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The sea of people dressed in colourful clothing shouted and cheered, waving around flags and gloves as some apparent action went down on the field. John wouldn’t know. Sure, he had a lot of fun with sports in his uni days, but he always preferred to be the one actually playing, covered in sweat and dirt and endorphins. Besides, rugby and baseball was nothing alike. Not that it mattered if he was entertained or not; he was here on a mission.
"I can't believe Mycroft shipped us all the way to the United States," he muttered, for probably the twentieth time since Sherlock ordered him to pack his bags. Sherlock didn't answer, as expected. He was deeply focused on the players, unblinking eyes darting from one to the other. One might have thought he was a fan with a strange way of being enthusiastic, but John knew that he was trying to figure out which player was planning a murder. According to Mycroft, a high ranking British official who was spending a few days nearby to discuss, as Mycroft put it, "delicate international agreements" was at risk.
There was no use in bothering him in his deductions, no matter how bored john was. Instead he took to looking around a bit. They had managed to get seats in relatively close to the field, only five or six rows up, surrounded by screaming people and the smell of sweat and popcorn. The stadium was filled to the brim with people cheering on their favourite team, some more excitedly John could ever understand was necessary. Directly across from him was a huge screen displaying the score and which player was up next. Sherlock glanced at in every now and then.
Just as there was a break in the game (Half time? Time-out? John had no idea) Sherlock sighed with a big exhale and leaned back, done with trying to burn the players with laser-vision for the moment.
“Anything?” John asked, choosing to move closer instead of shouting over the crowd, which somehow didn’t lose its enthusiasm despite there being no players on the field.
“I’ve excluded most, but I’m still not sure…”
“Who’s left?”
Sherlock pointed out three stretching players who looked just like all the rest to John. “It’s impossible to see from here, they’re far away and in constant movement. We might have to try to find another way to have a closer look at them.”
“We’ll figure something out. But we might have to wait until the games end, maybe try to pose as-“ John was cut off by the roaring of the audience. He looked at the screen, where the score had been pushed up and made smaller in favour of a heart-shaped camera scanning the crowds.
“Kiss cam.” Sherlock chuckled, as it zoned in on a man and a woman sitting next to each other. Upon realization, the man stood up, gesturing for the woman to follow, as the crowd started chanting: “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” She hesitated a bit and shook her head, but it seemed as it was only for show, as she soon stood up to kiss him passionately, making the chanting culminate into cheers and laughter. Then, the camera moved, scanning for new couples to spotlight.
“I guess it’s kind of cute,” John said, looking back at Sherlock. They were sitting quite close to each other in the crammed stadium, and there was something oddly comforting about the warmth John could feel from Sherlock’s thigh pressed against his and his eyes hypnotizingly close as he softly smiled down at him. “It is.” A small wind ruffled Sherlock’s hair, the curls bouncing slightly.
“Really?” John laughed.
“Yes, so what?” Sherlock said, crossing his arms.
“No, it’s just that anytime we come across a couple it seems you can always deduce one or both is cheating, or something awful like that,”
“Oh,” Sherlock laughed along with John, and it was easy to forget they were surrounded by people and not in the homely warmth of 221b.
“Not those two.” Sherlock looked at the couple, who were holding hands and still blushing a little bit. “They love each other very dearly. They complete each other and help each other evolve. He’s planning to propose soon, and she will definitely say yes. They will spend the rest of their lives together. ”
John didn’t have an answer to that. When did Sherlock get so optimistic about love and relationships? That tone in his voice, it was almost… sad. Longing.
John shook it off. Sherlock didn’t do relationships. He knew that. Maybe he was thinking about the woman again, John wondered with the usual flash of anger that always poured through him at the thought.
“Sherlock,” he said, reflexively grabbing his hand. It was warm.
Before he could say anything else a lot of things happened very quickly. During John and Sherlock’s conversation the crowd had gotten louder again, and when they started to chant ‘Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!’ John threw a glance at the screen, only to see himself staring back. He looked around desperately for a couple around him, but the camera only seemed to zoom in even further on him mockingly. Him, and… Sherlock, who was sitting still as an ice sculpture next to him. He looked just as chocked as John felt. Supposedly some camera man out there had seen their shared laughs and conversation and assumed… something. John couldn’t think straight, with thousands of people looking at him, albeit through a TV screen.
Kissing Sherlock?
He couldn’t let himself entertain the thought, or think too long about how he kind of really wanted to. He tried to look as aversive as possible, letting go of Sherlock’s hand, without having realized he was still holding it, but the crowd only became more persistent.
“Sherlock” He hissed.
“We’re gaining attention,” he answered, looking down at the players. “They can’t recognise me, I-“
John stood up, squaring his shoulders, all of a sudden feeling very brave. Sherlock stood up as well, looking like someone just hit him in the head with a hammer, and John gently placed a hand on his back to push him closer, his breath quickening as his line of sight was filled with Sherlock’s galaxy eyes.
“John,” Sherlock whispered avoiding his eyes and sending a hot puff of breath over his face, “I’ve never-”
“I’ve got you, Sherlock. Trust me.”
With that he stood on his tippy-toes, closed the few inches that was between them, and kissed Sherlock Holmes.
And what a kiss it was- he started with a peck on the lips, still convincing himself that he only wanted to please the crowd so they could blend back into it; but as soon as their lips touched they were filled with a warm, ticklish sensation. He wanted more, chasing the feeling into another kiss, this time his hand on Sherlock’s back pressing him closer, enjoying the way his body felt against his own. He didn’t notice the crowd’s screams and ‘aww:s’ of celebration as Sherlock opened his mouth with a gasp, allowing john to explore freely and turning into butter in his arms.
John didn’t know for how long this went on, but when they finally parted, panting for breath, the camera had left them, and the game was in full swing again.
“Um,” he started, feeling a blush spread all the way to his ears. “Maybe we should, eh,” he gestured towards their seats, avoiding the gaze of a smirking man the row above. They sat down.
“John,” Sherlock said, with the facial expression usually reserved for really tough cases, except for a small grin that just wouldn’t go away, “Is it wrong if I have wanted to do that for a long time?”
John laughed, unable to contain all the joy in his body. “No.”
“And, is it wrong if I,” he hesitated, “want to do it again?”
“Absolutely not.” John chuckled, leaning in for another kiss.