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More often than not, John would walk into 221B and find Sherlock in an unusual position. Hanging upside down was the most common one, but sometimes he was found doing the occasional headstand against the wall too.
So all things considered, seeing Sherlock lying on the floor staring blankly up at the ceiling with a fat bulldog curled up on his stomach was fairly normal.
“Whatcha doing there, mate?” John asked anyway, because it was the polite thing to do, walking further into the flat to put down the grocery bags he was carrying.
“Just thinking.”
“With… Archie?” John nodded to the dog, who was looking quite pleased with himself. However that expression looked on a dog. “He’s a bit heavy.”
Sherlock shrugged. “The pressure is nice. What are you making for dinner?”
John paused in unpacking the bags and snorted. “What, you can’t deduce it for yourself?” Even without looking, he could feel Sherlock’s eye roll.
“I could, but I can’t see from my position on the floor, and it’s actually quite comfortable.”
“So comfortable you can’t even move your head?”
“Precisely.”
Now it was John’s turn to fondly roll his eyes. “Well, master detective, I have decided to make your favourite. Pasta with–”
“–Mascarpone sauce?” Sherlock finished, pushing himself up onto his elbows despite his previous protests over moving. Archie whined at being jostled, and Sherlock absentmindedly soothed him with a light pat to the head.
John raised said jar of sauce. “You know it.”
“And the pasta shape is–”
“–Penne,” John finished, raising said bag of pasta with his other hand. “Honestly, Sherlock, give me more credit! You’d think I’d remember how you like your pasta by now.” He chuckled, shaking his head.
Sherlock flushed slightly. “Forgive me. I suppose I’m still not entirely used to being… remembered. Or cared for.”
John huffed. “Well, you should be. Cared for more, that is. You deserve it, Sherls.” Then, because the topic was starting to get a bit too honest, John abruptly cleared his throat. “Well! I’ll get started on that dinner now. Go back to your floor time. I’ll call you up when it’s ready.”
Sherlock eyed John with an expression he couldn’t understand. He really hoped he wouldn’t call him out on his sudden topic change, but thankfully, he eventually shrugged. “Okie dokie,” was all he said before plopping back into his previous position, Archie settling back into his spot with a content huff.
John let his eyes linger over the scene a little longer, feeling a small smile creep onto his face. It really was an adorable sight – he would snap a quick photo, but he knew either Sherlock or Archie would immediately sense it and ruin the moment. He instead chose to commit the scene to his mind (and remind himself to tell Mariana about it later), before finally turning back around to get started on their dinner.
It was moments like these that truly left a warm fuzzy feeling in John’s chest. Seeing his dog be so comfortable around Sherlock, their playful banter, finishing each other’s sentences… It all made him feel fulfilled and satisfied in a way he had never really felt before.
The first time he noticed it was a few weeks into their living together: John had slept in late after a long night of editing, and he had dragged himself into the kitchen to find a fresh cup of tea right next to buttered toast. He had drank the tea, noting how it was exactly the way he liked it, and felt something warm spread across his chest that wasn’t related to the beverage. He didn’t understand it at that moment, but after over a year of experiencing such a feeling, it was time to confront the truth.
John loved Sherlock. That in itself wasn’t a startling new discovery, of course. He already knew he loved Sherlock, just as much as he knew Sherlock loved him back. But he knew, deep down, it was different now. That his love had grown stronger – dangerously stronger, even, given what he tended to do once his love for someone grew too large.
You see, Carrie – and most of his exes for that matter – often told John he did too much. Giant bouquets of flowers on the first date, taking them to expensive restaurants, or bringing them to meet his mother after only a few dates. John, at first, always struggled to understand their criticisms for this: gift-giving was his love language! He wanted to see his loved ones be fed only the highest quality meals! And he wanted the woman he really liked at the time to meet the woman who raised him! Was that so wrong?
John always had so much love to give, and he felt that was the only way he knew to express it to his girlfriends. But as he stirred the penne in with the sauce, he liked to think he understood now. That sometimes love wasn’t always about the grand gestures that swept you off your feet, or the dramatic declarations that made you swoon. Sometimes love just oozed out in all the little things – like the way you knew how he liked his pasta to be cooked, or the way he remembered how much milk you liked to take in your tea. Or how you understood his seemingly random tapping of fingers across his arm to be him mentally composing a new violin piece, or the way he would calculate the chances of your favourite football team winning despite having little to no interest in the sport.
