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John couldn't believe how long it had taken him to figure things out.
The change in his and Sherlock's relationship from friends into something more had happened easily and felt inevitable. Their beginning was had been almost boring in it's predictability. Rain, adrenaline, being alive. They'd fallen into bed as naturally as they'd done everything else since they first met. The sex was satisfying, the thrill of the new relationship intoxicating, and John was sure, he was certain, that this was it for him. Sherlock seemed to agree, and for someone who scorned normality and was almost proud of his lack of social graces, he was remarkably good at being in a relationship with John. He was much more physically affectionate than John had supposed he would be, brushing his fingers across John’s neck, and kissing him absently when they passed each other in the flat. He knew instinctively when John had had a bad day and he would modify his behaviour accordingly--there would be tea at John’s elbow, unasked, and his violin playing would tend more towards the tuneful than it usually did.
And when it came down to it, not all that much had changed, really.
They still worked cases together, ate takeaway, and bickered over the body parts in the fridge. John still snapped at Sherlock for playing the violin at ungodly hours, and Sherlock still berated John for his inability to see what was so obvious. They had their romantic moments too, of course. Nights spent wrapped around each other on the sofa, days beginning with slow, lazy kisses building to desperate, frantic touches.
And yet.
John wasn't sure how to classify it. For nearly two months now, he'd been certain that something was simply not right; there was something off balance, something different, and it was slowly driving him crazy. He didn't know who to talk to about it, either. Harry was out of the question; he'd never go to Harry for relationship advice again, not after last time. He and Lestrade were fairly good mates; they had a drink together every now and then, but John didn't really feel comfortable talking about his relationship with Sherlock with him. Mycroft was absolutely out of the question, for more reasons than he could number.
So John worked through it himself, thinking, questioning, observing, and it had finally led him to one conclusion.
He wasn't in love with Sherlock.
It shocked him at first. How could he not be in love with Sherlock? It made no sense. He'd wanted this relationship for a long time, hadn't he? And yet...
When John finally came to understand his feelings, he was left with an equal measure of relief and guilt. On the one hand, it felt good to figure this out, to know what had been weighing so uncomfortably on his mind. He did love Sherlock, probably more than he loved anyone else in his life. He was maddening sometimes, not to mention arrogant and selfish, but he was also brilliant, surprisingly funny, and for all he tried to hide it, John knew he felt things deeply. Sherlock was his best friend. But somehow, between those feelings, the adrenaline, and the weight of everybody's expectations, John had blurred the line between loving him and being in love with him.
On the other hand, he felt like he'd been stringing Sherlock along for months, professing to feel something that he didn't. The guilt of it was almost crushing. How could he do this to his friend? How could he have been so thoroughly unaware of the truth of his own feelings? He hated himself for it. He owed Sherlock the truth, and as soon as possible.
So John sat waiting in the darkening living room of Baker Street for Sherlock to come home.
They had to talk.
*
Sherlock finally swept into the room nearly two hours later. John could tell he'd been out walking--his eyes were bright, his hair windswept, and he had a healthy glow of exertion. John swallowed.
"Hello, Sherlock."
"John," Sherlock returned, hanging up his coat. He unwrapped his scarf as well, but instead of hanging it up, he held on to it, toying absently with the wool. John watched as Sherlock wandered into the kitchen, fiddled with his glassware for a moment, and then wandered out. He made his way over to the mantlepiece and played with the knife holding his mail in place before dropping the scarf down beside it and standing awkwardly still, facing John. He ran his fingers through his hair and several times looked on the verge of speaking, but each time he changed his mind, closing his mouth and glancing away.
He's nervous, John realised. He didn't have the time or the energy to try and figure out why, though; he had something to say, and he needed to get it out before he lost his nerve.
"Sherlock, we need to talk."
"John, I have something to tell you."
John stared. Sherlock stared back. They both broke into nervous smiles before Sherlock gestured at him that he should go first.
