It had been a long day at the clinic. All he wanted to do was get home, have a warm cup of tea and go to sleep. John slowly got up the stairs and prayed not to find the kitchen full of chemicals or body parts.

Not such luck, it seemed.

"Sherlock. Why is there a dead body on our kitchen table?" He didn't know how he managed to be surprised anymore, considering that their kitchen resembled more a laboratory than a food storage. Still, the fact that Sherlock had been able to get hold of a full body was... unusual. Molly wasn't usually that permissive, even if she was quite smitten with the detective.

"Hmm?" Sherlock glanced up for a second, but immediately returned his attention to the corpse. John noticed the glint of excitement in his eyes, and tried to repress the fond smile forming on his lips. "Amelia lent it to me."

"Amelia?"

"Molly's replacement."

"Oh." He had forgotten about that. Molly had left a few days ago to take care of her aunt. He thought Sherlock would be annoyed, considering it had been a slow process to gain Molly's permission to lend him some body parts every once in a while. But it seemed that 'Amelia' was more than happy to provide Sherlock with anything he needed. "That was nice of her. I mean, it must have been hard to bring the whole body here."

"It was not very difficult. Besides, she understands the importance of experimentation. I didn't even have to try too hard to persuade her." His lips twitched into an almost content grin, making John froze. Sherlock wasn't usually this attached. Especially not so fast.

"So, I take it she's... competent, then?" John resisted the urge to bit his lip when Sherlock widen his grin.

"Oh, she's more than competent. She's brilliant."

Brilliant.

That was the highest praise anyone could get from the detective, and he certainly wasn't one to run around and throw that kind of compliment lightly. John felt a lump in his throat and swallowed hard, trying to keep his face impassive.

"Well, that's good then. At least I won't have to worry about you throwing a fit about being denied access to the morgue because you pissed off the new pathologist." Sherlock stilled and turned to look at John, his brows furrowed in confusion.

"Are you alright? You sound a bit... off."

"Yes, of course," said John, avoiding his eyes. "I'm just a bit tired. I think I'll go to bed. Try not to make too much of a mess, alright?" He glanced at Sherlock and gave him a slight smile, before turning around and going upstairs, missing the soft "good night, John," and Sherlock's scrutinizing eyes on his back.

An hour later found John lying on his bed, still trying to erase the thoughts of Sherlock's admiration over Molly's brilliant replacement from his head.

The rational part of his brain kept telling him that he was being unfair. Sherlock had every right to have a cordial relationship with other people. After all, even if John had been the only one willing to put up with him as a flat mate, there were still people who were actually fond of the detective- even if it was only from a distance. And even though Sherlock would never admit it out loud, he also cared about them.

But this was different.

This had been the first time that Sherlock had actually acknowledged that kind of feelings. Even if he hadn't stated it, his face when he had talked about Amelia was nothing like the cold mask he usually wore. His eyes had seemed to light up and his expression turned soft, making John's heart flutter in his chest at the sight, but at the same time making his insides clutch.

John let out a shaking breath and rolled over, pressing his face to the pillow and giving in to his own exhaustion. It was useless to keep thinking about the subject, after all.

If Sherlock was truly interested in that woman, then John was simply going to accept it and hope for the best for them.

No matter how much it killed him to do so.

A couple of days later, John came back to the flat from Tesco's and found Sherlock in the kitchen experimenting with some eyeballs. Everything normal there. What actually stopped John in his tracks was the woman standing next to him, nodding her head at his deductions and taking notes. He managed to turn up his lips in a polite smile, clearing his throat to get their attention.

"Hello. I don't think we've met. I'm John Watson, Sherlock's flat mate"

The woman walked up to him and shook his hand. John couldn't help but notice she was fairly attractive, even if he had no interest in anyone besides Sherlock.

"I'm Amelia, Dr. Hooper's replacement at Bart's." She glanced back at Sherlock and gave him a playful smile. "You didn't tell me you had a flat mate. Anything else I should know about you, Mr. Holmes?"

"You know everything you need to. You know I don't bother with useless details," he said. His attention was still on the experiment, but John could see the faint twitch of his lips.

He was used to Sherlock dismissing everything non-case related as unimportant. Still, being categorized as 'useless' did hurt a bit. Not to mention that the pair seemed pretty comfortable around each other.

God, he was pathetic.

"Well, it's nice to meet you," said John, an immediately turned his attention to the shopping bags. He put the things away as fast as he could, glancing every few seconds at the pair, who seem to be wrapped up in their own world. When he was done, he went to the living room and grabbed his coat; the urge to get away from Baker Street almost unbearable. He left without saying a word, convinced that Sherlock wouldn't even notice his absence.

