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John was finally starting to think that he was in love with Sherlock Holmes. Much to his dismay, this train of thought had begun when he was on a date one evening and only became more and more aware of the facts as he lay in his bed in the flat he and the man shared. Each time that he reviewed the facts he could only draw the one conclusion. Thinking back, maybe there had been something from the beginning and he was just to stubborn to realize it.
It all started when John ran into his old college mate. After a bit of small talk he had found himself standing in front of a young man staring into equipment far greater than that of his day. John took in his features. The man was skinny, possibly from not eating like he should. His complexion was pale, as though the man hardly got any type of sun. His lips were thin and in a hard line of concentration. He had sharp cheekbones that only helped the visual appeal of his facial features. His arms looked skinny and weak, much like the rest of him; however upon closer inspection his wrists were strong revealing that the man was quite the opposite of his appearence. When he glanced up John lost all coherent thought. The eyes were a silver the likes of which he had never seen causing him to completely miss the question he had been asked.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" The deep voice that came from the man was seductive and sent small shivers down John's spine.
After they had moved in together on several occasion he had found himself staring at Sherlock's eyes. For the most part it was for a few moments too long. Never failing to elicit the response: "For crying out loud John, must you observe me on such a close level? Do I amuse you in some way?" To which John would spin abruptly around trying his best to sound impassive when he replied: "There was something on your face is all." Such an obvious lie. John mentally kicked himself for the lack of creativity.
Completely skipping the bomb incident because of the adrenaline. As a doctor he knew that anything he reacted to would only be because of the extreme stress he had felt in the situation. Still... he did like it slightly too much when Sherlock ripped his clothes off.
At Buckingham Palace much to John's surprise, Sherlock had decided he was much happier wearing a sheet instead of anything...decent. John couldn't help but giggle at the ridiculousness of the situation. His mind however didn't want to stay focused on humor. With some effort he managed to control his raging imagination, however when the sheet nearly fell off...
When he saw The Woman (he dare not even think her name for fear of irritation) and Sherlock feeling each other up he was struck with an odd feeling of anger. He knew it now as jealousy. He shouldn't have felt jealous, there was no logical reason behind it. However it irritated John to see the two in their game. He was just the slightest bit guilty when he had heard news of her death and felt nothing but joyful. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb. Where was that high moral standard now?
Things had become even worse since Sherlock really didn't know the decency of clothes. Constantly parading around their flat with nothing more than his own skin. It was at times like those when John turned back to his computer and started typing furiously ignoring the heat at the bottom of his stomach working it's way down. It was worse when Sherlock had just got out of the shower. Dark curly hair plastered to the back of his slender, pale neck. A towel wrapped haphazardly around his waist moving with his long legs, muscles shifting. The towel sometimes slipping off once or twice, as Sherlock made his way to his room to find a pair of trousers or his favorite sheet. No amount of typing could distract John from his roommates stunning view.
All of England even seemed to think that the two were a couple; hell even all of John's ex-girlfriends felt that way. Now he understood why. John would have to make a decision. To either fill every last second of free time with women to distract him from the silver-eyed man, or confess his feelings and just hope that they could still be friends. The former was the easier of the two, but the good Doctor knew that his conscious wouldn't let him. He sat up in bed and took a long slow breath.
His feet hit the floor and he clenched his jaw in determination. He made his way cautiously down the stairs. He could hear his heart pounding as he turned towards the sitting room where Sherlock would undoubtedly be. A sigh of relief escaped his lips when he noticed that the consulting detective was asleep on the couch. The unguarded expression on Sherlock's face was surprising and brought a kind smile to his own. He made his way quietly over to the man. Whoever said that he had to confess while he was awake?
Gently, John twirled a loose strand of Sherlock's hair as he stared down into the gorgeous man's face (Possibly for the first real time). He whispered softly:
"Sherlock...I'm in love you."
Before he could pull his hand away from Sherlock's hair a hand reached up and grabbed John's by the wrist; nearly giving the man a heart attack.
"It took you long enough to realize it." His deep voice showing no signs of having been asleep, whispered back. Sherlock kissed his fingers gently.
"You are terribly slow when it comes to these things." Sherlock said with a smile. Before John could fully process the sentence, Sherlock pulled him down by the shirt and pressed their lips together. Leaving John with a feeling that all as right in the world.