"Okay," he began, and all of a sudden his palms were sweaty. "Okay. Sherlock, I don't know if you've noticed anything...different about our, um, relationship over the past few weeks?"
Sherlock, who had dropped into the armchair facing John, looked startled at first, but then he nodded hesitantly. John was relieved.
"Okay, good, me too. I first noticed a couple of months ago. I started feeling like something was off, y'know? I couldn't quite place it, so I started thinking about it quite a bit and trying to figure out what was wrong."
God, he was nervous now. He wiped his hands on his trousers as surreptitiously as he could and cleared his throat. Sherlock was watching him with a curious expression on his face, and he had that air he sometimes got when he was devoting all of that massive intellect to a problem. John knew the hardest bit was still to come, but, heaven help him, he was terrified. What if Sherlock was more than just upset? What if he broke Sherlock's heart? He’d never be able to live with himself.
"The thing is, Sherlock," he said, his heart pounding. He licked his lips and focussed on Sherlock's right knee. "The thing is--"
"You're not in love with me."
John's head snapped up. Sherlock had a small smile on his face, and his eyes gleamed with understanding. He didn't look sad or upset at all, only slightly rueful. Unsure how to respond, he said:
"Er...no. No, I'm not."
Pause.
"Is that a problem?" he asked cautiously. It felt like a ridiculous question to ask, it was a ridiculous question to ask, but he had to say something.
Sherlock was grinning at him.
"No, it's not a problem; it's not a problem at all."
John was baffled.
"Um, maybe you could explain?" he asked.
Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, his smile still in place.
"Gladly. You see, John, for some time now I've been aware of this problem to which you refer. I have been growing in my conviction that whatever this," he waved a hand between them, "is, or was, it doesn't quite work for either of us. I believe that, out of a mixture of inexperience and the genuine affection I have for you, I mistook the nature of my feelings for you. I went out today to try and come to a conclusion about what I should say to you, if anything at all, and was resolved to--"
Here, he broke off, chuckling, and John felt waves of relief pouring over him.
"You were going to give me the same little speech I just gave you," he marvelled.
"Well, a much more eloquent version, but yes, the same in essentials," Sherlock replied, still laughing a little.
John felt dazed, and lighter than he had in months.
"So...you're not in love with me, either?"
"No, John, I can tell you now with absolute certainty, that I am not in love with you."
John would never have thought he'd be so relieved to hear those words coming from anyone, let alone Sherlock.
"Okay then," he said. "Brilliant."
"That isn't to say," Sherlock added, his brow crinkling with sudden concern, "that I don't value your presence in my life. I have great personal regard for you, I simply don't--"
"Yeah, I get it." John cut him off. He was grinning now, elated to have this weight off his shoulders at last. "All right then. Dinner?"
"Starving."
***
"Did you hear the news?"
Lestrade glanced up from his paperwork to see Donovan's head sticking round his door.
"News?" he asked.
She smirked and entered the room, dropping down on a chair facing Lestrade.
"The freak and his boyfriend broke up."
"What?" Lestrade demanded. His mind immediately went into damage control mode, wondering how he was going to deal with an angry, bitter, and quite possibly high Sherlock Holmes at his next crime scene.
"It's true," Donovan insisted, still looking rather self-satisfied. "I heard it from Gregson, who's dating that scatterbrained pathologist from St. Bart's. She got it from the bloke who introduced them in the first place. Says the man heard it from John himself."
Lestrade attempted to untangle this dubious chain of communication. An obvious question presented itself.
"Are they still living together?"
Donovan shrugged.
"I haven't heard. I can't believe it lasted as long as it did, really. Looks like the doctor finally came to his senses." She paused for a moment. "You don't think the freak did something, do you?"
"Something like what?" Lestrade returned impatiently, wondering if calling in Sherlock's brother to deal with the potential fallout was a step too far.
"Oh, I don't know. Something...weird." Donovan’s face clearly betrayed the direction of her thoughts.
Lestrade winced.
"Yes, thank you for your input, sergeant."
She stood to go.
