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one.
"John? You alright there?" Greg's voice broke through the fog in his head, and John realised he hadn't been listening.
"Erm, sorry, what?" he muttered, tearing his gaze from Sherlock. The detective was currently fiddling with something the rest of them had dismissed - a hairclip of some sort - a few feet away. His profile was all John could see - that, and the long coat - but John couldn't get enough of it. He hadn't realised how much Sherlock's loss had affected him until the man was back, right in front of him, and everything felt right again.
"I just asked if you were okay," Greg repeated gently, patting John's arm. "Still not used to him being, well, not dead?"
John winced a little, shaking his head, eyes never leaving his friend. Sherlock had been back for forty-seven days now; John had counted every last one that he'd spent alone, and now he was trying to start anew, counting the days he wasn't. Forty-seven days, and John still got startled when he saw Sherlock in the living room when he came down for tea.
"He missed you, too, you know," Greg added, and John looked at him now, confused.
"What makes you say that?" John asked, trying to keep his expression guarded. But it seemed Greg saw right through him, based on the knowing little smile he offered the doctor.
"I just know he's shit at showing it."
"Showing... what?" John prompted, but Greg only smiled, patting John's arm again and heading over to their friend to hear his latest show-stopping deduction. John was left wondering what Greg was trying to drive at, unable to look away from Sherlock and even more unable to dismiss the flutter that had danced in his chest since Sherlock's return.
two.
Mrs. Hudson walked in on them in a compromising position one Saturday evening.
It wasn't anything bad, really - Sherlock was being stubborn, refusing to sleep for hours and hours at a time, and John had no choice. So he seated himself on the sofa and practically dragged Sherlock over with him, planting his hand in the other man's mop of curls and beginning to play with them. Sherlock almost let out a whimper, stilling in shock before glaring at John. The detective knew exactly what it was John was trying to do, but the doctor didn't meet his eyes. He simply opened the paper with his free hand and blatantly refused to remove his other from Sherlock's nape.
Eventually, Sherlock had let out a dramatic huff and leaned against the back of the sofa, still at least two feet away from John so that the doctor's arm was almost fully stretched to reach him. He huffed and sulked for roughly twenty minutes before John caught his eyelids beginning to flutter, and smiled a little in triumph.
Mrs. Hudson came in with a stack of letters just as Sherlock had fallen asleep. He'd eventually moved closer to John, close enough to rest against him, but his head had since fallen to the pillow strategically placed in John's lap, his legs curled next to him. John had long since forgotten the reading-the-paper ruse, abandoning it in favour of watching the other sleep as his fingers still absently tangled themselves in the curls. It sounded creepy when he thought of it that way, but he reminded himself this arsehole had left him for 693 days, and he figured, this, he deserved.
The landlady grinned widely, handing John the three envelopes and winking conspicuously, but she didn't say a word. John flushed a little, waving her off and focusing on the letters to distract from the heat in his cheeks. One was a wedding invitation from some relative John had quite forgotten, and the two others, letters from fans and clients.
John noticed, though, as he set the mail aside, that the invitation was addressed to "Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson" and his blush deepened. It didn't have to mean anything, really, but, typically, when a letter is addressed like that, it's to a couple. John bit his lip, hating himself a bit at the light feeling his heart took on at the insinuation. Usually, he'd be so opposed to people thinking he and Sherlock were a couple, but lately...
He shook his head as if that would clear it of the ridiculous thoughts, setting the mail beside him and gazing once again at sleeping Sherlock in his lap. Maybe the new feeling in his chest was wrong, but here, in their own little flat, with no one around but a sleeping detective, John let it warm him, just a bit. No one would know after all.
three.
"John," Sherlock whined far too early one morning, rapping on the other's door. "John, I need your help." The doctor sighed heavily, pulling back the comforter and pulling a jumper on over his nightclothes. He swung the door open with a scowl, but it really couldn't remain when he saw Sherlock.
"What is it?" he asked, not sounding as annoyed as he'd hoped he would. Sherlock only grabbed John's wrist and tugged him down the stairs, the blushing doctor following behind him.
"I need you to assist in an experiment," Sherlock explained when they had reached the kitchen, and array of disgusting-looking substances laid out all over the room. John sighed, checking his watch.
"Shit, Sherlock, I need to go in to work," he muttered, turning back to his room. "I already missed yesterday because of that case -" But the detective caught his wrist again, giving him those stupid puppy eyes as the other tried to pull away.