And why would he? He's entranced with his experiment, and in good company. He had probably been annoyed that John had arrived and interrupted them.

Yes. Definitely pathetic.

It got worse after that.

The next few weeks felt like John's personal hell. Sherlock spent almost every afternoon at Bart's, and the rest of the time Amelia would come to the flat and help him with his experiments. John had once walked in on them laughing. John had been so stricken that he had just turned around and left the flat, coming back hours later, when he was sure Amelia wouldn't be there anymore.

The absolute worst thing was the she was actually a great person, which made John feel even guiltier. Sherlock had been right, she was brilliant. John always tried to be out when she came over, but the few times he had actually been around had left him speechless. Amelia was like the female version of Sherlock, only with more social skills. No wonder he liked her so much.

John was trying so hard to keep it together. Even if Sherlock and Amelia were spending most of their time together, John was still the one who accompanied Sherlock on cases. So John simply held on to that, to the knowledge that he was still an important part in the detective's life. He was still his partner, his blogger, his friend.

He knew it wouldn't last long. Sherlock was going to realize eventually that Amelia would make a more suitable partner on cases than John. That she would be more helpful, and would actually be useful and threw theories back at him, not just act as a sounding board.

So John would simply hold on to what he had left and ignore the way his heart seemed to tighten further every day, as if something was crushing his chest and making it hard to breath.

After all, even if John Watson wasn't brilliant, he was smart enough to realize that Molly wasn't the only one who was being replaced.

John made his way back to Baker Street through the pouring rain, trying to ignore the return of his limp, and fighting against his eyelids to keep his eyes open. He was completely exhausted, and he could already feel a terrible headache coming.

Today hadn't started well. At all.

First, he had accidentally bumped into one of Sherlock's experiments. He had flinched when he heard the big crash and saw all the glass and its contents on the floor, but that was nothing compared to the way he had practically recoiled when he was pierced with Sherlock's furious glare. Not the best way to secure his place next to the detective. Sherlock was going to get rid of him sooner than latter if he kept this up.

Then, of course, half of the doctors at the clinic called in sick, so he had to do a double shift. It seemed like every person in London had acquired a cold, so John had spent all day looking at sore throats, checking kids' snotty noses, and assuring their mothers that they were going to be all right in a few days and they were not, in fact, sick with a strange and deadly disease.

This day couldn't possibly get any worse.

He made his way into the flat and carefully got up the stairs, clenching his jaw at his leg's protests. Psychosomatic or not, it hurt like hell. He threw his wet coat on the floor and went to the kitchen to prepare a cup of tea, but stopped on his tracks when he saw a post-it note stuck to the kettle:

'Sherlock left for a case, dear. He left with Amelia since you were busy. He phoned me after he finished and asked me to tell you that they were having dinner at Angelo's, so you needn't wait up. Mrs. Hudson.'

John drew out a breath and stuck the note back in the kettle. He should be upset, or at least disappointed about it. He thought he would have more time. But he just felt numb, almost hollow.

He straightened up and slowly made his way out of the flat. He'd rather not cross paths with Sherlock so soon, if he came back home tonight. He probably wouldn't. He was probably having a great time with Amelia, excited to have managed to solve the case, and glad to have had an efficient partner for once. John couldn't blame him, really. He was happy for Sherlock, even if that meant he was going to have to leave him.

Now, where the hell was a convenient pub to drown his sorrows when he needed one?

John came back to the flat three hours later, not nearly as drunk as he would like to be.

He was making his way to the kitchen for a cup of coffee (no way in hell he was touching that kettle again), when a voice from the couch stopped him in his tracks.

"You know you shouldn't go to the pub when you're so tired, John. You'll weak up with a headache tomorrow."

John sighed and kept walking. He couldn't trust his voice right now. He was sure that if he opened his mouth he would screw everything up.

He heard Sherlock get up from the couch and go into the kitchen with him. Great, he wanted to talk. Why did Sherlock have to pick this moment to have a conversation, when he was usually content enough keeping his mouth shut?

"I took Amelia to a crime scene today. I asked Mrs. Hudson to inform you." John merely hummed. "She was surprisingly competent. She doesn't know how to handle a gun, but it wasn't even necessary. She's very good at deducing. She has a sharp mind, mostly, so we were able to solve the case in no time."

John cradled his mug in both hands, trying to control the tremors on his left hand. He was still avoiding eye contact. Even if what Sherlock was saying was true, he wasn't usually so insensitive. Or he tried not to be with him, at least. Sherlock was probably trying to spite him for ruining his experiment earlier.