"You know he's going to be impossible now, don't you?" she said, her hand on the door handle.
Lestrade sighed.
"I know."
He rubbed his eyes tiredly, wondering if there was a simple way to fix this.
There was no denying Sherlock's whole personality had been improved by the addition of John Watson to his life. He would think twice before he spoke and Lestrade had often seen him shooting John surreptitious glances, the unspoken “Is this all right?” in the air between them. Lestrade was glad to see Sherlock finally have someone in his life that he genuinely cared about and who genuinely cared about him. They were good for each other. And now it was over? Lestrade was not eager to see how this was going to play out.
Still, he had some curiosity about the whole situation. The whys and wherefores of the break-up, for one. Who had broken up with whom? Had it been an angry, bitter break-up? Were they going to try and be friends, or had John stormed out of Baker Street, never to be seen again?
Suddenly, another problem presented itself. Whose side was he going to pick?
It was childish, yes, but Lestrade knew how these things went. He couldn't be friends with both of them, not after a break-up like theirs had surely been. He'd known Sherlock for longer, yes, but he and John had become rather good friends. Was he supposed to stop seeing him now? He knew that John was friends with many of the Met. He could foresee many awkward and uncomfortable encounters before this situation worked itself out.
Groaning, he lowered his head onto his desk and rested it there for a moment. He should've known Sherlock Holmes's love life would cause him so much grief.
*
Less than a week after he'd heard the news of Sherlock's break-up, Lestrade had been called to a crime scene so bizarre and complex that he had no choice but to call in the consulting detective. They were certainly not ideal circumstances--Lestrade had been hoping for at least three weeks before he needed Sherlock's help. He had no idea how Sherlock was dealing with the break-up and was mildly terrified that they were going to witness a particularly dark and caustic episode in the never-ending drama that was Sherlock Holmes.
He stood outside the house, fiddling absentmindedly with his phone. He steeled himself to deal with whatever Sherlock had to offer; regardless of what was going on in his personal life, Sherlock was a genius, and Lestrade sorely needed his help on this case.
A few minutes ticked by before Lestrade glimpsed a familiar tall figure lifting the crime scene tape and ducking under it. Then, to Lestrade's surprise, Sherlock paused, holding the tape up for John Watson to follow him through.
Lestrade stared.
"Evening, Lestrade," said Sherlock as he breezed up. "Body through there? Don't bother following me; I want to have a look on my own first. John, I don't need you yet; stay here and get the details from Lestrade."
"Would it kill you to bloody well ask for once?" John grumbled, but Lestrade could hear the familiar affectionate note in his voice. Sherlock disappeared into the house with a smirk.
"Go on then," John said, turning to Lestrade. "What happened here?"
Lestrade stared.
John certainly didn't look like a man who'd just ended his relationship with the love of his life. He looked, well, normal. Same as ever. In fact, Lestrade would say he looked better than he had done for at least a month. He'd picked up a harried, worried look recently, which Lestrade would assume was a natural side effect of living with Sherlock but for the fact that it hadn't materialised until well into their acquaintance. That look was gone, and John looked cheerful and content, or at least as cheerful and content as anyone could look at a crime scene.
"Lestrade?" John asked carefully, waving his fingers in Lestrade's face. "Are you all right?"
What the hell is going on here, Lestrade wondered.
"Um, John," he began tentatively, not sure if this was overstepping the boundaries of their somewhat fledgling friendship. "I heard that you and Sherlock, well, broke up?"
He didn't mean to make it a question, but somehow it emerged as one.
"Yeah, about a week ago," John said, his tone completely casual.
"I see," said Lestrade. He paused a moment. "And everything's...okay with you two?"
"With me and Sherlock? God, yes, same as ever really," John said. He was squinting at Lestrade in puzzlement.
Lestrade wanted to grab him by the shoulders and yell, "But what about the recriminations? What about the tears and the shouting and the drama that accompanies any break-up like this, let alone one involving Sherlock Holmes, who is an utter drama queen and lover of the melodramatic?" Instead he opted for:
"That's good."
