Chapter Text
i
It was a fairly innocuous day, starting as most case-free days tended to. John woke at seven and padded into the kitchen to start the tea; he used the toilet while the water boiled, then poured two cups when it was done. One he brought to Sherlock, wherever he happened to be at the time, and the other he took to his own chair. The doctor spent an hour on the crossword in the paper before actually beginning to read anything. Occasionally, there was a comment about a recent murder, or a case they’d solved.
A perfectly ordinary day, dull in its monotony, yet Sherlock found the routine of it to be fairly peaceful. He studied the older man from his position on the sofa. Loose, white shirt and blue striped pyjamma bottoms. John looked up from his perusal of the Times and smiled softly at the detective. Sherlock, too busy cataloguing the way John’s face looked in that moment, didn’t return the smile. It didn’t hit suddenly, instead the realization grew slowly over the course of the next half hour. He blinked in wonder and glanced once more at John. The tightness in his chest could only mean one thing. Emotion. Sentiment. Surprisingly, he found he rather liked the feeling. It was freeing. Of course, it stung a little to know John likely didn’t return the sentiment, but that hardly mattered. Sherlock knew that as long as he had his blogger around, he’d be happy.
He thought about telling John. But what would he possibly say? Good morning, John, it’s such a lovely day. It also seems I’m in love with you but find I don’t need you to return the sentiment, I know you don’t feel for me that way. No, better not. Best to leave it be and preserve their friendship.
ii
The second time happened while on a case. It had been a seven, possibly and eight, and had taken the better part of two weeks to solve. They’d gone haring off all over London, lead on a merry goose chase by their suspect. Eventually, it had ended in a spectacular chase across three quarters of the city and a tackle by John. Sherlock had stood by breathlessly, gaping at his flatmate as the blonde man rose from the pavement with a firm grip on their suspect’s upper arm. John grinned at Sherlock as he handed the criminal off to Lestrade, “Well, that’s that then,” he stated with a sigh. “We’ll come by tomorrow to fill out the paperwork.”
Lestrade nodded and took the murderer back to his police car.
The doctor turned his glittering gaze on Sherlock, “Chinese? Or Angelo’s?”
Sherlock didn’t respond for nearly a minute. Too lost in wonder of what he possibly did to deserve knowing this wondrous man. “I-Angelo’s,” he replied. The breathless quality had little to do with the chase.
John’s gaze turned concerned when Sherlock didn’t follow him, “Everything alright?”
Sherlock swallowed. There had to be a way to convey his feelings without ruining their friendship, didn’t there? Someway to show his flatmate just how much he was needed? If there was, Sherlock didn’t know it, so instead he said, “I’m fine. Just a bit hungry.”
The doctor gazed at him for a few silent moments, then shrugged, “If you say so. I’ll call ahead and make sure our table’s available.”
The brunette nodded, “Thank you,” he muttered. It was a paltry substitute to what he really wanted to say, but it would have to do for now.
iii
The third one also happened on a case. John was kidnapped--as he so frequently was, it seemed--by their suspects, and held hostage in an old warehouse that John recognized as one of the places Mycroft had brought him to for a meeting. Sherlock was manic, pacing the flat and barking at officers of the Yard when they tried to say something. It took him far longer than he liked to figure out where they would have taken his blogger, his mind half occupied with horrid thoughts of what they could be doing to John. He had tugged at his hair, frustrated with his feelings. It was imperative that he rescue John. His own continued existence depended on it.
When they finally arrived at the warehouse, it was to find John standing against a wall with both suspects bound and gagged in the middle of the concrete floor. “Took you all long enough,” he stated as he handed off the suspect’s gun to Lestrade.
The relief that flooded Sherlock’s system upon seeing John left him feeling weak and he threw a hand out to steady himself. His hand landed on Lestrade’s shoulder and the DI turned a concerned gaze on the detective, “You alright, mate?”
Sherlock merely nodded and breathed a steadying breath before removing his hand. John was okay. A little bruised, but no lasting damage had been done to his person. He was whole and alive and Sherlock thanked a God he didn’t believe in for that small miracle. God, there was so much love for this small, unassuming man running through Sherlock’s veins. More than he thought he could possibly feel for any, one person.
