The one person- the one person- who was never supposed to hurt him… probably hurt him the worst.

John Watson was ashamed to be that person.

He sat, head in hands, open bottle of beer on the table in front of him. He hadn't wanted to go for anything too strong- didn't want to become a drinker like Harry- but he was starting to think he might need it.

God, what had he done.

He couldn't make it go away- that image of Sherlock. It hadn't even been particularly noticeable. John was sure that no one had seen but he, the cause, the fucker who fucking fucked everything the fuck up. Fuck. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, hard. The pressure hurt, but it couldn't overcome the other hurt, the horrible emptiness in his gut and tingling in his fingers, the soreness of his legs where his elbows had been digging into the tense muscle for too long.

But Sherlock's face.

Fuck.

It has been so subtle, just a tiny tremor of his lips, he'd bitten the lower one and closed his eyes for just a moment too long to be a blink, and his brows had tilted just the smallest bit- John had nearly not seen the implosion inside, barely covered by Sherlock's mask-like face.

He was supposed to have Sherlock's back. The man had saved him, in the most clichéd way, he'd pulled John out of his self-pity and post-war- he didn't even want to think about it. Sherlock had made all of that go away, and all he asked- in the end, after all the case work and shooting and running, all Sherlock asked was that John be his friend.

And how bloody hard was that, really? How hard was it to keep his stupid mouth fucking shut? He pushed harder against his brow bone, wanting to drag his fingernails down his face, tear off the skin and reach inside his head. Pull out everything that hurt, pull out all of the stupid and all of the emotions.

He could say anything he wanted to Sherlock- it was a joke, or it was meant in an affectionate way, and the all-seeing man knew that. He smiled when John called him an idiot to his face. But saying things about Sherlock- writing about his flaws for everyone- including Lestrade and Donovan- to read was just not on. John had thought it was a bit funny, and face to face between he and Sherlock it was, but honestly it wasn't important. When was the last time anyone had needed to know that their planet circled a star? It was a basic fact, sure, but not a relevant one. What was the harm in getting rid of that trivia to make room for something that might actually be useful? There was none. It made for a good joke between friends, but putting it out for other people to misinterpret and mock Sherlock for had been one of John's dumber moves.

It shouldn't have mattered, it should have just been a stupid misadventure, except that John was the one person Sherlock had trusted to never hurt him. Even Mycroft knew that. It was a simple enough request- take him as he was. John swore at himself quietly, flexing all his muscles at once in an attempt to release some of the discomfort hanging about him. He hated being himself at the moment. He'd let down the only person he shouldn't have done. Sherlock had given him back his soul, excitement, his whole bloody life, and in return John had given Sherlock's enemies ammunition to use against him. Cruel remarks, the only social interaction the genius ever had.

John took a long drink, contemplating going out for more. He didn't know what to do with the ache in his chest- it wasn't something he could just ignore. It made him want to hit himself, want to tear apart their flat and tear apart himself in the process. But he wouldn't make a mess that Sherlock could see; he wouldn't upset the detective any further. Sherlock was in his bedroom, being awfully quiet. John wanted to stop the other man from brooding, wanted to go in there and fucking apologize, beg for forgiveness like an idiot, but he didn't know how. Sherlock would wave him away and say it was fine, he'd make them both feel more awkward… He didn't know what to do to make it better.

There was no action he could take. That was the worst part. He'd just have to live with himself.

He slumped back in his chair.

"Fuck…" He understood now why Sherlock curled up; it was all John wanted to do at the moment, pull his knees to his chest and collapse in on himself until he hit his own event horizon and disappeared completely.

He shut his eyes against a violent wave of self-hatred. He was a man of action, but this was not something he could fix by shooting it. He drained the beer and stood, flinging the bottle hard at the wall. It was something Sherlock might have done- and John could see why; he felt a bit better having expressed his anger at himself by shattering the innocent bottle. The bottle had it coming.

