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John didn’t realize that he was falling in love with Sherlock until it was too late. Horribly, irreversibly, too late. He was already in the middle of being in love before he noticed he’d even started, much like sleepwalking off a cliff, then waking up midair and flailing madly to attempt to stop the descent. Futile and tiring, John thought sadly. He sat at the dining table in the sitting room, supposedly working on his laptop but in reality staring out the window while contemplating his pathetic situation.
From the very first deduction he was intrigued and impressed by Sherlock, and admired him greatly for his intelligence and observational skills. When, exactly, that admiration turned to something more, it was hard to say. Either way, it didn’t matter. Sherlock had made very clear that he was not interested in romantic relationships, with women or otherwise.
That didn’t make John’s heart ache any less when Sherlock flashed him a momentary grin while they were on a chase, or lifted the police tape for him without a second thought. Friends. That’s all they were to Sherlock. Friends friends friends. The word matched John’s racing heartbeat whenever he found himself staring at his friend’s marble jaw or kaleidoscopic eyes, or tracing Sherlock’s beautiful arms and chest when he forgot to put a shirt on while walking around the flat. Friends friends friends friends “FRIENDS! AARGH!” John accidentally voiced the last part of his thought out loud in his anger.
“Something wrong, John?” Sherlock called from the other room.
Clearing his throat and blushing slightly, John called back, “No, everything’s fine! Nothing to worry about!” Oh shit was that a voice crack? Come on, John, get it together. Maybe I’ll just go out for a bit to clear my head.
“Good. Get some milk if you’re going out, would you?” John could practically hear the smirk on Sherlock’s lips.
How the hell did he know I was planning to go out, the bloody bastard, thought John angrily. No matter how else he felt about him, Sherlock could be damn annoying sometimes.
“Yeah all right,” called John as he reached for his coat and key.
~~
When John returned later with the milk, he was greeted by a pensive but relaxed Sherlock, who was settled comfortably in his chair with a book. John felt a small smile flash across his lips: he much preferred a relaxed Sherlock to a moody one. After he put the milk away and couldn’t think of anything better to do, John followed his flatmate’s example and sank down into his chair with a good book. The only sound to be heard was the ticking of the clock on the mantle and the occasional flipping of pages. To Sherlock it probably seemed like companionable silence, but John was silently cursing himself, deeply regretting his decision to sit within easy watching distance of the man who was driving him slowly insane. He kept glancing up at Sherlock, unconsciously tracing his eyes over the graceful angles of his face, then realizing what he was doing and jerking his gaze back down to his book (of which he was reading the same page over and over, too distracted to absorb it). After a solid 40 minutes of this torturous cycle, John couldn’t take it anymore. He got up, stretched, feigned a yawn for good measure, and began to move toward the kitchen.
“I’m making tea, do you want one?” he asked Sherlock airily.
“Obviously,” was the reply
“Alright, love.”
John froze. What the fuck had he just said?! Oh, Jesus. He turned around to catch the other man’s reaction, going purple from embarrassment as he did so.
Sherlock’s head snapped up as he registered what had happened, and a pink tinge crept onto his ivory cheeks. He locked eyes with John as they stared at each other for one second, two. Then Sherlock’s eyes widened just a fraction, and he cleared his throat awkwardly and looked back down, pretending to be engrossed in his book once more.
John almost groaned out loud. How could he have been so stupid? He knew Sherlock wasn’t interested, but for a second he had thought… Well it didn’t matter now anyway. He needed to get out. Turing on his heel, John walked quickly into the kitchen, his face still burning.
