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The unbearable thirst woke John Watson up in the middle of the night, something between two and three in the morning. The retired army doctor stretched his arms and hopped out of bed to get himself a glass of water.
As he got down the stairs and into the kitchen, a deep sigh came out of his mouth, followed by a yawn. He drank the glass of water so quickly that it dripped off his mouth, and on his shirt, and he filled the glass again. When he was halfway done with it, a noise sneaked into his ear. A deep voice. Sherlock's voice. There were no intelligible words, it was more of a sob. Either Sherlock was crying, or he was laughing, and to be honest, at three in the morning, both are a bit worrying and worth checking out. John slowly put down his glass and walked to the detective's bedroom. He hesitated, but knocked on the door.
"Yes?" Said the voice on the other side of the door, a word mixed with a sob.
"Erm... are you alright?" John asked, his hand slipping towards the doorknob.
"Yeah, fine." The obvious lie that somehow was still worth telling.
"Can I come in?" John asked, and it took a few seconds for Sherlock to answer. On one hand, he was too embarassed of his tears to let John in, but on the other, he did need him.
"Yes." He sobbed, sitting up on the bed.
John Watson sighed and opened the door slowly. He saw the silluette of Sherlock sitting on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees, and his face buried in his hands.
"Hi." John stepped into the room. "Are you crying?"
"No." Sherlock sighed, but the blatant lie almost made John laugh. For such a good liar, Sherlock couldn’t hide his feelings today.
"I cry too, sometimes. It's fine. Do you need to talk?" He asked reassuringly, placing a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock let out a shaky breath.
"Please leave." Sherlock said, but still couldn't hold back his tears. This is something he would never want his friend to see. For the cold detective who was once referred to as a machine, being seen crying wasn't the best for his image.
"I will, I promise. Tell me what happened, I've never seen you cry, it must be something important." John replied calmly.
Sherlock wiped his tears and took a deep breath, so he could speak properly.
"I was talking to my brother." He ran a hand through his hair. "He said something he wasn't supposed to. It erm… hit a nerve, that’s all. I’m fine." The detective explained, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, closing his eyes and trying to breathe properly again.
"Oh. I thought you didn't care about Mycroft." John decided to sit by Sherlock's side, letting his hand fall from Sherlock’s shoulder to the silk sheets. He frowned a bit. John always used cotton sheets, he didn’t care about such luxuries, and it surprised him that Sherlock did. He shook his head and went back to paying attention to Sherlock.
"I don't. He just brought up a subject he wasn't supposed to." He said. “I’m fine.” He repeated. John still didn’t believe him.
"I see. Do you want to talk about it?" John scooted closer to him, not daring to wrap his arm around his shoulder. Although they were friends, they were never used to such closeness.
"No." The detective breathed before he let out another sob and started tearing up again.
"Sherlock. I'm your friend. You might not consider me your friend but... I am. I want you to be fine." John said, giving him a somewhat protective look. Sherlock smiled a bit.
"I know." He said. “I’d just rather not mention it.”
"Come here." John took a leap of faith and wrapped Sherlock into a hug, which seconds later was returned. At this point, the "heartless" image John had of Sherlock had crumbled down, revealing a creature that even if resilient, could be seen as fragile, something to be careful with, much like a baby, that wouldn’t die if you dropped it, but there was that single soft stop in it’s head that would kill him.
"Listen, Sherlock." John said, still hugging his friend. "I don't know what was it that your brother said... but... he's... well, a dick." He said, and Sherlock chuckled, even if there were tears coming out of his eyes, and water coming out of his nose, leaving John's shoulder damp with the proof that Sherlock Holmes had feelings.
"Mycroft can be very innapropriate sometimes. Once I was in his office and he started talking about the war, and everything I saw there, I had to hold back tears, too." He said, thinking that maybe if he told a story Sherlock could relate to, it would make it better.
Sherlock didn't respond. He only hugged John tighter and cried a little louder. The short man rubbed his back and listened to his shaky voice, bringing a hand to tenderly caress his wide curls, something that was almost an instinct for him, as it was something his mother always did to him when he cried as a kid. Things seemed to hurt less if someone caressed his head. He hoped it had the same effect on Sherlock.
Somewhere between the hugging and the talking, or the talking and the silence, Sherlock lifted his head, and in a not so accidental accident, his lips brushed against John's. The detective's thought was that if John minded and asked about it, he could just say it was an accident, or that he was just not himself at the moment. But luckily, John didn't mind. He responded Sherlock's action by repeating it, and Sherlock responded by pressing their lips together slowly. Neither of the men understood what was happening and why, but both were enjoying it too much to actually think about it. As they broke the kiss, they both smiled, but didn't see eachother's smile, for the only light in the room was the yellow street light coming from Sherlock’s window, and it only illuminated the sheets.. Sherlock's hand touched John's cheek, and his thumb touched his lower lip. The doctor's fingertips ran across Sherlock's face and there were no more tears, and whatever reason to cry was wiped away from his mind, which now was busy with a reason to smile, something that was buried deep in his mind, in both of their minds, and had now come to surface, a reaction to an unusual situations, a proof that there are things that exist and we cannot see, and we deny their existence, which only becomes obvious when circumstances change. Some people didn’t see the beauty of the world until he watched a sunset in the beach. Sherlock Holmes didn’t believe in love until he was held by John’s arms. Just like the beauty of the world, his love for the doctor was always there, he just needed to see it.
The kisses were soft, easy, and each time calmed, sleepier, untill Sherlock laid back on the bed, closing and opening his eyes slowly, looking up at John’s face, only illuminated on his left by the dim light coming from his window.
"Do you want me to stay?" John whispered.
"Yes, please." Sherlock replied simply and touched John's arms with his fingertips, as a sign for him to lay down too, and so he did. They fell asleep in eachother's arms, unaware of the future, confused by the present, and suddently understanding of the past.
The end.