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John was trying to write on his laptop, but he couldn’t concentrate. His mind was somewhere else and it couldn’t stay on his work.
He kept thinking about how, after they solved their last case two days ago, Shelock's lip had quivered. It had been one of the rare moments he had showed emotion on the field. But, as every other time, he had shut down after that for the rest of the day.
That night, after John laid down in his bed well after midnight, Sherlock came into his room.
"John," he'd whispered. He had been shaking.
John had immediately gotten up and put a hand on Sherlock's forehead. He had been burning with fever. John led his roommate to his own bed and covered him in blankets. Then, he had made him a cup of tea and had forced Sherlock to swallow a painkiller with it. John hadn’t been sure how smart it was to give Sherlock any medicine because of his past addiction, but he was in such delirium that it hadn’t mattered. And besides, John knew he would help Sherlock through anything, even if it was another relapse.
John had been ready to go sleep on the couch when he had heard Sherlock whisper. "John. Stay." After a short pause, in which John had been to stunned to speak or move, he had added, “Please.”
He couldn’t deny Sherlock this. Not like that.
They had fallen asleep back to back, and it was the first night in a while when John hadn’t even had a glimpse of worry for war nightmares, let alone had any bad dreams. It was always like that when John and Sherlock slept in the same room. Usually, when John knew Shrelock was near, he'd only worry about war nightmares for a short while before falling asleep, but never actually have them. But when they shared a room, he didn't even have ti worry.
When John had woken up, Sherlock's head had somehow ended up on his chest. He looked so comfortable, so sweet, so angelic, and John had been too scared to move, so he had allowed Sherlock to sleep like that. He had kept looking at Sherlock, mesmerised by his features. He rarely ever got to see him like that. Not that he wasn’t always beautiful, but then, he'd also looked so... innocent.
At one point, John had placed a tender kiss on Sherlock's forehead. He loved this man so, so much. He'd do anything for him.
After Sherlock had woken up, he wasn't feeling any better, so John let him be. At first, neither of them moved. They had just laid there in silence. John's heartbeat was unusually calm, and Sherlock's, before faster than normal, had slowed down, too. But John had had to get working eventually. They hadn’t properly talked since.
John would check up on Sherlock every while and bring him food and drinks. He had to force Sherlock to eat, but that had mostly been it that entire day. That night, Sherlock had been feeling better, so he hadn’t asked John to stay. He had, anyway, and he had spent the night on the floor. When Sherlock realised it, he made John climb into the bed next to him.
But now, John could hear Sherlock rumbling through the kitchen. He was feeling better. They needed to talk about what was happening, especially as it wasn't the first time something like that had happened.
Countless times had the two of them stood too close, or allowed their fingers to brush more than necessary, or held eye contact across the room for far too long for it to be normal. John knew the exact shape of Sherlock's hands, all of his preferences and the things he disliked, the sound of his footsteps and when he needed solice. And John noticed how Sherlock would perk up when he heard John's name, how he smiled slightly and how his features softened when he saw him.
Something was happening between the two of them and they needed to adress it.
John got up and walked to the kitchen. Sherlock was making tea for himself, and, judging by the second cup, for John, too. He was still pale from his illness, his hands still slightly unsteady. But otherwise, he seemed as sharp as ever.
"John," he said. "I think we need to talk about what happened for the last few days between us. Well, the last few days and longer."
"Yep, that was exactly what I was thinking," John agreed. "I, um... I— I— I think I... I feel something... There’s something, between us..."
Sherlock walked around the counter and came up to John. He cupped John's cheek with his hand gently and looked him in the eyes. For a long moment, nobody moved. They stood in complete silence.
Then Sherlock leaned in and kissed John. At first, it was soft, tender, until John started kissing back. It was like firework, like the best champagne, like the euphoria of solving a case, but better. It was a new kind of adrenaline, soft and exciting at the same time.
When they were out of air, they pulled back, but Sherlock's arm was still on John's neck, and John still kept his hand on Sherlock's waist.
John chuckled, half nervouly. "Yeah, that's how I feel about you." Then, more quietly, John added, "I love you, Sherlock."
"I love you, too, John."