John hummed his agreement before gesturing to the house.
"So, crime scene?" he asked again, speaking slowly as if afraid Lestrade was having trouble hearing him.
"Oh, yes," Lestrade said hastily, trying his best to push down his confusion. "Crime scene. Right. Two male bodies, dressed in diving suits, obviously post-mortem. Seated opposite each other in the living room, propped up against..."
***
"Well, that was..." Donovan's sentence trailed off.
"Weird?" supplied Lestrade.
"Yeah," said Donovan, looking as though she was thinking a far more uncharitable word. "I mean they were all..."
"Normal?"
"Well, yes, normal for them anyway."
Lestrade chuckled slightly. They stood together, watching the retreating figures of Sherlock and his doctor. They looked like they were bickering companionably about something, as they often did, and as he watched Sherlock placed his hand on John’s shoulder and gestured wildly, illustrating whatever point he was making.
Just then, Lestrade spotted a sleek black car pulling up outside the house. He sighed. His night was about to get stranger. Sure enough, a tall, somberly dressed man clutching a black umbrella emerged from the car and stood casually watching Lestrade, as if he had all the time in the world.
Sighing again, Lestrade signalled to Donovan to start packing up and made his way over to the man.
"Mr. Holmes," he said politely.
"Mycroft, please," the man said, inspecting the tip of his umbrella. "Tell me, Inspector, has my brother been here?"
"You mean you don't know? I thought you kept a pretty close eye on him?"
Mycroft looked annoyed for a moment, then his face smoothed back into its customary mask.
"Sherlock has become rather adept at evading my eyes," Mycroft said. He didn't sound disgruntled, but from what Lestrade knew of him, he was seething inside.
"Well yes, Sherlock was here." A thought suddenly struck him. "Sherlock and Dr. Watson."
There. A double take and a slight intake of breath.
"You mean Sherlock was here with John?" Mycroft asked, and Lestrade had never heard him sound so unsure.
"Yeah," he replied. "They were here together. Waltzed up as always, Sherlock did his thing, told me to look for a middle-aged white male electrician with a penchant for blackjack and a family history of diabetes. Then I think they went to have Chinese."
Lestrade enjoyed the look of utter bewilderment that slunk across Mycroft's face, clearly afraid at finding itself in such unknown territory.
"B-but--" Mycroft stuttered out. Mycroft Holmes actually stuttered, Lestrade thought, gratified to know he was not the only one completely flummoxed by the whole affair.
"I know," he assured him. Feeling it was appropriate to do so, he patted him companionably on the arm.
"But they broke up! I know they did! Sherlock can't avoid all my contacts. I have it on unimpeachable authority that they have ended their romantic relationship. Where are the tantrums? The tears and sulks and self-destructive behaviour? I know my brother!" Mycroft was a little wild now. "You mean they're actually friends?" he demanded.
Lestrade shrugged.
"Best friends, I think."
"But...I had a speech worked out, you know. Telling John that he was going to be transferred to Swindon or Serbia or somewhere for breaking my brother's heart! And now you tell that they're fine?"
Mycroft looked so thoroughly bemused that Lestrade felt compelled to be sympathetic.
"Come on," he said soothingly. "I'll buy you a drink--” He paused and took in Mycroft's suit and car. “Or maybe you'll buy me three and we can discuss it."
Mycroft nodded slowly, pulling himself back together.
"Excellent idea, Inspector. We should be prepared for the worst, you know. It may all blow up yet."
But as Lestrade ducked into the car, he wondered. He thought about John and Sherlock and the whole course of their relationship. He thought about friendship and love and sex and wondered if maybe, sometimes, if they were lucky, two people could make a mistake and manage to fix it. If they could realise that some things were better left as they were, and to just leave them like that. Maybe they'd managed to save what they had by both being brave enough to realise that it was enough.
He shook his head. As if it wasn't enough that he was messing with his crime scenes and his life, Sherlock bloody Holmes was making him philosophical.