It had always pained him to admit weakness. And now, to do it without being actively forced, was like the constant feeling of bile in his throat.

"Mycroft, I need help."

Mycroft turned in his chair, hands folded and looking amused. "Help, brother mine? You're asking for my help?"

Sherlock's teeth were gritted. This was painful. "Do not make me say it again."

"Oh but it's so enjoyable," Mycroft responded. He was almost smirking; he never smirked. "But never mind that. What is it that you need my help with?"

"You know," Sherlock replied irritably.

"I don't, actually." Mycroft folded his hands. "Enlighten me."

Sherlock tangled his hands in his dark and curly hair. "Mycroft…"

"Sherlock…" he mimicked.

"You're insufferable."

"And you're hiding things."

"It's John," Sherlock burst out. "The problem's John."

Mycroft raised one eyebrow. "John. Well, of course I'll help you with him. What do you want, to get rid of him?"

"NO!" Sherlock said loudly. "Oh, god no! He's the best flatmate I've ever had, why would I want to get rid of him?"

Mycroft shrugged. "I don't know, you're who's got some sort of problem with him."

"Not that kind of problem," Sherlock hissed. "The other kind."

"I'll wait."

"For what?"

"An explanation."

Of course Mycroft would make him spell it out. Sherlock scowled. "I…I want to…be…with him?"

"Oh, you're going to have to do better than that," Mycroft scoffed.

Sherlock's eyes shifted back and forth, looking for an escape route he couldn't have. "I want to…ask him…on a…thing. A date."

Now Mycroft's eyes lit up with glee. "Oh, I knew this was coming! Finally!"

"Mycroft, this isn't a joke," Sherlock said painfully.

"No, it's like a dream!" his brother exclaimed. "I can't believe this is actually happening, after all these years…"

"MYCROFT!" Sherlock interrupted. "How do I do it?"

Mycroft shrugged. "Oh, it doesn't matter, just say anything. You know he's in love with you, right?"

"He's said repeatedly that he's not gay," Sherlock admitted sullenly.

"He's lying. People do that, you know."

Sherlock didn't believe him. It was so much more difficult to believe the good things. "I'll argue on that later. But how do I do this, Mycroft?"

"It's simple," Mycroft stated. "Love him."

Love him love him love him. Those words were Sherlock's internal mantra as he took a cab back to Baker Street. Love was another one of his weaknesses. He'd been hoping Mycroft would just put the words into his mouth; tell him how to tell John.

It had still helped. Mycroft was not a liar. Maybe it had given Sherlock just a little bit of faith, enough to go through with the plan he had yet to invent.

His mind was whirring; not that it ever stopped. Ideas spun around but never lasted for more than a second because they were bad. Too normal. Too straight. Not worthy of John.

"How do normal people manage," Sherlock muttered. The cab driver gave him a strange look.

He arrived at the flat and squared his shoulders. For once in his life, the great Sherlock Holmes had no idea what he was going to do.

John was there- well, John was always there. Sitting in his chair, typing out a new blog post. He didn't even notice the sound of the door, allowing Sherlock to stand there for a moment and observe him. There was nothing to deduce, nothing Sherlock hadn't found before. They knew each other too well, except for this one thing…

"John?"

Quickly, John closed his laptop and turned around, like this was what he'd been waiting for all along. "Yes?"

Sherlock's throat seemed to close around the words. John, I love you. "John, I value your company and appreciate your medical experience. Thank you for staying."

John made a face, but he was confused more than annoyed. "Well, uh…welcome, I guess? And-"

Before he could say something that would have been kind without doubt, Sherlock turned and fled the room, trench coat fanning out behind him.

"Mycroft, it didn't work," he said pleadingly into the phone, hours later. He preferred to text, as he'd said many times, but he needed to hear a voice right now. A voice that wasn't John's, torturing him with the subtextual you can't have me and not Mrs. Hudson, being all kind and messing with his foul mood. For this once, it had to be Mycroft.

Mycroft usually sounded distracted, but he gave this his full attention. He cared more than he would ever let down- especially about this. "What happened?"

"I said the wrong thing," Sherlock admitted. "I can't do it."

Mycroft shook his head. "Then I can't help you anymore."

"Ask him for coffee," Molly advised enthusiastically.

Sherlock curled his lip. "That didn't exactly work so well for you, did it?"

She blushed, looking down. After all this time, that first rejection still stung, because she wasn't over Sherlock. How could she be, when he looked and acted the way he did? Sherlock was not kind, but he was attractive, and it was almost impossible to meet him and not fall in love.

"It might work better for you," she said flatly. "Since John's too sweet to ever say something like that."

Sherlock's eyes softened; he seemed to realize okay, that was bad, and he at least made an attempt to change his demeanor. "Ah. Sorry about that. Of course, I never meant that…."

"Oh, stop," she snapped. "I'll help you with John because you ought to be together, not because some psychopath is here flattering me."

"Sociopath," he corrected.

"Shut your damn mouth."

Sherlock obediently stopped talking. Molly went on. "It's not that hard, I've done it. All you have to do is go up to him and say something simple, like, 'John, coffee?'. Don't even need to say it's a date. You can do that, right?"

He nodded. She smiled. "Then what are you waiting for?"

"He took it platonically!" Sherlock wailed, much later that night. It was eleven at night, but he'd showed up at Molly's house to complain about his suffering. She was good for that kind of thing.

She patted his shoulder in an attempt to be comforting. "Oh dear, that happens sometimes. Next time you'll have to make it a bit more direct."

"How?" he whispered.

