John Watson was sitting behind his desk, staring glumly out the window. It was a Thursday evening, and he was waiting for his last patient of the day to show up: a man named Sherlock Holmes. He had been a regular for the past two months, and despite all the time he'd spent in John's office, he still remained a mystery to him. As a therapist, John was rather skilled at analyzing behavior, but it was completely different with Mr. Holmes; he was too skilled at keeping his emotions clandestine.

It agitated John, not being able to understand this man, but he figured that he would, sooner or later. He'd make sure of it. Many of Sherlock's previous therapists had given up on him; he'd make sure that he never did. He'd persevere.

If he didn't, all the awards and recognition he got would have been for absolutely nothing; it would have been for someone who was too lazy to do their job. He was nothing like that. His main purpose in life was to help people – or at least that's what he liked to think. John would stop at nothing to make sure that everyone he tried to help had gotten better in some manner. And that was what he planned to do with Sherlock, no matter how long it took.

"Doctor Watson?" someone called from outside his door. "Mr. Holmes is here to see you."

These were the words that he'd nervously been waiting for all day. Each visit with Sherlock brought with it a new sense of anxiety and curiosity – two emotions that should never be mixed together, at least, not for John. With him, those two were a lethal combination.

Letting out a breath, he called out, "Send him in."

Immediately following his words, the door swung open, revealing a tall, dark-haired man, adorned in a trench coat that carried with it a mysterious aura. Sherlock walked in with brisk steps, making his way to the seat across from John in no time. As he took a seat, he heaved a sigh, something John interpreted as a sign of boredom.

Not even a minute in, and Sherlock was already bored. Where was the logic in that?

"So, Sherlock, how have you been doing this past week?" John asked. He always liked to start off this question before going into the deeper stuff, because the answers could either be personal or not – for those who still didn't feel comfortable sharing their problems with him.

"You can stop asking me those pointless questions; they won't get you anywhere," he got in response. "Just give up on me. Everyone does."

There was a hint of sadness in Sherlock's voice, and John made sure to take note of that. "Why do you say that? I'm not giving up on you. I understand that your other therapists may have, but that doesn't necessarily mean that I will."

"Are you sure about that?" There was a bitter tone to his voice as he let out a sadistic chuckle. "No one cares about me, Watson. You should understand that."

John wasn't sure what to feel at this point; joy that Sherlock had finally opened up to him – somewhat – or sadness that this was what he had kept hidden for so long.

"Your brother—," John started, before he was cut off.

"He doesn't care, don't you see? But whatever, it doesn't matter anyway. It's not like I need anybody."

However, as he said this, John could sense some longing hidden deep inside Sherlock's heart, and he wanted nothing more than to make him feel better again.

It was strange, actually, to see Sherlock like this, as opposed to how secretive he had been during his first appointment, and he couldn't help but wonder what had changed since then.

Their first meeting had been interesting, to say the least.

The two had been seated across from each other, a cup of coffee in each of their hands. John always liked to offer his patients coffee; he wanted them to see him as more of a friend than a doctor. Not only that, but the coffee also helped break the ice – with most patients anyway. Sherlock, of course, was an exception. He remained silent, taking subtle sips of the coffee when he thought John wasn't looking.

"This coffee is incredibly sweet," he eventually said, placing the empty mug down on the carpeted floor. "Next time, try to add a little less sugar."

John found this strange; the coffee was anything but sweet. He disregarded this fact – maybe Sherlock just had a different sense of taste than him. That was certainly plausible.

"You're the only one who's complained about too much sugar; most patients complain about the lack of it," Watson had replied, running a hand over his golden hair.

"I hope you realize that I'm not most patients, Doctor Watson."

"Maybe this batch is just too sweet. I usually try to keep the sugar levels low."

"Well, you certainly didn't succeed at that," the man replied, before falling silent. It was at this precise moment that John decided to take advantage of the situation.