John stopped stirring. Then ultimately resumed, lest Sherlock noticed the slightest difference in taste and badger him for not mixing it properly. He had a fleeting thought that the sauce nearly spilling out of the pot was all too similar to the love he felt for Sherlock: bubbling up inside him, threatening to overflow.
Fuck, he thought. I’m already too far gone for this man.
“Alright, dinner’s ready!” John called out, hoping the slight shake in his voice wasn’t obvious. If Sherlock did notice it, which he probably did, he at least had the tact of not pointing it out.
“I can’t move, Watson,” he said with a pout. “Archie’s sleeping.”
John turned around and resisted letting out an aw. Sherlock, at some point, had moved up into a seated position to lean against the wall, and Archie had adjusted himself accordingly onto his lap, with the soft snores emitting from the bulldog letting them know he was indeed fast asleep. Realistically, of course, they could just gently lift him from Sherlock’s lap to free the man, but everyone knew it was a universal rule not to move a sleeping pet from your person.
Also, Archie really was heavy.
John clicked his tongue. “Well, there’s only one option then.” After serving the pasta into two bowls, he brought them over to where Sherlock was sitting and handed him one of them.
“This is quite unhygienic, doctor,” Sherlock said, even as he started shovelling pasta into his mouth with the slightest upturn of his lips.
John snorted as he slid against the wall to join Sherlock on the floor, holding his own bowl to his chest. “Yeah, I’m gonna pretend the man who regularly takes walks through the sewers isn’t lecturing me on hygiene.” Sherlock elbowed him gently, careful to not wake Archie. John laughed, feeling that warmth erupt in his chest again. “Besides, many people have their meals on the floor.”
“I didn’t mean that – I meant the fact we’re eating with a dog in my lap. He could wake up and start slobbering over my face and bowl at any second,” Sherlock said, holding his bowl up right to his face to not let any pasta spill onto Archie.
“Well, you’ll just have to be extra careful then.” John laughed, before absentmindedly reaching over to wipe away a smidge of sauce left on Sherlock’s cheek. Then his actions suddenly caught up to him and he froze, thumb lingering on Sherlock’s face, who was also now looking at him with wide eyes. John’s heart caught up in his throat, and he swore he heard Sherlock’s breath hitch.
Fuck, John cursed. Why do I never think before doing anything?!
The sound of Archie’s snores interrupted their standstill and John – as well as Sherlock, for some reason – cleared his throat.
“There was, uh – sorry, there was just - a little bit of sauce–”
“Oh, yes, of course–” Sherlock let out a stilted sort of laugh, reaching up to wipe the remaining sauce off. John bit back another apology. What was he sorry for? Cleaning him up? Clearly making him uncomfortable? Was he uncomfortable? But it wasn’t even the first time one of them had cleaned up after the other: John was a naturally messy eater, and more than once Sherlock had clicked his tongue and wiped at his moustache with a napkin while chiding him. John had even brushed the occasional crumbs off Mariana’s face and neither thought anything of it. But he couldn’t deny that this time was a lot more intimate – seated on the floor with their backs against the wall, shoulders touching, knees bumping into each other, his hand practically cupping the other man’s face…
Should he say something else? He should definitely say something. What should he–
“We should watch a movie,” Sherlock cut into his thoughts. John blinked at him, trying to insert himself back into the real world.
“Huh?”
Sherlock nodded to the phone still in John’s pocket. “You had movies you wanted to show me, didn’t you? The… Habit, was it? Let’s watch one while we’re eating.”
John stared at him some more before the words finally registered and he snorted.
“You mean The Hobbit, mate?” He giggled. Sherlock frowned, but John knew Sherlock well enough to know he wasn't truly upset.
“Close enough. Just pull the phone up,” he grumbled, bumping into his shoulder. John bumped his shoulder back.
“Alright, alright,” John conceded, still chuckling. He suspected this was Sherlock’s way of distracting either him or himself from whatever unspoken thing had passed between them, but regardless, it worked – the odd tension was gone, and they were back to their comfortable dynamic. Comfortable, of course, only in how familiar and warm it was – it was an awkward position, with John having to hold the phone in one hand so both could see, while still having the bowl in his lap to eat the pasta, all while trying to avoid waking up Archie. It all, of course, left that warm feeling in John’s chest again.
