John sat back in stunned silence, not believing the words that had just come out of his flatmate's mouth.
Three years. Three years, and now Sherlock decided to just walk back into his life and inform John that he wasn't dead.
As if that wasn't bad enough, the words that had followed made him shake his head and wonder if this wasn't another dream.
When Sherlock had walked in, John had fainted. When he'd woken up, he punched Sherlock in the face. Then Sherlock explained everything.
The detective had jumped off of Bart's because Moriarty had threatened John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. He couldn't tell John he was alive before because it would put John in danger. But the danger was gone now.
A silence fell between them, not quite awkward, but not totally comfortable, either. Then,
"I realised something while I was away," Sherlock had said softly. The doctor looked up, into the eyes that were now blue for the moment.
"Yeah?" he asked, not sure of what else to say.
"Well, actually, I realised it right before I took the plunge," the genius admits.
"And what was that, Sherlock?" John sounds every bit the weary soldier that has finally been allowed to stop fighting.
"I love you." The words are soft, so soft, John wonders if he didn't imagine them. The doctor swallows, unsure. He wants to believe this, but at the same time he can't bring himself to. Sherlock…Sherlock wasn't capable of love. He never showed affection to anyone. Well, there was Mrs. Hudson, but she was like a mother to him, it didn't quite count.
"No," the whisper leaves John's moth before he can stop it. "You can't. You don't." Confusion and disbelief show in his face.
Sherlock can't stop the hurt that flashes across his own features. John didn't believe him.
"Why not?" he asks.
"You don't…you don't feel things like other people do…you…you don't show affection. Ever. There's no way you could love someone and never show affection. And…Three years, Sherlock! No note, no text, no call, nothing! How does that speak of any kind of love?"
"I was protecting you. I did it for you. I didn't mean it to hurt you. I'm sorry. And I really do love you."
John is stunned into silence. He's never believed Sherlock was capable of loving someone. Sherlock was…Sherlock. Married to his work, never interested in dating, never showed affection.
And yet, here he was, declaring his love for John in a fashion slightly reminiscent to a cheesy RomCom.
I must be dreaming, this isn't Sherlock, John thinks, pinching his arm. But no, it hurts, and he doesn't wake. It's real, as unbelievable as it seems.