He took a deep breath and hoped his voice wouldn't crack.

"Well, I'm glad." Nonchalant. Disinterested. Maybe if he kept it up he could go to sleep without any incidents.

"I couldn't have made it without her help. It would have taken me twice the time, and it might have been too late by then." John could see the detective glaring at him from the corner of his eye. Sherlock clenched his jaw, and John mentally braced himself. Sherlock seemed determined to get a reaction from him, no matter the cost. "It's a nice change to have a capable partner for a change. One who actually understands the purpose of your work, whether it's a case or an experiment. It was nice to have someone useful around, for a change."

John was so stunned that he loosened the grip on the mug, which fell to the ground with a loud crash. He was prepared to hear something hurtful, but Sherlock had been downright cruel. Even if he expected Sherlock to get rid of him in favor of his work, he had thought that he would at least be a bit tactful about it. They were friends, after all.

Or so he thought. He wasn't even deserving of that, apparently.

He was so lost in thought and trying to keep his expression blank, that he didn't notice he had actually started crying, nor Sherlock's hand on his elbow turning him around to face him.

"John?" said Sherlock tentatively, in a light whisper. John was sure he wouldn't have heard him if it wasn't for Sherlock's tight grip keeping him focused.

"I- I'm sorry, I'll just-" John's voice broke off with a strangled sob. He closed his eyes, ashamed, not wanting to see the expression on Sherlock's face. John shook off the detective's hold on his arm and walked past him, trying to get away. Things had gotten embarrassing enough already.

He had just reached the door when he felt two hands grabbing his shoulders and turning him around, cornering him against the door.

"John."

John closed his eyes and hung his head, hiding his face with his hands. He tried to regain control of his emotions, but he just couldn't stop bloody crying. Sherlock was probably thinking how pathetic he was being right now. But why the hell did he stop him? Did he want to keep mocking him? Hadn't he said enough already?

"John. Talk to me."

John's entire body was shaking because of his repressed sobs. His breathing was harsh and fast, and he was pressing his back to the door, to get as far away from Sherlock as possible. It didn't seem to sit well with Sherlock, because he reached forward and took hold of John's wrists, stopping him from covering his face anymore.

"John, please. Look at me." Sherlock sounded so pleading, so distraught, that John did as he was told just to make sure he wasn't imagining it. As soon as their eyes locked, Sherlock dropped one of John's wrists and grabbed his chin, so he couldn't turn his face away.

"John, you know I didn't mean what I said. Please, tell me what's wrong. You've been acting estrange lately; I've been... concerned. Please, talk to me." Sherlock's voice was so soft, so tender, that John couldn't stop himself anymore. He grabbed the front of Sherlock's shirt and leaned his head forward so it could rest on his chest. He could feel the tears sliding down his cheeks again, but he didn't care anymore. There was no point.

"I love you. I love you so much, but I never said anything because you said you were married to your work, and that you didn't do relationships and that was fine." He could feel Sherlock froze, but he kept going. He couldn't go back now. "But then Amelia arrived, and seeing you with her was torture, because you actually fell in love with her and you found in her the partner you really deserve; someone who's smart and beautiful, and who is actually able to keep up with you and help you on cases. And I'm happy for you, I swear to God I am, but it's so hard. I knew you'd get rid of me sooner or later, and when I found out you took her on a case with you, I knew it was the end. You'd made up your mind and realize there's no reason to keep me around anymore, and I just-" He broke off with another sob, and realized he wasn't able to keep his composure anymore.

"I love you, Sherlock. I love you, and I'm sorry, I didn't mean for this to happen. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

He was done. He kept repeating his apology over and over again, tightening his hold on Sherlock's shirt, unconsciously trying to keep the detective by his side. This was it. Sherlock was going to tell him that he didn't feel the same way, that he was an idiot, and how could he even think that he would-

John could have sworn his heart stopped for a second when he felt Sherlock's arms wrapping around him, pulling him closer. And he was even more shocked when Sherlock started to whisper 'oh God John, I'm sorry, I'm an idiot, I'm so sorry", his lips brushing his hair, leaving soft, almost careful kisses.

They stayed like that for a long time, until John finally regain his composure and gathered the bit of courage he had left to look at Sherlock in the eye again. Sherlock leaned back, but kept his arms firmly around him.

"Sherlock-"

"No, John. I think it's my turn to talk." He gave John a small, reassuring smile, but it instantly turned into a worried frown when he started to talk. "I've been an idiot. I never thought you might-" Sherlock took a deep breath and brought up one hand to cradle John's face. "I love you, John."