"I'll come back later, then," Sherlock's voice drawled from the door to his bedroom. He was trying to sound amused, but John could hear the tiredness.

"No! Sorry, I- I'm sorry. I'll clean it up," John fetched the broom, determinedly not looking at Sherlock, who stood quietly in the doorway, looking at the floor. "Sorry. Just a bit-" He shook his head and didn't finish, but Sherlock knew anyway.

"What could you possibly have to be upset over?" His voice was quiet. He wasn't saying it, but John could hear it; 'it wasn't your best friend who made everyone laugh at you,' 'no one thinks you're a freak.'

"Sherlock. I'm so- so sorry." He swept up the glass, not knowing whether he ought to look at Sherlock or not.

"It's fine." Sherlock replied, almost automatically. "I've had worse," He finally came in, sinking on to the couch and laying back like he usually did.

John balled his fist, digging his fingernails into his palm. "I know. And that's why I'm sorry, Sherlock, because you deserve better. From me, at least. I just- I just didn't think." He emptied the glass shards into the trash.

"It's fine." His voice was smaller. He wasn't yelling. But he wasn't leaving, either.

Because he has nowhere else to go, John thought with a sickening jolt that only made him feel worse about himself.

"It's really not. I'm sorry." He finally squared up to face his detective. Sherlock was on his back, hands pressed together in the center of his chest, elbows tight against his body. His face was taunt, eyes shut. Lips tense, jaw loose.

"I said it's fine, John, let it go." Sherlock snapped, flinching as though to pull inward on himself.

Oh no, please don't. John thought desperately. Don't pull away from me because of this- it was an accident. Please. "Sherlock…" John couldn't help putting his hand tentatively on his detective's chest. His arm or knee wouldn't have been enough to convey what John was trying to say.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, instantly on defense. "Don't pity me, John," He snarled. "I've had enough of that, thank you, I don't need your scraps." He was spitting out the words, mouth working furiously, but under John's hand his chest had caved, as though his muscles couldn't decide whether to tense or soften, and had settled on retreat. His eyes were so- John's heart broke. They were so vulnerable. That his opinion meant this much to Sherlock was incredible, and made it all the more painful to know that he'd hurt the detective with his insults, repeated by the yarders.

"I'm not pitying you, you ass," John didn't know how else to convey his anger, "I want you to know I'm sorry for saying something I shouldn't have!" He used the hand on Sherlock's chest to shove Sherlock back against the couch as the detective tried to stand.

"What makes you think it even matters, John? It doesn't, not at all! You think your insignificant little blog and idiotic opinions matter to me?" the words were barbed, calculated to wound, make John retreat, but the army doctor was having none of that.

"I know it does, you sod! I'm trying to say- that- that-" He faltered. "That you matter to me, too." It was quiet, an admission he'd never said but assumed Sherlock heard.

The detective just stared, his lips falling slightly apart, leaning back into the couch, shrinking away from John's hands. He tried to recover, eyes darting down, mouth tensing; "Yes, obviously." His tongue darted out briefly, wetting his lips, eyelashes still brushing his cheekbones as he avoided John's eyes. "Are you going to let me stand up now?"

John knew that if Sherlock wanted to stand he would; army training aside (John would never use any actual combat skills on Sherlock, never hurt him in such a calculated manner), Sherlock had size and (probably) strength on his side. "No, Sherlock, I don't think so. I think… I think this is a bigger deal than it should be." Yes, it was bad- he'd hurt Sherlock. He'd shaken Sherlock's faith in him. But it shouldn't be this bad. He shouldn't have a hole inside him, Sherlock shouldn't be so- afraid.

And John was almost certain that he knew how to make sure that next time (he was sure there'd be a next time; neither of them were perfect and he was bound to run out of patience at some point) it wouldn't be this bad. He thought. "You know why- why it's like this, right?" He spread his fingers softly on Sherlock's chest, watching Sherlock squeeze his eyes shut. Hiding again.

