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The flat had been quiet all day: no visitors, no violin, no violence. The absence of all three was slightly abnormal, but John wasn’t complaining. Sherlock had been sitting on the couch for at least sixteen hours; John had set a timer just to amuse himself. He'd considered looking up the Guinness record for longest time sitting on your arse.
Who knows how long it had really been: John set the timer in the middle of the night after waking up from a nightmare. He saw lights still on, and was hoping he'd go downstairs to see Sherlock asleep, but no: Sherlock was on the couch, silent and steepled. John tried speaking to him, telling him to go to bed and all, but to no avail. Assuming Sherlock was having a strop, John set a timer to see how long it lasted. There had to be some upside to living with a toddler in a genius's body.
Though sixteen hours wasn't record breaking for Sherlock, the lack of anything was beginning to concern John. If there was a message he couldn't decode or a fact he couldn't match, the silence would almost be expected. But as far as John knew, there was nothing of such high importance, and Sherlock hopefully knew by now that John and secrets did not mix.
In a final attempt before he went to bed, John walked over to the couch. Sherlock was lying down, feet facing the stairs. John surveyed him for a moment, double checking he was breathing, and then cleared his throat purposefully. He sounded a bit like a mother about to scold her child, if he was being honest with himself.
"Sherlock, you've not eaten or slept in far too long. Do one of the two before it becomes an issue."
To John's surprise, Sherlock responded, his vocal cords grumbling to life like a car in winter. "It never has been an issue, and I don't need you to parent me."
John licked his lips, doing his best not punch Sherlock right in his annoying, messy head. "I'm not your parent, I'm your doctor.” There, that sounded logical.
"You are not my doctor either."
"Shut up and eat or something. Christ, Sherlock. You know, you could let someone care about you every once in a while." John went upstairs and got into bed, but listened intently for a sound that would suggest Sherlock's movement.
He smiled when he heard the fridge open, and that was one of the last memories he had of Before.
***
John looked at himself in the mirror for a long time. His face had sunken; he could tell by his eyes. They looked too pale, and too tired. After Mary, or whatever her real name was, he'd lost a lot of himself. He found himself going back to Sherlock as broken as the first time, just in different ways.
He felt empty most of the time, like he was recharging. John had put so much energy into making sure that he could just have a normal life that when it was all torn down he could hardly function. Sometimes a small voice in the back of John's head resented Sherlock for coming back, thinking that if Sherlock had just stayed far away then none of this would have happened.
But John knew that in a strange way he was happiest like this, with Sherlock. Mary was important, and he had loved her, but neither of them could keep up the white picket fence act the rest of their lives. Now he was back in 221B, and his life was back to the chaos he craved. It was messy, and exhausting, and most of time he wanted to punch Sherlock in the face, but it was home.
Splashing water in his face John thought about the day ahead. He was hoping to go downstairs and find Sherlock asleep, or maybe even working on a case. At this point anything would be better than steepled silence.
He thudded down the stairs, giving Sherlock as much a chance to adjust as possible. John had decided long ago that he did not want to see most of the stuff Sherlock worked on, and they had come to an agreement that Sherlock would keep to the mentality of 'What John doesn't know can't hurt him'. Which, as Sherlock had pointed out so helpfully, is not actually true.
Books were open and the laptop was still on, but there was no sign of Sherlock. John listened for water running, fizzing, small explosions, possibly grunts, anything that would suggest Sherlock was up to something. When nothing caught John's attention, he quietly checked Sherlock's bedroom, reluctantly optimistic that he might be asleep.
John tapped the door open, trying not to wake him. Instead he saw Sherlock pacing next to the bed frantically. Cursing quietly, John stood still for a moment, waiting for Sherlock to acknowledge his presence. But of course, Sherlock did no such thing. After watching him pace, almost slink, for another moment longer, John deliberately cleared his throat.
Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, his blue dressing gown billowing behind him. Always one for a bit of flare, Sherlock is. He looked down at his bare feet, facing the corner, curling and uncurling his toes with anxiety. He was still deep in thought, but now John's presence intruded like coffee going through a filter. It was right, it was supposed to happen, but that didn't stop it from compromising the filter's structural integrity.
There was a heavy silence that John could not hold alone, and so he had to break it.
"Sherlock, is something going on that you're not telling me about?" He stepped forward, desperately hoping that Sherlock would turn around. John saw his shoulders rise and fall cautiously, and he slowly turned around. "Sherlock you're scaring me a bit, not gonna lie."
"No reason for fear, John," Sherlock said extremely unconvincingly.
"Then what is there reason for, because you are making no sense."
"John, I have some unfortunate news."
John didn't know what to do. His heart rate picked up and he made a noncommittal noise, indicating for Sherlock to continue. "Through research, regarding my previous experience, and observing others, I have come to the conclusion that I am," his voice quivered ever so slightly, but for John it was a red flag, “in love... with you."
Obviously having no clue how to react, John was quiet and appreciated Sherlock giving him some time. The genius with the stone heart, ice man, machine, was claiming not only to have feelings, but romantic feelings, and romantic feelings for John.
"Okay." John took a deep breath and went into problem solving mode. "What do you want to do about this?"
Sherlock was somehow paler than ever, and in that moment he looked like a picture of a beautiful man facing some world destroying decision. "Well, John, that is why I told you at all. You obviously know much more than I do in this area, I was hoping you could make this issue go away."
Then John understood: Sherlock wasn't asking for sex or a ring, he was looking for a way out of this trap called emotion. "Sherlock, this is not an issue, this just means you're human."
"I'm fully aware of my anatomy, John, b-"
"Not what I meant, Sherlock. I mean that many people have these feelings."
"Yes, but never me. I hate people in general, so what makes you different? Why have I chosen you above every other smarter, more useful, or more sensible person?"
John took a deep breath, resisting the urge to kill him. He would have to break Sherlock's mind momentarily if they were going to get anywhere. "You're right. I'm nothing compared to Irene or Moriarty, so why me? There are many people smarter, nicer, more attractive, more helpful, hell, why aren't you dating Molly? Why, Sherlock? You are the only one with the answers here."
"I never said you weren't-" Sherlock stopped his sentence there. He paused, looking down at his grey t-shirt. "John." He looked up into John’s eyes, terrified.
Walking towards him, John extended his arm and placed it on Sherlock shoulder. "We're going to sort this out. It'll be okay."
"I need it sorted out now, John. There are more important things I should be doing, more important things to be thinking about!" Sherlock turned away to once again face the wall, messing his hands through his hair angrily.
There was quiet. Sherlock put his hands under his chin, head bowed in thought. John couldn't help but wonder what thoughts Sherlock was plagued with, but that could be sorted out later. Or, "Sherlock, what are you thinking about right now? I need you to be honest, that might be the best way to sort this out. Addressing the feelings in the moment."
Sherlock's hands moved you his hips, and his head swivelled back to look at John for just a moment. John gave himself a second to check his own thoughts, emotions, physical reactions possibly. Elevated heart rate, stressful situation, cheeks flushed, slight embarrassment, nothing unexpected. But then he got caught up in what this actually implies. He tried figuring out when this had happened, what he could have done that made Sherlock fall. John quickly mentally tacked on 'in love' to that thought.
The room was eerily quiet, except for Sherlock's slightly panicked breathing. John took a deep breath, trying to relieve some of the tension in his muscles, "Sherlock? What are you thinking?"
As Sherlock set the world record for longest time turning around, John tried to hush the unexplainable butterflies in his stomach. "Total honesty?"
"Total honesty."
"I've recently been plagued by an intense desire to kiss you."