And when Sherlock fell asleep on his shoulder, something John knew he would regret later with how much his neck had to stretch with their height difference – well. It was worth it.
Something changed after that night. Maybe it was John's acknowledgement of his true feelings or… yeah, definitely that, but from then on, John had been experiencing that warm feeling more frequently. It came mostly in the form of noticing Sherlock and all his little quirks, of which he had plenty.
Because – and maybe this was just John's bias coming into play here – he truly believed love oozed out of Sherlock himself. Everything he did or said, regardless of if it was even related to John, would spark that feeling all over again.
And it made John fall all the more deeper in love.
Like the one time that Mariana had somehow coaxed Sherlock into giving her an impromptu dance lesson after she and John found out he had taken them as a kid. Love had oozed all the way out from Sherlock's fingertips as they twirled Mariana around and around, her laughter accompanying the music in an even greater harmony. Or the truly simple moments where Sherlock was just lounging on the sofa, lightly cradling his violin to his chest as his long fingers plucked random notes in a vaguely familiar melody.
(Also, John might seriously have some sort of thing for Sherlock’s hands. Sue him.)
There were even moments where he thought that maybe, just maybe, Sherlock felt the same way. When he would walk into the Volunteer and immediately lock eyes with John, like he had an innate radar that let him spot the other man in any given place. When John would feel Sherlock’s intense gaze on his back when he was cooking, only to have him instantly snap his eyes away once he turned around to check. And of course, on the few occasions when John’s night terrors would get just a bit too much, and Sherlock would always wordlessly lift his covers to let John shuffle in beside him, his issues with sleeping with another person in the room be damned.
So yes, John had grown impossibly more in love. And with each day that passed, he became increasingly convinced that that love was just as reciprocated by Sherlock.
So then why on earth hadn’t the master detective, expert in observing everything in the blink of an eye and notorious for explaining said deductions out loud, bloody said anything?!
“Was it something I did?” John asked, feeling much like the object of his affections as he paced back and forth on the poor carpet of Mariana’s bedroom.
“Definitely not,” Mariana replied, idly flicking the Rubik's cube Sherlock had gotten her as a birthday present.
“And I’m not going crazy, right?”
“Of course not.”
“Like… something is definitely there? I’m not just convincing myself out of desperation?”
“Something is there, yes.”
“Then why hasn’t he said anything?!”
“Why haven’t you?”
John skidded to a stop, looking up to see his other best friend with an annoyingly knowing gotcha look on her face. “I–we’re…” he swallowed. “It’s different.”
“How?”
“Because he’s my best friend!“ John cried. “Our life is so comfortable – us and you and Archie and the podcast… I understand him so well. Too well. I’ve practically planned a future with him in my head, for fuck’s sake! I haven’t felt this way since Carrie! Or even…” he swallowed, leaving the words unspoken, but Mariana understood him just as well as Sherlock did by now based off the pity in her eyes. "I just... I can't risk it, Mari. I can't."
“You’re worried that actually acknowledging your feelings for one another will mess up the comfortable dynamic you have.” It wasn’t a question.
“Fuckin’ terrified,” John chuckled wetly. “My last longest and serious relationship got sick of me by the end of it. Were we too comfortable with each other, maybe? Is that why Carrie up and left me?”
“And you think Sherlock would… what, get bored of you too?”
“No.” A beat. “…Well, I mean–”
“John,” Mariana cut off, before John could fall into another downward spiral. ”Do you know what I see when I look at you two?”
“…Two blokes who you split the rent with-?”
“Love.” John’s mouth snapped shut. “In the way you care for each other, the way you talk to each other, hell, the way you look at each other. Love, it–it just oozes out the both of you. And actually addressing this love isn’t going to change anything. You’re still going to make his abomination of tea and marshmallows and boring tomato pasta, and he’s still going to listen to your incessant waffling about pop culture and football. Except now you’ll have both acknowledged this… thing between you two.
“Because you know Sherlock loves you already. Just like he knows you love him. And I know you–how did your mum put it? Think the world of your little gang? Well, Sherlock does the same. He wouldn’t still be here if that wasn’t the case. And he’ll never get bored of you, John; of the life we’ve created here. I promise you. Nothing will change.”
…Huh. As usual, Mariana was right.
