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John woke up from one of his nightmares again. They were much milder now, less shocking, mostly making him reminiscence the army days. He stayed in bed thinking about the horrors of the battlefield, comradery with fellow soldiers, the conflict between the pointlessness of the war and the steady sense of his own purpose. The time after his discharge was the worst, but it was distant now. The suffocating greyness, the lack of meaning in his days, the shame of becoming a burden – he was certain he felt all of it then, but he didn’t remember the feelings, only the words he used to describe them. Sherlock did such a thorough job of stripping it all away. It was unbelievable, how radically John’s life changed and how alive he was now, when he had adventures, excitement and Sherlock. Getting up and going through his morning routine, John’s thought’s kept coming back to the man, to the joy of being allowed to love and admire the genius, and even if Sherlock could not return his feelings, just being his friend was more than enough.
They never talked about it. Sherlock probably knew anyway. When John came to terms with falling in love, he briefly entertained the idea to hide it from his flatmate, but it wasn’t worth the effort. Sherlock was a great detective, after all. So John didn’t restrain his affection much, and Sherlock graciously allowed it, accepting both John’s praise and nagging as something much anticipated, yet a great surprise each time. All things considered, John was happy.
Until he opened the fridge.
“Sherlock, you know I love you, but I swear to god, if I ever see another head in the fridge, I will burn your precious coat!” John smashed the fridge door closed and turned to his flatmate. He expected to see Sherlock exactly where he left him, focused at the microscope, pretending not having heard anything, betrayed by just a hint of a guilty smirk, but only if John was creative enough with his threats.
Instead, Sherlock was standing facing John, eyes wide, gripping the corner of the table and overall looking like he just saw a ghost. Or, since Sherlock was not the one to be afraid of ghosts, Anderson in charge of all murder investigations. The gown billowing behind Sherlock added even more drama to his looks.
“What?” John was still angry, but it slowly gave way to concern. “Sherlock?”
“You said you love me.”
John opened his mouth to deny it, but then thought about his words and yes, apparently he did. He should be more careful. Generally it wasn’t a good idea to remind Sherlock that John was as flawed as any common human out there. His ears started burning, but he refused to be embarrassed about it.
“Well, it isn’t exactly news to anyone, is it?” John huffed a laugh. “I know you don’t do this.”
“Do what?”
“You know. Feelings. Relationships.” John’s mind supplied an image of Mycroft’s snarky face. “Sentiment.”
Sherlock stood a little straighter, his face appeared more composed. No permanent damage done due to the slip up, then.
“Anyway,” John patted his pockets for a wallet and looked around for his jacket. “I’m popping down to Tesco’s, grab something to eat before we both starve to death. Anything you need?”
“Wait,” Sherlock’s voice came out strangled, and he coughed. “Please.”
That was unnerving enough turn all John’s attention back to the detective.
“Are you saying, that if I was so inclined, you would be willing to consider a relationship,” Sherlock looked away for a moment. “With me.”
John grabbed an opportunity to tease Sherlock a little. “Sherlock, I hate to tell you this, but we already are in a relationship. An exclusive one, ta for that.” John added good-humouredly and started counting on his fingers. “We live together, bicker all the time and everyone thinks we’re sleeping together.”
“But we aren’t,” said Sherlock. “We don’t sleep together.”
“Relax, Sherlock, I’m not going to jump you. Just let it go, alright? I’m going shopping and I expect to see the head gone by the time I come back.”
Instead of going back to his experiment, Sherlock stepped closer to John, with an intent and focus that was usually reserved for at least six rated cases. “You’re attracted to me, but restrain yourself because it’s me who doesn’t want to have sex with anyone or–”
“Rubbing it in my face? Bit not good.”
“God, I’m an idiot,” Sherlock breathed out and the next moment, John found himself being kissed within the inch of his life.
He was so surprised, he didn’t even kiss back.
Sherlock jerked back abruptly, braking the kiss and making John a little disoriented. “I’m so sorry, John, I seem to have misjudged–”
John finally caught up with the events.
“You didn’t,” he said and grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders, both steadying himself and preventing Sherlock from fleeting away. “You really didn’t know?”
“I had no idea, John,” whispered Sherlock.
John stared back at Sherlock, unable to utter any of the million thoughts that rushed through his mind. John lived with the most brilliant man there was and yet, both of them somehow managed to miss something that was right in front of their noses.
“Let me show you then?” said John, unable to bear the uncertainty in Sherlock’s eyes any longer.
“Please.” Sherlock’s voice sounded so small, and gently, very gently, John pulled Sherlock’s face down to his. He first caught Sherlock’s lower lip between his, then upper, then firmly kissed the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, while caressing Sherlock’s hair, letting the curls slip through his fingers again and again. Sherlock swayed a little and pulled John closer in to a tight hug, and John deepened the kiss, amused by how characteristically impatient Sherlock became even while kissing. Sherlock kissed like a man possessed, devouring and claiming, so John did his best to calm him by letting his hands wander in wide soothing strokes wherever he could reach.
Finally Sherlock gasped for air and John leaned back a little to look at him. Sherlock was dishevelled and wild, as if he was chasing criminals through the greater part of London.
“I love you,” said Sherlock, looking John in the eyes. “I was certain my pathetic pinning was obvious.”
“I’m not the one who claims to be the world’s only consulting detective,” said John and cupped Sherlock’s cheek to prevent the defensive bristle. “And I love you too. I won’t ever stop telling you that. I want you be certain.”
Sherlock bit his lip, then smiled tentatively. “You promised to show me. Or are you already done with that?”
“Shouldn’t we-”
“Don’t you dare say anything about taking it slow!” Sherlock looked dead serious, ready to fight whatever statement John came up with.
John let out a wholehearted laugh, surprising Sherlock and himself. Whenever John longed to touch Sherlock, he had to be content with a friendly pat on the shoulder or an elbow nudge, and he just got a permission to let it all go. Sherlock asked, no, Sherlock demanded to be touched and John was eager to oblige him. Going straight to bed just after he got up and dressed seemed ridiculous to John, but at least this time the bed wasn’t his own.
Sherlock was trying to rip John’s clothes off, but John didn’t let him, compensating the restraint with murmurs of praise and affection, telling Sherlock things he wouldn’t probably dare say outside the confines of the bedroom. John undressed Sherlock slowly, kissing and caressing every bit of revealed skin and finally Sherlock relented to the rhythm. John didn’t forget he was asked to show what he felt for Sherlock and he was intent on doing just that.
Afterwards, John lain in bed hungry, sweaty and with his arm going numb, because Sherlock was dozing off on it, and yet, he didn't even think about getting up. Yes, he definitely was very happy. Even if there was an occasional head in the fridge.