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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 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 from anxiety. He was still deep in thought, but now John's presence intruded like water 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."
John sighed, he had been worried it was something like this. Although the love aspect was a shock, he had noticed things here in there. Lingering glances, Sherlock biting at his own lips, and other minor things that proved he was thinking of something other than a case. John wasn't completely averse to the idea of kissing Sherlock, but he knew that it wouldn't mean the same thing for both of them.
For Sherlock it would be about love, and for John it would be about experimenting at best. Oh how the tables have turned.
"Well alright." Sherlock looked up in shock. "Would that be helpful?"
"Y-yes, well, it may be good for me to try to-"
"Sherlock."
"Yes."
"I'm okay, I'm alright if you are."
"But John I really don't know if this would be a smart idea, obviously you're in shock I shouldn't have sprung this on you like-"
"Shut up." Sherlock nodded. John sighed. "Alright, tell you what I'm gonna do," he sat on Sherlock's bed, "I'm going to sit here with my eyes closed. It's up to you from here on, okay?"
Sherlock swallowed thickly and nodded, watching John bring up his legs to sit with them crossed. He closed his eyes with a slight smile on his lips.
Thinking quickly to himself, Sherlock decided he had two options now.
1.) Kiss John Watson. Quite terrifying, really.
2.) Leave the bedroom, and most likely leaving John Watson to some extent. Also quite terrifying.
His ice heart had liquified and was now being pumped through his veins, his whole body pulsing with a cold pain. He could hardly breathe, let alone think clearly.
He bit his lips, twiddled his thumb, rolled his neck around, every little idiosyncrasy that he knew, trying to buy him every second possible. It was ridiculous for a few reasons, the most obvious one that John's eyes were still closed, and he didn't seem to be peaking to see if Sherlock was biting his nails.
Without letting himself think about it more, Sherlock moved to the bed, matching John's pose, but facing towards John instead of the wall.
John smirked on the inside, but didn't dare alter his outward appearance. He could hear Sherlock fidgeting, and felt bad for the man. He was ready to wait a while, but it hadn't occurred to him how long this might take Sherlock to actually work up to.
Sherlock held his face in his hands, and then took his hands away quickly, just out of pure fidgety nerves. He didn't know what to do. He couldn't do this. He despised both of his options, and would have done anything to find a third. Was there a way to pretend none of this had ever happened? But the thought of that hurt almost as much, knowing that he would have to go back to a life of pretending that looking at John Watson didn't fill him with misery from head to toe.
John adjusted, just because he felt his foot falling asleep.
Sherlock took it as a cue to hurry up. "I can't do it."
Then John opened his eyes. "What?"
"I'm sorry, John, I can't do this. Just forget I said anything," he tried and failed to sound rational.
"Sherlock," John started as Sherlock moved to get off the bed, "Sherlock. I'm sure that this is hard for you, but really, it's okay. I'm not going to stop being your flatmate or your friend, or your anything. But you're the only one who can make this decision.”
So John has reached the same two-option conclusion I have. Damn. Sherlock nodded like a scared school child, cursing both himself and John for being right. The truth can be so inconvenient.
John closed his eyes again, readying himself.
There was silence. Not even fidgeting. Just pure, unadulterated, terrified, silence.
Sherlock was trying to find a way to logically convince himself this was a good idea, but it didn't exist. If it did he would have found it by then. Instead, he took a deep breath and tried to shut his brain off completely, leaving only one instruction: Kiss John Watson.
John had kissed people before, but the sudden press of lips to his felt strange, and not really even like a kiss. For a split second he was shocked, but he quickly took the reigns. All Sherlock had to do was make the first contact, and then he was glad to be his usual kissing self. Which mostly meant taking control.
Sherlock's breathing was inane, his lips pursed shut and all of his fear and excess energy going in and out of his nose under the pretence of oxygen. He would exhale, trying to get rid of it, but as soon as he started breathing in the realization of what was actively happening literally right under his nose would fill his lungs back up with the same ingredients.
It didn't take long for John to make the kiss an actual kiss, maybe a second or two. He placed his hand on the nape of Sherlock's neck, trying to steady him. He adjusted their lips so they were locked instead of just smushing into each other, and he pulled away just slightly so that he didn't feel like Sherlock was trying to push past him with his face. Sherlock took the hint and let John direct him, sitting on his knees and cautiously placing a hand on John's shoulder.