"So, Sherlock, would you care to tell me why exactly you're here?" he'd asked. A long silence followed in which his patient did absolutely nothing but avoid eye contact with him. It infuriated John, but despite his constant prodding, Sherlock continued to keep his mouth shut. John eventually gave up after a few minutes, realizing that maybe this man needed some time – you couldn't make someone talk about their problems, after all. They needed to be ready for it.

This was why the two of them sat in silence, for the rest of the appointment, waiting as the minutes turned into an hour – the point at which Sherlock got up and strode out of the room, without nothing but a quiet, "See you next week."

And although John didn't realize it until much, much later, he'd already become attached to Sherlock.

Thursdays had become John's favorite days. Not because his favorite show came on at eight – even though it did – but because that was when Sherlock visited. Every Thursday.

It was strange that he was this excited about a patient; never had he been so enthusiastic about seeing someone at work. He liked seeing them, sure, but not to the extent that he liked seeing Sherlock. With him, there was a whole new set of rules. John even found himself dressing up more on the days he would see the mysterious man; it was subconscious though. He never really noticed it until someone at work would stop him and comment him on his extravagant clothes.

This particular Thursday, in June, John found himself wearing a new pair of pants and a nice shirt that his brother had bought him. It was rainy outside, although that he should have expected. The weather was incredibly unpredictable.

He walked into work, whistling along to a Beatles song. His coworkers noticed his cheerfulness, but by this point, they were used to it. Ever since John's breakthrough a good two months ago, he'd been nothing but happy. He'd finally got Sherlock talking and a friendship had – surprisingly enough – grown between them. Things couldn't be better.

Or at least that was what he thought until Sherlock walked through the doors of his office. "Hello, John," he greeted, his face remaining impassive. Even though the two had become friends, Sherlock still hadn't dropped his ever-present nonchalant expression. Maybe it was just his neutral expression, John thought. But that upset him, because that meant that Sherlock wasn't happy to see him.

"Hi Sherlock," John replied, offering him a small smile. "How have you been this week?"

Shrugging, Sherlock replied with a quick, "Good, and you?"

"Good."

Then, the two launched into conversation. They talked about anything and everything; John knew he should be asking Sherlock about his condition – he'd diagnosed him with depression a month ago – but it was a touchy subject, and he knew he should slowly ease into it as opposed to jumping right in. Today, they talked about the new place Sherlock was occupying, located on 221 Baker Street. It was a nice flat, and Sherlock had said that he was looking for a new flat mate.

John had the sudden urge to say that he was up for being Sherlock's flat mate, but he knew it was wrong. He couldn't live with his patient; it was wrong.

But at the same time, it felt strangely right.

Hell, anything with Sherlock felt right to John.

"What movie do you want to watch tonight?"

John lifted his head up from its position on the pillow, glancing at the two DVD's Sherlock was holding up. "Um…how about that one there on the right? That's a mystery one, am I right?"

Scrunching up his nose, Sherlock replied, "God, I was hoping you wouldn't choose that. I absolutely hate mystery. It's ridiculous, isn't it?"

John shrugged. "I actually like it, but we don't have to watch it if you don't want to."

Grinning at his friend, Sherlock put in the other DVD. The two of them had been having movie nights every Friday ever since John moved in a month ago; it was a way to make things more interesting, although most of the time, they ended up talking instead of actually watching the movie. The two of them had grown quite close since their first meeting, and Sherlock was making remarkable progress. John couldn't help but feel it had to do with their friendship.

However, whenever he did think that, he kept wishing that what they had was more than a friendship. It was wrong of him to feel this way, and completely unprofessional, but he didn't have to worry about that anymore because Sherlock wasn't his patient anymore. He'd released Sherlock just before moving in, so it would be acceptable for the two to live together.

It was the best decision John ever made. Now, he didn't have to wait until Thursday to see Sherlock. He got to see him every day.

And those moments when he got to see Sherlock were his favorite.

Exactly a year had passed since Sherlock and John had met, and the two couldn't have been closer – well, they could have to John.