~~
As he stood at the kitchen counter mechanically making tea, John almost had a panic attack. What was he going to do? He had royally screwed up. What if he ruined things with Sherlock forever, friendship and otherwise? His chest felt tight, and he found himself gasping for air. Stupid stupid stupid. If only I hadn’t said that one little word. Damn me and my idiot mouth. God DAMN IT. John took some deep breaths in an effort to calm his panic, and started formulating a plan. All he would have to do is pretend like it never happened, and then perhaps Sherlock would follow his lead and they would never speak of it again. It wasn’t fail-safe, by any means, and God knew that Sherlock seemed incapable of picking up on subtle social cues, but it was the best plan he had. It would have to do. He would just stay out of Sherlock’s way for a while, then maybe he’d forget about it and they could move on.
Somewhat calmed, John picked up the tea, took a deep breath, and walked back into the sitting room. Sherlock was still apparently absorbed in his book, which suited John perfectly. He set one cup of tea down next to Sherlock, then strode down the hall toward his bedroom without looking back. Once in the safety of his room, John let out a big breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Well, that went well. Could’ve gone much worse, anyway, he thought. He looked around his sparse room, and, finding nothing interesting to do, sat on the edge of his bed sipping his tea and staring off into space. He had almost lulled himself into a state of complete blissful forgetfulness when a familiar “Ahem” jerked him out of his reverie with an unpleasant start.
He turned around to see Sherlock’s graceful form silhouetted in the open doorway.
“May I come in?” he asked.
“Yeah sure of course!” Oh my god why do I sound like such an idiot. What the hell John, stop sounding so goddamn cheerful, he thought, cringing internally.
Sherlock stepped into the room and, seeing nowhere to sit except the bed on which John was now perched, leaned awkwardly on the wall by the door. He coughed, looking down and seeming at a loss for words. John waited patiently, but with growing apprehension. Surely he isn’t about to bring it up, surely he knows how embarrassing that was, surely he wouldn’t completely miss my don’t-mention-it signals, surely-
“John, I wish to talk to you about what just happened with the tea.”
Fucking hell. “Sherlock, no that was- that wasn’t-“
“No, John, I think that you will want to hear this. If what you said was truly a slip of the tongue, nothing more, please say so now. I will return to my book and we can pretend that this did not happen.” He paused, waiting for any sign of dissent. John just stared at him, agape.
“If, however, you did NOT simply mean what you said in a platonic fashion, please allow me to apologize for any pain I have caused you. If I have made any action towards you that may have caused you to take a… romantic interest in me, please let me assure you that was not my intent.” Again he paused, taking in John’s reaction. It was much the same, but his eyes now held anguish instead of confusion, and his expression seemed fragile, as if one tap could shatter it.
Taking a deep breath and walking over so that he was standing in front of John, Sherlock continued. “It was not my intent, no, but that does not mean that I’m not happy about it. It was also not my intent to… fall in love… with my flatmate, it would be terribly inconvenient after all and hard to ignore if the feelings were unrequited, but… I suppose that’s not the case, is it?” The knowing smirk spreading on Sherlock’s face was too much for John. He stood up so that he was level (or as level as he could be, considering their height difference) with his flatmate, his cheeks burning with anger and embarrassment.
“You knew. You’ve known- how long? How long have you known about this!”
“A bit over a fortnight. I took your pulse when you handed me my phone while we worked on the Copper Beeches case, and then I noticed how your pupils were dilated. It didn’t take me long to work it out. Of course by then I was looking for signs that you felt the same way, I didn’t think I could stand it anymore. I probably would have-mmph!
John’s anger had evaporated when Sherlock said ‘looking for signs’ and after gazing at him for a heartbeat, cut off his rambling by tugging the taller man down by the collar into a kiss.
~~
The next day as they walked toward the newest crime scene, John nearly jumped out of his skin when Sherlock grabbed his hand, lacing their fingers together expertly.
“Wha- what are you doing?” he stammered.
“Proper boyfriends hold hands, do they not? I am merely trying to partake in what society views as normal. If you would prefer not to-”
“No! No. It’s fine. I- It’s great actually,” John said, blushing slightly.
“Good,” was Sherlock’s satisfied response.
Boyfriends,thought John. He grinned. Boyfriends boyfriends boyfriends. He could get used to that.