"Oh, I don't know," she said quietly. "Let's have coffee, your hair looks lovely, let's have coffee, I'll suck your dick afterward…"

Sherlock looked affronted. "I'm not saying that!"

She shrugged. "It was just an idea."

"Why don't you just ask him out for dinner?" Mrs. Hudson asked kindly.

"We've had dinner before!" Sherlock wailed. "And it didn't change anything!"

"Oh dear," she murmured. "I bet you've gone to movies too."

"Only a couple times!" he protested. "And what's the fun in going alone?"

"Oh, you're basically a couple already!" she teased.

"I want it to be official."

Mrs. Hudson smiled affectionately. "Well, I bet John does too. He's dumped all his girlfriends but he's never once tried to get rid of you."

"That's not necessarily a sign of an upcoming relationship," he sighed. "I don't need the counseling, just tell me how to ask him."

"Get him some flowers and ask him out for dinner," she advised. "That'll have to get through his thick head."

Buying flowers seemed ridiculous, maybe because Sherlock had never done it before. He had no idea what John would like, if he would even like flowers. All of this was completely crazy.

He picked out a bouquet of red tulips and got back to Baker Street as quickly as he could.

John was out when he got back. At the store, Sherlock presumed. He was glad; it gave him time to set up. He put the flowers in a vase on the table and wrote out a note with dinner reservations at an expensive restaurant, then looked at it all with satisfaction. There was no way John could take this platonically.

Sherlock got dressed and went to the restaurant to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

John wasn't coming.

It was a bit awkward for John's phone to ring at this very moment. But it was Sherlock, he had to answer it. With an apologetic look at Mycroft, he picked it up. "Hello?"

"Where are you?" Sherlock demanded. He didn't sound quite like himself, but John was too busy worrying about other things to worry about that right now.

"At Mycroft's," John answered. "Where are you?"

Sherlock ignored the question. "Why are you at Mycroft's?!"

John sighed. "I keep hoping he'll tell me. Are you alright, Sherlock, I'm sure I can get him to let me leave…."

Sherlock hung up. John looked back at Mycroft, a frown twisting on his face. "Your brother's angry."

"I can't imagine why," Mycroft said.

"Why did you bring me here?" John asked, resigned.

Before Mycroft could answer, his phone started ringing. He answered it without thinking. "Yes?"

"WHY DID YOU KIDNAP HIM ON THE NIGHT I WAS GOING TO ASK HIM OUT?!"

Mycroft winced. "In my defense, I didn't know that…"

Sherlock slammed the phone down. John looked up, interested. "What was that about?"

"Wrong number," Mycroft lied smoothly. "But I think it's best that you go home now. I'll continue this issue later…maybe without kidnapping you."

"That would be appreciated," John grumbled.

Sherlock came home without eating. He tore down the vase of flowers and the note and changed out of his dress clothes. By the time John returned, the only sign of him was a sulky lump in his bed. John looked in to check on him, but didn't say anything.

Sherlock bit his lip, forcing himself to stay completely still. More than anything, he wanted to say something, but there was no point. His chance for tonight had already been ruined.

Within the span of a few days, Sherlock asked every person he trusted even a little for advice. That included Lestrade, who jokingly suggested that the two of them "just kiss already". He was pretty drunk when he said that, so Sherlock didn't take it to heart, though the idea of kissing John very much appealed to him.

Nothing worked. John was still completely oblivious, and Sherlock had no one left to ask. The only other person he trusted was John himself.

…which was a bad idea, but that didn't usually stop him.

"John, I need some advice."

John looked up, obviously curious. "I give wonderful advice. What is it?"

"I want to ask someone out," Sherlock replied carefully, nervous now. He never got nervous. He hated these things.

John looked almost alarmed. "Who?" Sherlock glared at him. "I mean, tell me about her."

"Him," Sherlock corrected, trying not to blush.

"…oh." John was taken aback, but he tried not to show it. "Well, uh, you know that's fine. Absolutely fine. Sherlock, why didn't you tell me you were-"

"That is not what I came here to talk to you about," Sherlock said stiffly. "Advice, John. How do I do it?"

"Well, uh, it really depends on the person," John stammered. "Maybe he'd like something really romantic, maybe he'd prefer something more blunt…"

"Don't try to trick me, I can tell what you're doing." Sherlock had already deduced that John was fishing for more information. He tried another tactic.

"Fine," John grumbled. "Just…ask him for coffee."

"That's what Molly said too," Sherlock said gloomily.

"You asked Molly before me?" Genuine hurt showed in John's eyes. Almost ever since they'd met, he'd considered himself to be Sherlock's best friend. Maybe that was something he'd taken for granted, if he trusted Molly more…

Sherlock looked away guiltily. "…I didn't know what you would say."

"What, other than 'yes'?"

Sherlock twitched, but he forced the emotion back down his throat. "Excuse me?"

John was smiling now, a real smile. "Well, you didn't think you could say something like that to Mrs. Hudson and she wouldn't tell me, did you?"

"She told you," Sherlock uttered. For a man who claimed to have no emotions, he was having a lot of them right now. "And I trusted her…time for a new landlady."

"Sherlock no, she didn't mean to hurt you," John said quickly. "When I came back from Mycroft's, she knew it had all gone wrong and she knew I would have wanted to know."

It was always harder to believe the good things. Even after everything, Sherlock hadn't believed this could work out. Facts weren't enough when it came to his heart. But John had said he would say yes.

Sherlock cleared his throat, trying to redeem himself. "Still. Very unprofessional of her, I'll have to speak with her. But…since I always finish what I start…John, would you like to have dinner with me?"

"I would love to," he replied. "In fact, I would like a lot more than that. But dinner, yes, that's a good start."