"Enlighten me," The words were supposed to bite; supposed to make John feel stupid, supposed to make John wonder what he could possibly know that the great Sherlock Holmes was not privy to.

"I will, you…" John huffed, swallowing his insult. He didn't know why he always did that. "You brilliant-" He'd enlighten Sherlock. "pompous-" he leaned down and softly, oh so softly, afraid of rejection, of humiliation, of making things even worse, kissed Sherlock Holmes. "Genius." He sighed the word quietly against Sherlock's lips and leaned back, removing his hand, watching. Waiting…

Sherlock was completely still, except his chest. It seemed that he was hyperventilating. John wasn't sure whether he should be worried, and then he saw a flush spreading across Sherlock's perfect cheekbones. "It is redundant to call me 'brilliant' and 'genius' in the same sentence." He articulated carefully, eyes still shut, though his face was no longer tense.

"Well, you know me, got to get my point across."

"And what exactly is your point?"

"That if we knew where we stood with each other, things like this wouldn't hurt so much." John wasn't sure how to explain, or even if he really needed to, but when Sherlock didn't speak, John continued. "I mean… I made a mistake." He stood straighter, sliding his feet so his body was in a line. He felt more comfortable in an alert stance. "I made a mistake, and I hurt you. But I wouldn't hurt so much if you knew that- that I love you. And you wouldn't hurt so much if you knew I wasn't going to leave you or- or betray you." He shook his head. He'd never really pictured revealing his feelings to Sherlock, but he couldn't think of another way to phrase his point.

Sherlock still hadn't said anything, or opened his eyes, or moved at all.

"Sherlock? You going to answer, mate?" John resisted the urge to tap on him.

"I… I don't know what to say."

"Well, that's a first," John snorted. He rubbed a hand over his face, pulling down his jaw.

"What would you like me to say?" His voice was deeper even than usual, quiet, and he'd finally opened his eyes.

"Tell me… tell me if I'm insane. Tell me if I actually have a chance. Tell me if you want me to leave, or to stay and never say anything- anything about this again. I can do that. Just tell me… what you want." He wanted to touch Sherlock again, to smooth the wrinkles in his brow or push his hair back and trace his thumb over those cheekbones, but he didn't want to seem pushy or invasive. He couldn't help coming closer, though, leaning on the arm of the couch so their faces were almost level.

"You're not insane." Sherlock looked up cautiously, face still tipped down, watching John from beneath his eyelashes.

"So…" John brushed Sherlock's face with the backs of his fingers, caressing a soft path down the brunet's jaw. He didn't think he was imagining that Sherlock inclined towards the touch. He put a slow, careful hand on John's shoulder, staring at it as though it had moved on its own.

Sherlock's hands were huge, and powerful, and they wrapped in John's shirt so slowly, so hesitatingly… John's heart broke for at least the third time that night. "It's all right, Sherlock. Just-please," he pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of Sherlock's mouth. The genius reciprocated softly, cautiously. "If- if you don't want to do this," John cleared his throat and pulled back, giving Sherlock space to decide.

"I…" He bit his lip the way he had after their first case, right before asking John to dinner, folding both lips against his teeth and softly catching the lower one. The same way he'd looked in Baskerville, telling John that he was Sherlock's only friend. The detective breathed in deeply, quietly. "I don't want to fail you."

"You don't want to fuck this up. Neither do I. I guess we'll be okay then." John smiled, catching his right hand in Sherlock's dark curls. Sherlock leaned into the touch, eyes drifting shut. It occurred to John that the last time anyone had put their hand in Sherlock's hair was probably during a fight to try and hold him. John rubbed his fingertips softly through Sherlock's hair, and Sherlock sighed gratefully.

"I suppose we will be," Sherlock opened his eyes, looking shyly at John, who smiled softly back, cupping Sherlock's face with his left hand. He kissed him. Sherlock kissed back, hesitating and unsure. John tried to say he was sorry with the kiss, pressing a little harder and sliding his tongue gently along the seam of Sherlock's lips. The detective parted them with a small sound like a whimper, his hands pulling harder at John's shirt.