“Ideally, there’d be more snogging, though.”
Mariana sighed, but her exhausted smile was fond, because from that line alone she knew she had finally gotten through John’s thick head. “Sure.”
And that leads us to now, in a hotel room in Oxford for a murder case, where John knew he loved Sherlock and knew Sherlock loved him too but neither knew exactly how to cross the line from friendship into lovers.
What he did currently know, however, was that Sherlock was frustrated and off his game in a way John hadn’t quite seen him be before. Something was bothering him, and had been over the past few days, considering his increasing agitation at everything and everyone around him, but John hadn't quite found the right timing to bring it up with him. Part of loving someone, as John understood it, was about understanding the other’s habits. Including some of the more… poorer ones. Of which Sherlock had many.
Like right now as he watched Sherlock pad over to the balcony of their hotel room, ear defenders at the ready around his neck, and an unlit cigarette dangling between his fingers. He huffed in fond amusement as Sherlock proceeded to pat his pockets to search for his lighter. John eventually decided to take pity on him before Sherlock’s frustration increased any further than it already had that day.
“You know I pack your bags, right?” John said, stepping out onto the balcony and joining him in leaning against the railing. Sherlock undoubtedly heard his footsteps approaching before even hearing him speak, but didn’t so much much as turn around. “Of course I wasn’t going to chuck in your lighter too. Nevermind that you apparently carry cigarettes on your person anyway.”
“I asked the concierge for one earlier when you weren’t looking,” Sherlock said, still not turning around to face John. “But I admit, the lighter escaping my mind is… troublesome. Especially after I missed the bloody murder weapon,” he bit out. With no lighter for his cigarette, he took to flicking the cigarette with his thumb to release some frustration.
John resisted the urge to sigh – Sherlock didn’t like making mistakes, and this one, according to his rant in the cab from the crime scene to the hotel, had apparently cost them valuable time they could’ve spent looking for the murderer. “People forget things or miss things all the time, mate.”
“Do I, though?” Sherlock asked, bitterly. “It was right there!”
“You’re only human, Sherlock,” John said earnestly. “Nobody expects you to be perfect all the time.”
“You do,” he said, and before John could even retort, he continued, “And Mariana. And the listeners.” He made a pointed look to the mic still attached to John’s collar, which he belatedly realised was still recording. “The only people not expecting that are the random inspectors we work with because, let’s face it, most of them are just waiting for me to mess up,” he hissed.
“It was in a locked drawer, nobody saw it–”
“A locked drawer that had traces of blood all over the handle and the keyhole? One I would’ve easily seen on any other day?!”
John let the silence hang in the air between them, not ready to entertain Sherlock’s thoughts. He chose not to point out that the bloodstains were barely there, knowing it wasn’t what he would want to hear. Because yeah, perhaps on a better day, Sherlock may have spotted it almost instantly. But John didn’t have a problem with that. He had a problem with the way Sherlock was beating himself up over it.
“You’re wrong, you know,” he finally said, circling back before Sherlock could spiral again.
“Oh, am I? Again?” Sherlock spat. John shot him a stern look, silently asking him to let him continue. He sighed but waved his hand in a carry on gesture.
“I don’t expect you to be perfect. And neither does Mariana. Because we both already know you’re not. Sometimes you jump too loudly to the point she can hear you from downstairs. You play the violin at ungodly hours, and half of your science experiments have rendered the kitchen table basically unusable.”
“That’s a bit of an exaggeration–”
“–My point is,” John spoke over Sherlock, “It’s okay to make mistakes. You’re still a brilliant man who found that key piece of evidence, regardless of how ‘late’ you found it, which is more that can be said for those useless inspectors standing around waiting for you to solve it because they knew they could never do it.” Sherlock remained silent, but judging by the small smile threatening to break his lips, John knew he had gotten through to him.
“I… suppose you’re right. Yes.”
Spurred on by this, John decided to bite the bullet. “Look… I know I just went on about how you don’t need to be perfect, but I do have to acknowledge that you haven’t exactly been yourself lately either. And I don't just mean with this case.” Sherlock’s gaze averted to the side and John knew he got him pinned. “What’s going on, Sherlock?”
Sherlock swallowed. “I suppose I’ve been distracted by… something, lately. Something that I can’t quite block out and has been seriously clouding my judgement.” At this, his eyes flickered back to John’s. And there it was. John didn’t need to be a master of observations to deduce that.
