Say yes to heaven, say yes to me

Let the fear you have, fall away.

First time John Watson ever said yes to Sherlock Holmes was the very first day they met.
He could never forget that day for the rest of his whole life.

John had met Mike in the park, sitting next to him and complained about his life, his leg, his new position, his stick, his therapist, his new rented house. He whined just for the fun of doing it. He didn't expect Mike to actually solve his problems.

"You are not the first one who says this to me, today."

John was dragged halfway across London, just to arrive at St. Bart's, his old university, where Mike actually worked nowadays. He looked strangely at him, silently questioning his actions. Why the hospital?

When his colleague opened the door of the chemistry lab and entered the room, John couldn't help but follow him.

Curly black hair, blue eyes, black suit and white shirt: that man sitting and the microscope was unbelievably handsome. He didn't have much experience with men, not after university. John considered himself especially attracted to women. During his adulthood he dated only girls. Even so, coming to think that if this man ever gave him a chance, it would make him feel truly lucky, tested his sexuality again and again. This, until the man started speaking.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John frowned, leaning the weight of his whole body on the old stick. Following Mike in the room, he didn't even open the mouth. How could this man know about the war?

John didn't know why he followed the man, who actually seemed to know everything about him - reading all over his body - into his house. Maybe his sixth sense was broken. Or maybe he was just enormously attracted. He was usually not the kind of man who thought with his cock, but if he would end up in danger it would be only its fault.

The man - who was called Sherlock Holmes - walked fast before him, who tried to follow stumbling on his injured leg. His Belstaff's tail floating behind him, when the man stopped in the middle of the street trying to call a taxi. The cab stopped immediately after the man raised his right hand. Who the fuck he was? Someone from British royalty? At least, it could justify his high cheekbones and his royal manners.

Sherlock Holmes didn't speak for the whole ride, but paid the cabbie before entering the apartment.
221B Baker Street. Picturesque, right in the middle of London. The rent could be really high, but he was already there, at least he could give a try.

It was a second-floor flat, but the stairs were not really uncomfortable, even for him and his damned leg. And it was not just a psychosomatic problem like his therapist and now even this stranger wanted to convince him. It really hurt.

"This is the flat."

The man spread his arms right in front of his figure, to present the flat. It was kind of a mess, books all over the place, a small telly, a modest kitchen where the table was submerged by some kind of experiment the man took not long ago, two armchairs and one sofa, strangely painted walls.

"The rent won't be a problem if split in two. Mrs. Hudson is a good landlady, she won't complain about two men living together if we won't blow up the house."

John hadn't met the old woman already, but even to him seemed strange two men living together without having actually a love relationship. But if it wasn't a problem for her...

"The room on the second floor is yours if you could endure me as a flatmate. I have a very strange job, don't speak for days and usually don't spend much time at home."

To John, he seemed the best flatmate: absent, silent, proud of his privacy. He didn't matter his job or his private life. They could just share the flat without even considering one another, just acknowledging one another in the living room in the morning, and John would be fine with it.