Sure, they were best friends, but that wasn't enough; he liked Sherlock – or maybe loved. He couldn't tell. He'd never experienced something as powerful as love before, so how was he to know whether or not he loved Sherlock?

He was confused, and the mixed signals he got weren't helping. Some days he'd find his flat mate cooking with him, and hugging him, and they'd even hold hands sometimes, but the next day, the cold front would be put up, leaving John completely and utterly flabbergasted. He never knew what was going on with Sherlock. For someone who studied psychology, he should have been able to understand his friend's feelings, but he was never able to.

Sherlock, he decided, would always be a mystery, no matter what.

Standing underneath the gray sky, Sherlock and John embraced each other. Sherlock would be traveling with Mycroft to New York City for a weekend – for brotherly bonding, the elder Holmes brother had said. While it wasn't a long time, John couldn't help but feel like Sherlock was leaving him forever.

"I'll miss you so—"

"John, are you crying?" Sherlock asked, cutting him off. It was then that John was made aware of the moisture trailing down his face. "It's just a weekend, and I'll be fine. Well, as fine as I can be with Mycroft around, anyway."

Nodding, the golden-haired man stepped away from his friend, wiping away the tears. "You're right. It's no big deal. I'll see you on Monday, right? That's only…two days away."

Two days too many, he thought.

Letting out a small sigh, Sherlock pulled John in for another hug. "I'll call you once we arrive, alright?"

Nodding, John gave him a small smile. "Have fun in the city that never sleeps. That's what they call it, I think."

"I'll try, no promises though. Tell Mrs. Hudson I said bye."

And with another wave, Sherlock walked away, leaving John standing alone on the side of the street.

His feelings had become too unbearable.

John loved Sherlock; he knew that. After all, Sherlock was all he thought about: all day, every day. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. Did he ever think of anything else?

"You bloody fool," John muttered, as he thought about Sherlock and his curls that he longed to touch. He thought about Sherlock's eyes that seemed so bright and full of wisdom, despite holding complete and utter misery within them. He thought about Sherlock's pink lips that he dreamt of kissing a few times. He thought about what it felt like to hold Sherlock's slightly calloused hand – something that was a result of his new guitar obsession.

He'd never felt so strongly about someone before, and he felt scared.

And excited.

Very, very excited.

It was a worrying, yet exhilarating feeling, being in love. He was so conscious about everything he did, yet he always felt giddy about everything once Sherlock came into the room. His feelings contradicted each other, and nothing made sense anymore.

Nothing except his feelings, anyway.

His feelings which were slowly dictating his life.

John wouldn't have it any other way.

"John, are you alright?" Sherlock asked, as he stood in front of his friend, who was looking alarmingly pale. It wasn't that John was sick; he was just nervous about what he was going to do.

Slowly gulping, he nodded. "Yeah Sherlock, I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

"…Yes," John replied hesitantly. "I just…I'm nervous about something. I need to tell you something and I – I don't know how you're going to react, and I don't know, I'm just a big ball of nerves right now, and I'm just…"

"What do you need to tell me?" Sherlock asked. "John, just shut up and tell me."

Letting out a laugh, John nodded. "Okay, well, Sherlock, I…well, I've developed some strange feelings lately and I never really understood them but now I do, and god, Sherlock, I don't know how to tlel you because I don't know how you'll react, and I'm scared this may sacrifice our friendship and that you may hate me, and wow, I sound pathetic, but I just want you to know that—"

"That, what exactly?" Sherlock asked.

"That I love you."

Sherlock looked at him in shock, his mouth wide open.

"Yes, you heard me right, Sherlock. I bloody love you."

Instantaneously, Sherlock pulled John close, their two lips colliding as they allowed their feelings of love and lust and everything to overrule all the nerves they felt—after all, this was the first time that both had ever kissed someone that they cared for this much.

And as the two of them stood there, under the gray sky, they couldn't help but feel a strange sense of completion, as if everything was finally falling into place.