go right back to normal.

But, how could they possibly go back to the way things were? That kiss, it had changed something. Hadn't it? And Sherlock had had a lot to say over the last few days, but not one word about that, John realized.

The soldier abandoned the kettle on the stove and strode over to the kitchen door frame to glare at the taller man taking up the couch.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, not bothering to even look at John.

"What is it? What is it?!? Sherlock, you KISSED me before you went off and got yourself shot that night!"

"Yes." Was the simple reply.

John gave him a death glare that could have melted impermeable ice. Sherlock could feel it before he even stole a glance at John.

"I had asked you if you trusted me, because I had deduced that a kiss between us, two gentlemen, would provide the perfect distraction to get to the killer. I saw an opportunity that night, and I took it. Also, bravo on your part, you really sold it...why are you looking at me like that?"

"YOU COMPLETE AND UTTER SOD! Oh my God! You really are that clueless!"

The slight tilt of the head from Sherlock made John sigh exasperatedly and roll his eyes.

"You know, you may be the dumbest smart person that I know!" He exclaimed as he stormed over to Sherlock.

"I'm the only smart person you know. Well, that is unless you count my brother, but I..."

John grabbed Sherlock by the back of the neck with one hand, and braced his other against the couch to keep himself from falling onto the detective, and kissed him. Hard. (As possible, with the head injury.)

Sherlock was stunned for a good few moments before he reacted and kissed John back.

John had a liking for french kissing, it seemed. The feel of the other man's tongue felt even more delightfully sinful here, in a private setting.

By the time they pulled back from each other, they were both a bit breathless. Lips swollen and tingling.

"Oh. Oh!" Sherlock responded.

"Yeah." John replied. "And don't give me that 'I'm married to my work' line of crap either."

"I suppose I can't, can I? When you fit in so perfectly with it. You make my work so much more exciting and fun."

John practically snorted. That fun and excitement had almost killed Sherlock just a week prior.

"I can make even more aspects of your life exciting and fun, Sherlock." He had decided to say instead, spurred on by his new found arousal.

The innuendo was lost on the detective. That is, until John dipped his head down to kiss along Sherlock's jaw and then ever so gently on his still tender throat.

"Oh, John. This is...that feels fantastic." He breathed.

John smirked into the crook of the other man's neck and then moved to straddle him.

Sherlock's face told a tale of several emotions at war with each other, once John was nicely seated in his lap.

Shock, excitement, fear, confusion, embarrassment.

"Sherlock, we can take this slow, if you'd like to."

"No. I want this. I want you, John." He replied with enough certainty in his voice to warrant another hot kiss from his doctor.


"Oh, Sherlock. I want to make you feel so good." John panted into the other man's ear as he rocked his hips forward to emphasize his point.

A sound resembling a growl rose from the detective's throat at the friction.

He allowed a curious hand to venture under John's shirt and reveled at the heat and softness of the flesh there. Not that John was particularly soft. There was very firm muscle just below the thin barrier of cushion. A very nice contrast, indeed.

Sherlock found himself rubbing circles into the soldiers hipbones as they continued snogging. The action was drawing some amazing sounds from his partner. Which were then quickly filed away in the detective's mind palace, inside a new compartment in the ever growing space dedicated to John Watson; Soldier, Doctor, Friend, Blogger, and now, Lover.

Sherlock braced John's hips and rolled his up, craving more friction. He was growing hard from all of this new attention, and by the feel of this latest action, so was his doctor.

Sherlock’s head rolled back in pleasure and he moaned John's name.


"Christ, Sherlock." John gasped at the sight.

The older man continued grinding down against his partner and his hands quickly fumbled to unbutton the detective's shirt. This simple action, however, proved much more difficult than usual while riding these profound waves of pleasure.

His new lover was immensely hard against him and it turned him on like never before.

Finally, the last button was relieved of it's duty and John parted the fabric, revealing the supple and pale skin underneath.

He slid his hands up the exposed flesh from hips, to stomach, to chest. Then leaned in to nibble on Sherlock's ear while his fingertips ghosted over the detective's sensitive nipples.

"Oh, John!" Sherlock cried from the sudden attack on his senses. "Fuuuck..."

It was then that John realized he had a new kink: Sherlock Swearing. He wanted to make him do that again. And again.

John's hips faltered and he sunk his teeth into the other man's collar while he stroked a hand over Sherlock's still clothed erection. Causing him to come with a shout.

A proud smile spread over John's face as he held Sherlock through the shock of this new sensation.


Light kisses, gentle touches, and hushed words, as reality slowly came back into focus.

Sherlock wondered how he had gone all this time without this sort of connection before. But he didn't want to do it again, if it wasn't with John.


The soldier had really turned his world upside down.

"We should do that again. As well as frequently." Sherlock stated hopefully.

"Agreed." Came the happy reply.