Shellshocked was probably the best word to describe John. In one morning almost everything he'd ever known about Sherlock had been shattered, rearranged, and put back together into a completely different person. John thought back to the minimal research he'd done around the time of Irene. He looked up sociopaths, and their tendencies for romance or sexuality, and none of it was conclusive. However, he did find terms like asexual that seemed to describe Sherlock perfectly. John threw this mental booklet out a mental window, and tried to think through the molasses that was his brain.
Apparently this silence was too prolonged for Sherlock, as he soon asked, "Did I do it wrong?"
John shook himself out of the daze. "Wha- no, no you're fine. Just, uh, I-I suppose th-that this," he gestured wildly between the two of them, "is, um -"
"John this is painful to watch please articulate a thought," Sherlock said, slipping back into his usual dick of a self.
"I don't know what to do," John breathed out, looking this new man in the eye. "I mean, fine you want to kiss me. But I am not actually gay, so I d-"
"Oh would you get off this "not gay" high horse? You're bisexual, whether you admit it or not. And yes, I know you experimented in the military, I'm surprised you ever thought you could hide that."
John chuckled, but his cheeks were flushed. "Use whatever words you want, but I'm not into blokes."
Sherlock deadpanned. "John, if you're not going to take this seriously then-"
"I'm not into blokes, Sherlock!"
"Oh, please."
"What, have you ever seen me checking men out?"
"Yes! Dear God, what is it like to be as deep in denial as you are?"
"I am not in denial about anything. What could I possibly do to convince you otherwise?" he asked rhetorically, but Sherlock had other ideas.
"Kiss me." He looked John in the eye, having found a solution to this problem.
John, of course, was baffled by the forward thinking. "Uh, Sherlock, I underst-"
"You want to prove your unfailing heterosexuality? Kiss me. If you're right, then you can be right, and I'll have whatever data is necessary for this," he gestured vaguely, "situation."
It took John a bit too long to wrap his mind around kissing Sherlock. Of course he had thought about it before, who doesn't think about kissing their best friend. Not in a sexual way or anything, but, you know, curiosity. Oh Jesus, maybe he was bi.
"Yes, okay, we can do this. But I need to get ready, have some tea."
***
John ran up the stairs two at a time, entering his room and swiftly closing the door. He leaned back against it, like a girl who had just gotten kissed for the first time. His breathing was heavy and his brain was going a million miles a minute, and his stomach twisted and turned more than any maze. John didn't want Sherlock to think he was doing anything other than changing, and so he forced himself to move across the room to his dresser. He slipped jeans on over his boxers, and a jumper over his t-shirt. He moved to the bathroom, brushing his teeth, and making a point of not looking himself in the eye in the mirror.
Walking back to his door, his hand paused on the doorknob. He worried his bottom lip for a moment, and then urged himself to open the door.
Descending the stairs he didn't make a point of being loud, there was no reason. He knew exactly what was waiting for him down there.
Sherlock had offered to make tea, which truly showed the oddness of this situation. When John refused, Sherlock sat in his chair, crossed his legs, and looked up at John almost like a puppy knowing it had done something wrong. This was the position John found him in when he returned, completely unchanged.
"Tea?" John offered. Sherlock just shook his head, suddenly looking very childlike.
As he went into the kitchen, pulling out a mug and putting the kettle on, John scolded himself for delaying this so shamelessly. But that didn't stop him from getting out the tea bag, and finding something to do with the singular dish in the sink.
Once his tea was ready his heart sank. He did not want to go into the living room. He had invaded countries, shot men, been shot himself, but he couldn't go out there and face his flat mate. But he did it anyway.
"Hi," John said, plopping himself into his chair.
"Hello," Sherlock said, awkwardly looking at John.
Well. Wasn't this going well. John set the tea down on the table next to him, realising that for better or worse he was probably never going to finish that cup. "Okay, how do you want to go about this?"
Sherlock was stunned for a second, his mouth falling open, attempting to say something useful. A moment later he registered his lack of knowledge, closed his mouth, and shrugged.
"Alright, well, we should set up some sort of parameters." Sherlock nodded. "Right. Um. You got anything?"