"Please, will you do this for me?"
John froze, Sherlock's words from just now mirroring that of his on that horrible, horrible day. His heart began to pound and suddenly he couldn't breathe and all he could think about was Sherlock on that rooftop.
Sherlock's arms were around him in an instant, obviously having realised what he'd said and trying to comfort John. The doctor felt himself being tugged towards his chair, felt Sherlock pushing his head to rest between his knees as John saw spots from how fast he was breathing. He tried to listen to Sherlock's soothing words, tried to level his breathing, but it was all coming back, everything he had thought he'd sealed away now that Sherlock was back. Now that everything was okay.
But it wasn't okay, none of it, and John felt his panic rise as incomprehensible thoughts flew through his mind, only leaving him with the feelings that were tagging behind.
John didn't know how many minutes passed before he noticed Sherlock's hand in his - or, rather, Sherlock's wrist. It was a habit John had picked up since Sherlock's return - taking the man's pulse, telling himself each time was making up for the day he felt nothing under his fingers. John hadn't even realised he'd done it just now, but he supposed it was enough of a habit now; thankfully, Sherlock didn't seem to mind. So the other timed his breaths with Sherlock's pulse until he was breathing on every second, every third, and he could see again.
"I'm sorry," he managed after a moment, but Sherlock shook his head vehemently.
"No, John, please don't be sorry. I should have known how much that day has stayed in your mind, how many times you must have..." He trailed off, shaking his head again and looking at John with a real depth in his gaze. "Not dead, okay?"
John nodded, eyes locked on Sherlock's hand in his. "Not dead."
four.
"Sherlock, that has got to be the worst idea I've ever heard," John muttered, incredulous, "And that's coming from you."
"Don't be so crass, John," Sherlock shot back with a hurt expression that John knew to be fake but softened his heart nonetheless. "I like the rain."
"So that warrants opening our windows and letting it soak everything we own?" John replied, but he was already pacing to the first window and seeing what would need to be moved to avoid water damage. Sherlock clapped his hands excitedly when John began opening the curtains, and the doctor rolled his eyes, fighting a smile. "At least move the table, will you?" Sherlock hopped to immediately, clearing some of the items and pulling the table away a bit.
"I can't believe I'm letting you do this," John muttered, cracking the window. "Mrs. H will kick us out, you know."
"She could never," Sherlock replied easily, stepping close to John and opening the window fully. When the window stood ajar and the torrent of rain was clearly audible, the water soaking the floor in moments, Sherlock sighed in content, seating himself in front of the window closest to the sofa and letting the rain drizzle onto him.
John stared at him for a moment like he was quite mad, but when Sherlock turned to look at him with big, hopeful eyes and patted the floor beside him, John muttered, "Oh, sod it," and sat cross legged beside his friend.
It was a strange feeling, letting the rain cover you and not trying to run from it. John's hair stuck to his forehead almost instantly, his clothes dampening, too, but he didn't find himself hating it. Even if he did, the blissful expression on Sherlock's face was enough to convince him to at least wait it out.
"Why did you want to do this?" John asked quietly, words almost disappearing in the din of the downpour.
"I've always liked rain," Sherlock began after a moment, opening his eyes. He looked almost ethereal, with the water dripping down his face and highlighting his dark hair and angular features. "The smell, the sound, the look of it. It's quiet, but loud enough to drown it all out, sometimes." He shrugged, gaze wandering over the window. John watched him carefully, allowing the warmth in his chest to spread as he watched the other look so content.
"I like it," John decided, turning his gaze back to the window but not missing the happiness in the other's expression at his words.
They sat in silence as the rain came down, eventually slowing to a stop as the night grew darker, but the pair didn't move. Something about this moment felt frozen in time, and John didn't want to break it.
Soon, though, it felt like there was something they weren't saying, something weighing on the both of them; maybe it was the heavy air, but John's chest felt tight, and he began to wonder how long he could fight this feeling.
They didn't say it, though. They only gazed at the streets of London, glistening in the light.
five.
"Sherlock, I'm home -" John froze, jaw halfway dropped in shock. "Are those - glasses?"
The detective snatched the thick black frames from off his nose faster than the speed of light, but the damage was already done: the arsehole somehow managed to look cute and also hot as hell.
John stammered when this thought occurred, ears burning. Luckily, though, Sherlock was just as flustered and rather preoccupied with hiding the offending frames. He cleared his throat, face noticeably redder, and gazed at John's shoes shyly. "I don't really need them," he muttered. "I do sometimes. I just don't wear them," he corrected, swallowing.
