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What do you do after you reach your happily ever after?
After the leap of faith, what is it that you land on?
John and Sherlock imagined a confession would set them free, but where do you pick up a conversation from "I love you"? They both sat on the couch facing the opposite wall, close enough to touch. They were both so full of emotion and love and euphoria, but still so unsure. This kind of love, in this kind of way, with this important of a person was so new to both of them. One minute your love is smothering, the next you're kissing away the wasted time, and the next you're sat on a sofa with the sun in your sky; clueless as to what comes after.
Do I reach for his hand?, John wondered, Is that what we're meant to do now? Should I say something?
I need to know something.
"When did you know?", he fumbled anxiously.
There was a moment of silence. "Know what?", Sherlock hesitated.
"That you lo... that you loved me."
Sherlock lowered his gaze from the opposing wall down to the floor. "... After I came back". It depressed him to say it.
"After you-", John nodded, and then kept nodding, something to divert attention from the weight the answer brought him. After you came back from the dead. Before the wedding. Before I promised my life to someone else. You could've. You should've.
"And you? When did you know you had feelings for me?", Sherlock asked tentatively.
The redirection tugged John out of his regrets. Now came a new dread. He had locked up that box years ago just to keep this genius from sniffing the truth out of him. John himself had nearly forgotten just how long it had been. Baring his heart out in the open was one thing, but it became another to have someone ask how long it had been bruised like that.
John drew a sharp breath in.
"The pool", he breathed out, and winced.
For a moment, Sherlock had no idea what he was referring to. But then he noticed John's hands clenching in his lap and his trembling breath. He's talking about Moriarty. He's talking about the pool. But that couldn't be right. That was seven years ago.
"Are you trying to tell me... that you've spent all of this time... all of the years we've been together... and you-you never...?"
John heard the guilt in his lover's tone and wanted even more to close himself back up. But, still, he wouldn't cry. John Watson was not a crier. He was a soldier, and he would forever hold command over his emotions, no matter what.
The man beside him was certainly not making that task any easier. "Oh, John. John, please, please forgive me. If I had known...", Sherlock Holmes finally looked up into John's eyes.
Damn it all, cursed John, his tears unrelentingly trickled down his face
"Why didn't you say anything?" Sherlock's voice tightened with every word.
"Say what? 'Hey, I know you think feelings are a weakness, but I am pathetically in love with you, do you still want to flat-share?'"
There wasn't a reply.
"No... fuck, that's not your fault." John sighed. "I was afraid. I-I couldn't handle the thought of you saying no, I was scared. Pure and simple."
Although his heart was still breaking, Sherlock found it in him to half-smile. "Who was it that said 'The truth is rarely pure and never simple'?"
"Who are you fooling, mate? Don't even imply that you don't know who", the doctor scoffed playfully.
And for a moment, only one, it felt like something had been accomplished there. It had seemed that in all the time they had spent with each other, Sherlock and John only knew how to keep distance. It was safer, smarter even, to not rock a rickety boat, but it wasn't happy. Sometimes swimming and then sinking is better than never touching the sea. What makes the difference between freedom and loss, is something that they could learn together.
Sherlock wilted. "You deserve better."
"I don't want that. I don't want what you think better is. This is better. This is better than living without you."
"Hundred percent?"
"Well, no one could fake having such strong feelings all the time."
Sherlock still didn't look convinced.
"Sherlock, do what you feel, yeah? Tell me what you want so I can give it to you, and stop thinking."
Sherlock thought for a moment, and then stopped thinking.
"You want this?"
"Without a doubt. Do you want this?"
"Obviously", answered Sherlock, but there was no dryness to it. If anything, it sounded incredibly fond.
John grinned. He couldn't stop even if he had to, and he didn't have to. Not anymore. "Well, there we go. That's a pretty fantastic place to start, don't you think?"
"I can think of a better one."
"Go on then."
Turns out Sherlock was right. Snogging in a gentle embrace was a much better take-off point.