John hadn't quite expected it to be this quick, this easy to seduce Sherlock Holmes, but evidently for him it was. He removed his hand from the side of Sherlock's face, wrapping it instead around the detective's waist, trying to get closer without crawling over the edge of the couch. Sherlock's right hand was sliding over John's shoulders, the left curled around the back of his bloggers neck. He moaned as John deepened the kiss, and John couldn't help pulling back, looking at Sherlock's lust-blown eyes. He smiled a little, to let Sherlock know he hadn't done anything wrong, while John just stared at him.

"John?" The blogger's breath left him at the sound of that voice, so deep and smooth, different than he'd ever heard it before. He licked his lips, drawing the bottom one in under his tongue to bite it for a brief moment.

"Sorry. Just- I didn't expect it to go so fast."

Sherlock straightened, something behind his eyes shuttering. "I'm sorry."

"No, no! It's- good. Very good, yeah. Just- I didn't expect it to go so well."

"Ah," Sherlock relaxed toward him. "Then… would it be too fast to ask you to come closer?" He was practically purring, watching John with seduction in his gaze.

"N-no." John moved around the arm of the couch so he was standing directly in front of Sherlock, who was looking up at him with a peculiar mixture of innocence and desire. "Where do- where'd you want me?" His knees were almost shaking, and he was surprised there wasn't more of a tremor in his voice.

"Um." This was nothing like Sherlock's normal clear direction, carelessly repositioning whatever he wanted. "Can you…" He tugged at one of John's hands, looking toward his knees.

"You want me in your lap?" John couldn't help his voice changing pitch, one eyebrow rising incredulously.

Sherlock backpedaled so hard John could almost see him stumbling, even though he was sitting down. "No- I mean, obviously not if- you don't want to. -Want to be." He looked down, hand twitching where it was wrapped around John's. "What should- I mean. What's too close." He mumbled into his chest.

"Come here, you sod." John lowered himself carefully onto Sherlock's knees, wincing as his shins hit the edge of the sofa. He put one arm around Sherlock, tangling the other hand back in Sherlock's hair. He'd do whatever the detective needed. Sherlock leaned happily into him, lips finding the underside of John's jaw.

"Thank you, John," His voice was just a sigh against John's skin as he leaned back into the couch, taking the blogger with him. His hands traced John's back and shoulders.

"Mm." He acknowledged as best he could, trying to keep his brain from scrambling as Sherlock bit lightly at the base of his jaw, just beneath his earlobe. He pulled Sherlock's hair a little, and the detective gasped, hips stuttering against John as his spine arched. "Sensitive, hm?" John muttered into Sherlock's ear, tugging again at the detective's hair.

"Obviously," Sherlock gasped, both of his hands latching on John's hips and squeezing.

John pressed his lips to Sherlock's, sliding his tongue into the detective's mouth while Sherlock moaned and pulled him closer. John's hips rocked toward Sherlock as he pulled the detective's hair and Sherlock arched, whimpering into John's mouth. John made an appreciative sound in return, pushing one hand between them to unbutton Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock whimpered again as John's fingertips grazed his chest. John pulled his mouth away from Sherlock's so he could kiss a trail down the bare skin he exposed with every undone button. Sherlock stared, eyes wide, mind blown. For once his thoughts were calm, only one thing at the forefront. John, John, John. It was always John, forefront or background, since the first day at St. Bart's.

"I love you," John said again, into Sherlock's neck.

"I- I don't- deserve it." Sherlock gripped John tighter, trying not to rip his shirt even though he wanted to. One strong hand slid down his blogger's spine and settled firmly on John's arse. "But thank you," He said, and squeezed, arching into John's thrust. "I love you too," He gasped into John's ear, biting gently at the lobe.

John looked up. Sherlock was looking at him… the same way he always had.