He felt the corner of his lips upturn in a light teasing smile. “I have a name, you know.”
Sherlock let out some sort of sigh. “Finally acknowledging it then, are we?”
“You did first.”
“I suppose I did.” Spurred by John’s evident lack of discomfort to the topic, he let himself have a small smile of his own. Utterly smitten by his handsome smile, John’s hand naturally found its way to cradle Sherlock's face, fingers tangling in his hair. Sherlock leaned into the touch (like a cat, John thought vaguely), his smile widening, and John just about swooned.
“I apologise for being so distracted by it,” Sherlock was saying, which was ironic, because John currently found himself distracted by the way the warm streetlight danced across his face. “I told myself I wouldn’t be.”
“Why are you apologising?” John murmured, rubbing his thumb against his cheek like he did all those months ago on the floor of their flat. “It’s great. You’re great.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes with a hint of fondness and amusement. “Wow. I fell for a man of many words.”
“Oh, hush, you,” John chided, dropping his hand to lightly bump his shoulder against Sherlock’s, his wide smile overpowering any real feelings of annoyance. Sherlock giggled – and wow, wasn’t that a sound John wanted to keep hearing for the rest of his life – and dropped his forehead onto John’s shoulder. He, again, knew this couldn’t possibly be a comfortable position for the taller man, but he just hoped Sherlock wouldn’t be able to hear just how loud his heart was beating.
“Just to be clear, John,” Sherlock began. “I don’t want anything to change between us. That’s why I was distracted by it, in all honesty. I was… figuring out how best to tell you without disrupting the comfortable routine we had built together.”
John blinked down at him in surprise. “Huh,” he said simply. “We really are more in sync than I thought.”
“What–”
“I’d been thinking the same thing,” John explained. “The, uh… worry about us changing and disturbing our dynamic and all that. Mariana was the one to snap me out of it, though. Gave me a real talking to.”
Sherlock chuckled. “I should thank Mariana, then.”
“Yes, you should.”
Sherlock straightened up to his full height, and John immediately missed the contact. “...You know, you still technically haven’t said it yet.”
John cleared his throat. “Said what?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You know what.”
“You say it first, then!”
“I love you.”
John blinked in shock. Then blinked to fight back tears, because he couldn’t recall the last time someone had said that to him so easily. Most of his ex-partners, John felt, had said it out of obligation, because it was expected to be said at one point in a relationship. But the words came out of Sherlock like it was as natural as breathing. A simple, non-negotiable fact: the sky was blue. Sherlock loved John. And John loved him back.
Sherlock must’ve interpreted John’s extended silence and teary eyes as something else, because a frown formed on his face as he rushed to say, “You don’t have to say it back right now. My apologies, I shouldn’t have tried to force you–”
“I love you too,” John breathed. “God– so much, Sherls. Sorry if this is too much, but– if the rest of my life was just spent in that tiny flat doing nothing with you, I’d be the happiest man alive.”
Sherlock smiled, now his turn to cradle John’s face to catch any stray tears. “The sentiment is very much returned. But never apologise for being you. You’re never too much, John.”
John could’ve proposed to him right then and there. In a way, he essentially already had. But Sherlock deserved the best, so he would save that for another day.
Sherlock’s eyes flickered down and John’s breath hitched. And then Sherlock began shifting closer, the hand cupping his cheek dropping to rest on John’s chest. John felt himself leaning in too, eyes slipping shut as he prepared for…
Nothing?
John’s eyes flew open, jaw dropping in disbelief as Sherlock smirked, holding the microphone that was previously attached to John’s collar between his fingers.
“Wh– Sherlock!” John spluttered with a laugh, not finding it in himself to be truly annoyed by the misdirect. And also because Sherlock’s proud smirk was annoyingly attractive.
“What?” Sherlock said innocently. “You didn’t think I’d let the poor listeners get a snippet of that, would you? This is a family friendly podcast, my dear Watson!”
“Oh, shut up–!” John was still laughing even as Sherlock finally closed the gap between them, his long fingers curling around his waist. He faintly heard the microphone drop to the floor, but for once didn’t give a damn about it as he threw his arms around Sherlock’s neck. The kiss was far from perfect, with both of them barely fighting back wide smiles the whole time – but to be fair, neither were they.