Their lips remained simply locked like that for a few seconds, with various adjustments from both parties being made. John didn't think he'd want to keep kissing Sherlock, but he did. And so he did. John parted his lips slightly, taking Sherlock's lower lip between his teeth, and Sherlock's breathing once again became erratic. But he wasn't scared, not anymore, no, he was kissing John Watson. Something that he had been thinking about doing for an extensively long time was finally happening, and he was ecstatic.
Sherlock had never kissed a person out of genuine emotion before, and it felt like he had never kissed anyone at all. He felt clumsy, but John also made him feel comfortable. Surprisingly, it was Sherlock who first slid his tongue out just slightly, and it was John's turn to react accordingly.
John enjoyed kissing Sherlock, he was actually pretty good, and he didn't really want to stop. But somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that every second he kept kissing him the more Sherlock would see this as a positive reaction. And it was, but only because John liked kissing people. John hadn't kissed someone in far too long, and he didn't want to stop now. He really, really didn't want to stop. So he didn't.
With every passing second Sherlock was getting more comfortable and John was getting more upset with himself, but only one of those things was affecting the pleasantness of the kiss.
Sherlock pulled his lips away from John's, his breathing a new heavy, and his grip tight on John's arms. Their faces were still very close, and their foreheads were almost touching, but neither of them made another move to fill the space.
"Uh, I believe I've gotten my data... Yourself, John?"
John closed his eyes, furious with himself. He could hear the hope in Sherlock's voice and it felt like a knife running through his chest. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock," he whispered, placing one hand firmly on the other's shoulder.
There was quiet.
"Don't be sorry, John. This is what I knew would happen. I was a fool, I'm sorry for dragging you into this."
"No! No, no. I'm sorry I used you like you were just an experiment."
"Wouldn't be the first time that's happened in this relationship, it's just usually the other way around." Sherlock smiled sadly, feeling the pain of calling it a relationship.
"God, I am so, so sorry." John sat back, covering his forehead with his hands in a classic 'What have I done' fashion.
"John, really, I wanted this too, you c-"
"No, Sherlock, this is not okay. Because... oh god there are so many reasons this is not okay. I really liked kissing you, Sherlock, and I would still be doing it right now if I didn't know that it would be hurting you."
"I don't see how kissing me would cause -"
"Because I don't love you." He let that hang for a moment, surprised at his own bluntness. "Not like that, anyway."
Sherlock was very quiet, and he sank backwards, too. John was right, he was, but now he had a taste of what it would be like he wanted it inconceivably more.
"Sherlock," John's voice broke, his vision was starting to blur from the tears he was keeping in, "I'm so sorry. I wouldn't have done this if I knew it would end like this. I thought there was a chance, too. You weren't a fool for hoping, I was just selfish and curious."
"John?"
"Yeah."
"Will you be moving out?"
John couldn't help but laugh weakly. "No, Sherlock. Like I said, nothing will be different." But he was lying, and he knew he was lying. So long as Sherlock was still in love with him, John would hate himself for what he had done. Living with the man was going to be hell. He was crying now, because he felt like he had lost his best friend, too. First his family, then his flatmate, then the flatmate turned out to be alive, then Mary, and now the flatmate again; his best friend, again. He wouldn't be able to look at Sherlock the same way again, or at least not any time soon.
"I'm sorry Sherlock, I don't think I can say that enough."
"It's fine, John, truly." They both knew he was lying.
"If you don't mind, I think I'm going to rest a little bit longer."
"Of course. Perhaps I'll do the same." He shot John a quick dismissive smile, but the sadness never left his eyes.
John hugged him tightly and went upstairs, crawling under the covers to hide from the world. He was done crying, but now he just sat in the naturally lit room with his eyes squeezed shut, trying to figure out what to feel. He felt empty. Like he had lost something he didn't know he had. He didn't want to move, he didn't want to breathe, he didn't want to exist, and he hoped that pretending he didn't would have the same effect. But no matter how hard he tried, his mind replayed the feel of Sherlock's touch and the hope in his voice. Conjuring unwanted images of the pain in his friend's eyes, what his own hand had looked like with a fist full of Sherlock's shirt. He didn't want this, he didn't want any of this.