John froze up. Sherlock loved him. Sherlock Holmes loved him. But it couldn't be, there was no way. What could he possibly see in him?

"John, you're not listening."

Sherlock's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. He made eye contact with Sherlock, earning a slight caress on his cheek in return.

"I realize now that I should have told you before. To be honest, I thought you weren't interested. You did claim to be straight every time someone pointed out that we were a couple, and there were no signs that you were even remotely attracted to men."

"I'm not. I mean... It's you. It's just you." John didn't even have time to feel self-conscious about what he had just said, because Sherlock was leaning forward and brushing his nose against his, a small smile gracing his lips.

"I could say the same, really. I've never been interested in anyone before I met you, John."

John broke eye contact again, trying -and failing- to ignore Sherlock's proximity. "But what about Amelia? I thought you two..."

"John." Sherlock tightened his grip on John's face, seeking his eyes again. "Nothing happened with Amelia. We're just friends, all right? She... She's different. I won't deny that. She has a sharp mind, and it is nice to have found someone who I can relate to. But," he quickly added seeing the dejected look on John's face, "she's not you. The fact that you think so low of yourself, that you thought I would just get rid of you, it's preposterous. After all we've been through together John, how could you think I would just leave you?"

"I'm not important Sherlock. I'm just an ordinary, dull human being. Thinking that you may have felt more than friendship towards me was too much like blissful thinking." He gave a small, self-deprecating smile. "And I know that we're friends, but... You get bored. And I thought that since you've finally found someone useful to have around, you wouldn't need me anymore. Yes, we're friends, but the work will always come first. And she would be the perfect partner, so why would you need me around anymore?"

"John, how-" Sherlock drew out a breath and closed his eyes, letting his head fall forward until his forehead was touching John's. "How could you think that? You're my friend, John. My best friend. Even if I had actually taken an interest in Amelia, I'd have never got rid of you. You're my flat mate, my blogger. You're everything, John. How can you not know that?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John with such an intense and pained stare, that John almost felt the need to tear up again.

"I love you, John Watson." Slowly, Sherlock leaned forward, closing the small gap left between them, and softly pressed his lips against John's. They stayed still, lips pressed lightly together, until John simply stopped over thinking it and kissed him back, adding a bit more pressure this time. He drew out a breath, tangling his fingers on Sherlock's curls, and opened his mouth, taking Sherlock's bottom lip between his own.

He had spent a few (ok, more than a few) nights thinking about what Sherlock's lips might feel like, how kissing him would taste like, but this. This was so much better than any fantasy.

Sherlock's lips were soft, a bit of a contrast with his own chapped ones. Sherlock was holding him like he wanted to merge himself with him; his arm wrapped tightly around his waist, pressing his body flush against his. His other hand had gone down to the nape of his neck, bringing him closer, deepening the kiss even further.

The most surprising thing of all, though, was how gentle Sherlock was being. They were kissing tenderly, with no rush. Learning what each other liked, how Sherlock seemed to enjoy it when John threaded his hand through his hair, tugging him closer. How John moaned when Sherlock bit his lower lip, asking for entrance. And God, that was a whole new thing entirely. Now, John could experience another thing altogether. Not only his soft lips, and how his tongue was lazily moving against his own, but his taste.

John had never been one of those people who claimed that their loved ones 'tasted like strawberries' and all that crap. But by kissing Sherlock, John could notice he could actually taste coffee and...

John broke the kiss, the need to come out for air too urgent to ignore, and smiled up at Sherlock's, god, Sherlock's besotted expression. He would actually found it funny, if he wasn't wearing the same fond, almost goofy smile himself.

"Have you been smoking?"

Sherlock froze up for a second, but instantly relaxed again, realizing that John wasn't mad.

"Maybe. A bit. Does it matter right now?" he said with a mischievous smirk, lifting his eyebrow.

"No. Sorry, I just-" John broke into a fit of giggles. Slightly hysterical giggles, but still. Sherlock soon followed suit, and it wasn't long before they both ended up tangled on the floor, brightly smiling to each other.

"So. Are we... alright?" asked Sherlock, a hint of worry in his voice.

"Yeah." John moved closer to him and took his hand, lacing their fingers together. "We're fine."

This was written for clandestinepen, for the Johnlockchallenges' gift exchange on Tumblr. Her prompt was 'teary confession'

Hope she likes it, and that I made justice to the prompt ~

Let me know if you see any mistakes. Hope everyone likes this :)

Lots of love Xx