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On the outside, nothing had changed. Lestrade hadn't even realized until four months in, when Sherlock had made an astounding connection in a case and John had let slip the mesmerized words, "I love you." He'd laughed until he saw the pleased expression on Sherlock's face, and then it wasn't so funny anymore. But he never asked. And so they carried on, as they always did, Sherlock being his amazing self and John being his anchor. Nothing had changed.
Sometimes, home wasn't much different either. John still brought back takeaway on Fridays and read the paper while Sherlock shouted at the telly, much to the doctor's amusement. He still went to work at the surgery every day and often came home to the kitchen rearranged and reconfigured to put any college laboratory to shame. It was only if one were to watch for a long time that they would realize it wasn't the same. They would see the subtle looks that lingered a little too long, John's quick kisses when he thought Sherlock wasn't paying attention, and the truth, that Sherlock was never not paying attention to him. They'd see an open admittance of love that was never there before. And then, they would know that something had indeed changed.
By far though, John's favorite difference had to be the morning. Though he still technically lived upstairs, that bed had been all but abandoned, the night nine times out of ten ending with Sherlock's arm draped across John's chest and his head on Sherlock's shoulder. John had learned very quickly, however, that when Sherlock slept, he shifted. By the morning he was usually in a completely different position than the one he had started out in, either burying John completely underneath him or leaving him shoved up against the edge of the bed by himself. The blonde didn't have a care either way, as long as he got to be the one who woke up first.
Initially, he'd open his eyes sleepily, swallowing to clear his dried out throat, then turn his head to see the familiar mop of dark, curly hair. Sherlock's face was without stress, without the constant turning of gears that John had accepted he'd never be able to fully understand, and for a moment, he wouldn't even be able to pretend to deny that Sherlock Holmes was beautiful. Over time, John had come to pride himself on the things no one saw but him, points of emotional vulnerability or glances that held an entire hidden conversation in them, but nothing compared to those moments when Sherlock was asleep and only his.
Of course, moments like that never lasted. Eventually, Sherlock would shift and his eyelids would snap open, fully alert as if he'd never been sleeping at all. His first facial expression of the day was a smirk, when he caught John staring at him again, though he didn't mind it.
"You've been awake for at least a half hour," he would comment, raising an eyebrow as he propped himself up on his elbows, stomach to the sheets. "Doesn't staring at me get dull after a while?"
John would just smile, because the answer was obvious, and reply instead, "Good morning to you too."