"Well," John managed, swallowing hard in his turn. "As your doctor, I feel compelled to make sure you follow your prescription." The words sounded more commanding than John felt, and he hoped Sherlock took the ruse just because he looked damn good in those glasses.
What the hell, he realised, as his thoughts took that turn once again. He barely glimpsed Sherlock's confused little look before he was clearing his throat loudly and turning to put the groceries away.
"This doesn't count as a flaw, you know!" Sherlock called to John's back, seeming to have regained his composure. "So don't go adding it to that list I know you've got."
John grinned, turning back as he restocked the napkins. "What, the one about how you can't sleep with the window open, or how you sing in the shower, and you definitely don't have a military -"
"Yes, yes, that one," Sherlock shot back loudly, waving his hand in the air and refusing to meet John's eyes.
John chuckled. "That's not a list of flaws. It's specifically titled, 'Proof Sherlock is a Human,'" he replied, only half joking. The detective looked over at him, mouth open to retort, but nothing came out. He closed it resolutely a moment later, going back to tapping something into John's laptop.
Resigning himself to the fact that his laptop wasn't much his anymore, he went up to his room to grab a notepad. In truth, this list of his didn't exist in anything other than his head, but he found himself liking the idea. So he sat himself in his chair and began writing as Sherlock typed at the table.
Sherlock can't sleep with the window open, he wrote, remembering the time John had opened it when Sherlock was passed out after four days of no sleep. He'd left the room and heard Sherlock get up not a minute later and re-entered the room to find a sleepy Sherlock angrily shutting the thing. Picky, John had thought. But at least he's cute.
Sherlock sings in the shower, he wrote next. That was a favorite memory of his; he'd come home from the clinic earlier than Sherlock was used to, and he'd walked in to the sound of running water, accompanied by the deep baritone voice that could only be his flatmate's. The words weren't really clear, and it was quiet, but John could have listened for hours. A sopping-wet Sherlock had emerged to find John in his chair, sipping tea and trying not to smile. Needless to say, he had deduced it all and refused to speak to John for three hours.
The last thing he'd said hovered in mind, the tip of his pen touching the paper. Greg had made a comment once about Sherlock's affinity for, "our men in uniform," with a wink directed John's way. He considered adding this little fact, but the thought made his ears burn again and he moved on. Sherlock wears thick-frame black glasses, he added instead, smiling again at the image.
A few more things made the list, like Sherlock said he's never kissed someone he actually liked, and Sherlock overshares when he's drunk - it was only because of that last one that John knew about the kiss fact. It made him a little sad, to think of teenage or even young adult Sherlock having feelings for someone but having absolutely no idea what to do about it. Things like Sherlock loves having his hair petted and Sherlock can go exactly 98 hours before he physically collapses and Sherlock pretends to like plain tea, but he really prefers it with lots of milk and Sherlock is a cuddler.
John looked at the growing list, quickly realising it wasn't a list of reasons Sherlock was like everyone else but, rather, why he wasn't. And why John loved him for it.
The thought didn't surprise the doctor now, not really. A part of him always knew it - admitting it just felt like letting out a breath he'd been holding for too long.
His gaze flicked over the list once more, ripping it from the pad and folding it, stashing it safely in the inner pocket of his jacket before he could ramble on about Sherlock, or, worse, the man could find the page.
It was mad, really, that Sherlock hadn't somehow deduced the inner working of John's heart before John himself could do so. But maybe it was better that he hadn't. John still didn't know what he'd say if the moment ever came.
+ one.
John shot awake, sweat beading his forehead and hands clutching the sheets. Another nightmare of Sherlock on that rooftop... John didn't know why the detective's return hadn't stopped them.
Knowing he wouldn't be able to fall back asleep any time soon, John slipped out of bed and down the stairs, just standing in the living room for a moment, gazing out the window at the barely-there early morning light. He knew Sherlock was back - he knew he was just a few metres away, even - but some things hadn't changed. They might not ever change, and the idea scared John.
He turned when he heard a thud come from Sherlock's room, followed by soft cursing. He grinned a little; that was a habit Sherlock definitely hadn't had before John came along.
When slight noises persisted, indicating Sherlock was still awake, John stepped to the door and raised his hand to knock. He didn't have to, though - he couldn't say he was surprised - because the detective swung it open in the same instant. "John," he greeted, voice deeper like it got in the morning. (It sent a shiver down John's spine, but he tried to ignore it.) "I thought I heard you wake up."
