sherlock holmes had never pursued a relationship.

platonic or romantic, communication wasn't his thing. and yet, he was so viscerally drawn to you that it almost hurt.

so, from flat mates to friends to partners-in-crime, the only logical next step- that of which was totally, 100% not fueled by some strange desire to attach himself to you like the worlds most intelligent limpet- was partners. romantic partners. right?

he'd seen enough romance movies to know that love was supposed to feel fuzzy and warm. he supposed gut-wrenching and scorching worked as slightly more intense synonyms.

but everything to do with him was intense.

you'd loved it, at first, the adrenaline rush that you got when running from a crackpot with a gun and a few misguided dreams.

and then you got a bomb strapped to your chest while on a grocery run!

you weren't really paying much attention to the words sherlock was saying to moriarty, frantic, laced with venom. your eyes were, understandably, trained on the sniper laser on your chest.

until moriarty threatened sherlock with a gun. you promptly rushed up to the cunt and stood behind him, breathing heavily and mumbling something your brain heard as if your sniper shoots me, it shoots both of us.

something something, more words. and moriarty left.

sherlock rushed up to you and ripped off the heavy puffer coat you'd been stuck in, then the bomb. he threw them in the pool.

"are you alright?" he hissed, normally cold blue eyes darting around your face, like he was soaking it in after years of blindness.

panicked. he was panicked.

he repeated it when you didn't answer, anxious. you assured him you were, and he relaxed.

"that was. um, that was. what you did there was good. thanks," he spoke, eyes glazing.

the silence that followed was loud. neither of you were really okay.

then he kissed you. god, his timing.

it was clear that it was his first by the way he seemed to be trying to eat your face, and the how his knees wobbled so violently you had to hold him up.