The tall man stumbled forward to throw his arms around his doctor. John tensed up but then relaxed and returned the embrace. “I’m okay,” he murmured softly in the detective’s ear. “I’m safe now.”
“You can’t leave me,” Sherlock choked out into John’s shoulder. “You can’t.”
“Never. I would never leave you. Not unless you asked me to.”
Sherlock didn’t bother telling his flatmate that he’d never ask such a thing. He’d cut out his own heart before he ever asked John to leave.
iv
By the fourth time, Sherlock was a bit more familiar with the feeling. More able to remain focused on other things when it popped up. He could never fully ignore it. It was nearly a constant hum in his mind at that point. This time, Lestrade called them to a case and as they were ducking under the police tape, Anderson attacked. Of course, Sherlock thought, he should have known he’d bring up the scene he and John had made at the warehouse. The detective simply kept walking towards the body, though it looked like it would barely be a three. He stopped dead in his tracks when he heard the wet smack of a fist connecting directly with flesh followed by the sickening crunch of a nose being broken. Slowly, he pivoted around on the balls of his feet to find John standing in front of a hunched Anderson. The idiot was clutching his face as blood streamed from his broken nose.
John calmly wiped his bloodied hand on a handkerchief he pulled from his jacket pocket. “So,” he said as he turned to Sherlock, “any ideas yet?”
Sherlock blinked stupidly at the doctor for a moment, then cleared his throat and started in on his deductions. “Suicide staged to look like a murder staged as a suicide. Rather clever, actually had she executed it properly. She even used her non-dominant hand to fire the gun just in case you called me, however, she failed to take into account that the person she intended to frame for her ‘murder’ would be halfway across the country with his wife. Yes, she was having an affair with a married man,” he glanced sharply at Donovan before continuing, “and he’d no doubt told her he would leave his wife. When she realized that he had lied, she intended to ruin him. After all, there’s no point in living if he can’t be wholly hers, is there?” he cocked a sardonic brow at this. “She figured she might as well take him down with her and planned to make it look like he’d killed her. One would think she’d be grateful to have him at all in whatever capacity she could have him.” It was only after several, silent minutes had passed that he realized he’d said that last sentence aloud. Nervously, he cleared his throat and briskly fled the scene, keeping his face as blank as he could manage.
John followed without command.
v
The cab ride home was silent, both men too lost in their thoughts. Sherlock was grateful that John wasn’t bring up his obvious slip. It wouldn’t be long before John put the pieces together, certainly, and then he’d want to leave. Not that Sherlock blamed him. He’d made it perfectly clear that he wasn’t interested in men like that, least of all Sherlock. The brunette just hoped John would take a little while before he really figured it out. If he could just keep him busy then he wouldn’t have time to think things through. But no, that would be tantamount to keeping him against his will. Best to get it over with quickly, then. Like ripping off a plaster.
“I suppose you’ll want to pack your things when we get back,” he murmured. “I won’t stop you.”
John blinked in confusion, “What?”
“After what I said back there, I assume you won’t want to stay around.”
“I still don’t understand,” the blonde replied. “But if you want me to leave, for whatever reason, all you had to do was say so.”
Sherlock swallowed and gathered his courage. John would leave eventually, once he figured out what the detective had meant with his words at the scene. Best he leave while Sherlock still had a chance of recovering. But, God, it wrenched his heart painfully to think of returning to a flat no longer occupied by John. No more comfortable silences in the morning. He wasn’t sure he could do it.
John spoke before Sherlock could, “I did say I’d never leave unless you asked. So, are you asking?”
“No,” Sherlock stated immediately. “No, I-you can stay. If you want.”
“Good,” John nodded. “So, who is it?”
“Who is who?”
“The person you’re apparently attached to,” John continued. “Nobody says something like that without having strong feelings for someone.”
“It’s no one.”
“Bull, but it’s fine. You don’t have to tell me. If you ever need someone to talk to, though, I’m here.”
Except he couldn’t talk to John about his feelings. Not when they were for the man himself. He’d leave for sure, then. “Thank you,” he stated softly. “I’m not sure I’ll ever take you up on the offer, but I appreciate the sentiment none the less.”