John snorted. "I thought I heard you break something and then curse up a pretty good storm," he retorted easily, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"It was just a glass, look." Sherlock swung the door open, stepping back and pointing to the cracked glass on the floor by Sherlock's night table. John huffed a little, fixing the other with a reproachful gaze.
"Another nightmare?" Sherlock asked, gentler, seating himself on his bed. John nodded, shuffling awkwardly in the doorway. Sherlock rolled his eyes again, no real malice in the gesture as he indicated for John to sit beside him. The doctor did as was requested, sitting a little stiffly on the edge of Sherlock's bed. "Do you want to talk about it?"
John opened his mouth to reply, the words faltering once before he began again. "It was just - it's always the same. That day, and you..." He stopped, breaths coming a bit faster as the unwanted images burned in his mind. "Sherlock," John managed after a moment, voice clipped. "Dead or not dead?"
The detective seemed surprised by John's words, but soon he slowly moved closer, taking John's hand. The doctor sucked in a breath, watching his friend's eyes carefully. Sherlock rotated his own hand, wrist up, and manoeuvered John's to let his fingers rest on the vein that throbbed there. "Not dead, John."
The other nodded, closing his eyes tightly and letting himself focus on Sherlock's pulse like he'd done too many times before. "John?" the other asked softly after a minute of silence. John opened his eyes, nodding, but not moving his hand. Sherlock swallowed, pulling back a bit. John saddened for a moment before he realised Sherlock's hand was now in his. "I'm not going anywhere." He met the other's eyes, gaze fierce. "Not this time."
John looked at their hands, sort of awkwardly intertwined, and moved on instinct, changing the position of his and letting his fingers intertwine with Sherlock's. He marvelled for a moment at how easily they fit together, struck with a cliche sense of how right the motion felt. "Sherlock?" he asked, biting his lip and not looking up. When the detective hummed, he continued. "Do you know why I was so angry with you for leaving?"
He heard Sherlock suck in a breath, seeming to consider before he spoke. "Yes. I lied to you, and then I returned in the midst of your new -"
"No, no, that's not it," John corrected hurriedly, glancing up briefly before looking back down at their hands, trying to gather his courage. "Sherlock, I..."
Sherlock cleared his throat when John had lapsed into silence, unable to continue. "John, I'm going to make an observation," he stated, and the doctor nodded. "You have something to tell me, something that has been weighing on you for quite some time. This is obvious by your -"
"Yeah, yeah, I know," John muttered, finally glancing up and holding Sherlock's confused gaze. "I just, um. 'S hard to say."
Sherlock broke the eye contact now, glancing almost imperceptibly at their hands. "John, I think I know -"
"Sherlock, I love you," John blurted just as the words left his flatmate's mouth. He sucked in a breath as soon as he'd said it, somehow regretting the thing he'd been trying to tell the man for months - maybe even years.
"Oh, god, um," John muttered, backpedaling and looking anywhere but at Sherlock. "I mean - well, yes, I meant what I said but, if you don't - or anything - it's alright, I can - that is, I've been working for a long time to stop -"
John froze, shocked as he felt Sherlock's lips ghost over his cheekbone, just under his eye. He blinked, stunned, as he tried to read Sherlock. The detective was definitely blushing, even in the dim light, and he was biting his lower lip, his gaze downward. "John, you don't have to take it back. Please don't take it back," he added, so soft John would have missed it had he not been hanging on his every word.
"Are you..." John asked slowly, wanting to be absolutely sure. A kiss, even if it was only on the cheek, was pretty definitive, but John needed confirmation before he let the fluttering in his chest erupt. "Are you saying you..."
"Yes, John," Sherlock said with finality, taking a breath and looking at the man seated opposite him with confidence overshadowing the fear in his eyes. "I... I love you, too, John."
"Oh, god, Sherlock," John muttered, tugging the man forward with his free hand and pressing their lips together roughly. It wasn't as delicate as John had hoped for, but it was somehow the most perfect feeling in the universe. He couldn't hold back any longer - he'd been waiting to do that for far too long.
He pulled back almost as quickly, right hand still in Sherlock's, but his whole body closer now, close enough to feel the other's breath ghost over his face. John grinned in spite of himself, heart jumping when Sherlock returned the expression, relieved laugh bubbling through his lips. "About damn time," he muttered, and John had to pull him in and kiss him again.
"About damn time indeed."