Sherlock looked to his hands, which sat in his lap. When he looked up, John was truly frightened by how small Sherlock looked. Jesus, did he really make Sherlock feel this way? The genius, at a loss, thought for a moment longer, and then opened his mouth, inhaling deeply. "Please don't purposely make it terrible."
John was briefly crushed by the thought of someone being that cruel. "I won't, I promise." He wasn't ready for anything else just yet, then a question occurred to him, and John was surprised he hadn't asked this yet. "Sherlock, have you ever been attracted to someone other than me?"
Sherlock was quick to both answer and blush. "No."
"My only rule, no tongue." Sherlock laughed at that. "Three seconds?"
"Sure."
Okay. Three seconds of lip contact. John could handle that. It's just skin on skin. It's not like he's never touched Sherlock before. It's fine. It's all fine.
John stood up, and Sherlock followed. They came very close to each other, but not actually touching.
"Ready?" John asked. Sherlock nodded, but didn't do anything, and that's when John knew he would have to take control. Without giving himself time to think, he placed one hand on the nape of Sherlock's neck, and tilted his head up, closing the distance between them.
Sherlock's lips were pursed, and upon contact they pulled back momentarily. But then he leaned his head down, pressed his lips to John's more firmly. They stood like that for a second or two, but John didn't feel like it would be fair to pull away now. He ran his thumb into Sherlock's hair, and pulled away briefly to tilt his head the other way. Sherlock apparently was a fan of this, because he inhaled sharply.
Without thinking about it, Sherlock moved his limp arms from his sides and placed them around on John's sides. John felt his stomach roll and coil, and his worst fears were coming to life, and he really didn't care.
The space between their stomachs became nonexistent without either of them meaning it to. Sherlock was beginning to give just as good as he was getting, and John actually kept back a small grunt. Getting carried away, John licked at Sherlock's lips.
Sherlock seized up, and John immediately pulled away, turning towards the kitchen and away from Sherlock, hands on his hips. "Sorry, sorry, I am so sorry." He heard Sherlock breathing heavily, and it was impossible to tell why.
Sherlock swallowed hard, and shivered at the residual taste of John. The wound in his chest where his heart used to be had rotted down into his stomach, killing the butterflies and leaving tiny corpses of hatred. He didn't want to speak. He'd give anything not to have to speak to John. He didn't want John to speak, because he knew what he would say. He didn't want anything except to keep kissing him and pushing the consequences away until the end of time.
John knew he had to take control, he knew Sherlock was scared. The problem was that John was scared to. God, I've been in the fucking war and I can't face my bloody flatmate.
He turned back towards Sherlock slowly, avoiding eye contact by looking out the window. How is London not on fire? How is the world still spinning all the same? "So..."
"Yeah." Sherlock bit his lips into his mouth.
"Sherlock, I'm s-"
"Don't, John. Just... don't."
"Alright." Say something. "Did you get your, erm, data?"
"Yes, thank you. Did you prove your heterosexuality?"
"I suppose."
"You suppose?"
Fuck. "Well. If I'm being very honest I'd like to keep kissing you."
Sherlock's face emulated the expression of the last man alive hearing a knock at the door. "What?"
John realised what he had just said and looked down at his shoes, feeling his face light itself on fire. "Sorry."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why are you sorry?"
"Because I was too forward."
"No."
"No?"
"No."
"Oh. So... what do we do now then?"
Sherlock laughed quietly, at what exactly he'd never say. "May we kiss?" He asked the same way one would invite a stranger to dance, and John found that endearing.
Clearing his throat, John stepped forward. He looked up into the other man's eyes with quiet adoration, glazed with fear and anticipation.
***
Mrs. Hudson found them both a few hours later, asleep in Sherlock's bed, fully clothed. Sherlock had draped himself over John, and was snoring softly into his shoulder. "It's about time," she said fondly, pulling the curtains closed. I’ll let them sleep.