I saw pictures of a ginger Benedict Cumberbatch. Then I saw the fics of ginger Sherlock. Then I saw room for another one. Then... well you get the idea. One of my earlier fics, so the quality might not be quite as good, but it's interesting.
WARNING: People being shot at. Awkwardness. Gingerness. Sherlock's internal monologue (and arguing with himself).
RATED: T for my paranoia and because there's a tiny bit of violence and Sherlock getting upset.

Sherlock stood in the dark gallery, panting heavily. He had just been running from the murderer, but had lost track of where he was. He didn't want to be hanging around, John was out there somewhere, and so was the murderer, but he had to pause to catch his breath and recognise where he was. Otherwise, he would end up going down a dead end, and that would be a death trap.

He glanced at the paintings in the dim light, trying to recognise them from his earlier visit to the gallery at opening times. He cursed himself for not paying close attention- normally he was extremely observant, but recently, he had been less so. Well, less observant of his surroundings, and more observant of John. Why was that? He had been talking to John a few days ago, and had been gouging his response for hidden messages (secretly), and had walked into a lamppost, much to John's the amusement. Why had John been more and more distracting as of lately? He didn't know, but he wished those uncertain things he had begrudgingly names 'feelings' would settle down again, because they never used to be so aggressive, or determined to be shown. A lot of them had been about John. Strange.

He turned a corner into what he hoped was the main showroom, although he couldn't be sure. He really needed to address this John issue, and soon, because it was becoming rather dangerous. He stopped at a picture in the middle of the room, took a quick look at it, and then turned his head to the right. He was sure there should be a door over there, but there wasn't. He frowned.

Suddenly, he was aware of a quick burst of pounding footsteps, and then a force collided with him mid-torso. At almost the same instant, a shot was fired high above, at what he could only presume was a balcony. He didn't remember a balcony. The sound the bullet made as it richotiade told him that no one had been shot, which was a relief. He tumbled to the ground quite ungracefully, and that colliding force landed on top of him, winding him. He tried to sit up, but he was tangled up with that thing that landed on him, which he now realised was a man. The man raised his arm, aimed a gun that had magically appeared in his hand, and shot the shooter in the head. He then promptly collapsed from exhaustion, and it was then that Sherlock recognised the man as John. His John.

~wait a sec. did you just objectify him? ~

_um… no_

~ahem~

_okay, so maybe I did. What does it matter to you? _

~you just called him your John, like he was yours and yours alone. You can't just do that~

_ are you going to stop me? And what do you mean, he is my John_

~no he isn't. I'm pretty sure he has a date tomorrow~

_stuff her, she's boring_

~John doesn't think so~

_shut up_

These thought whizzed through his brain in mere milliseconds, but were discarded when he noticed just how tangled he and John were.

"Um, John…"

John lifted his head tiredly "Yes?"

"I can't get up."

John seemed to notice how tangled they were, and how close they were, and instantly went red as he tried to separate himself. However, fate wasn't feeling kind and as he moved Sherlock's arm, it knocked his elbow, which was propping him up. He fell against Sherlock, so that their noses where almost touching. Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise, and John's face had that look or shock horror that had nothing to do with impeding death. He stared into Sherlock's eyes like a rabbit in the headlights for a few seconds, before quickly moving away and standing up, his face redder than ever. He looked quickly away, but it didn't mask the fact that, for a moment, Sherlock had seen John's pupils dilate and could hear his pulse quicken. But Sherlock didn't have time to analyse the information now, so he stored it under things to do, and decided to leave it for now.

John was in bed. Sherlock had gone out 3 days ago, to go and have some sort of tedious family reunion, which he had made an effort to despise throughout the week. He had left as soon as the 'Stroke of Death' case had been cleared up in the gallery, and had barely been in the flat to pick up his bags before rushing off, which was not usually his style. He had the flat to himself, and had had plenty of time to mull over the incident in the gallery. He mentally cringed again, only someone as stupid as him could do something like that; save someone's life, and then make an utter mess out of it by getting stuck and then getting uncomfortably close for way too long, before going bright red and pretending that it never happened in the most obvious way possible. Stupid John Watson.

He was hopeless now. He wouldn't admit it to anyone; in fact, it had taken a long time to admit it to himself, but the truth was; he loved Sherlock. He was so annoying and amazing and brilliant, and he wanted to be there for him in a way that a friend couldn't. He wanted to convince Sherlock that he was liked, because he often got the impression that the detective thought of himself as an outcast. Sherlock was great, but he had no one to point it out to him, and John wanted to be that person. He just wanted to be there for him, always. But that could never happen.

John was awake, typing on his laptop in his bedroom. It was only 3am, but his mind had refused to let him sleep, deciding instead to torture him with nightmares and memories of all the things he regretted doing. He heard Sherlock unlock the front door quietly, and creep up the stairs with only the smallest of creaks. He heard him deposit his bags in his room, and go into the bathroom. He thought it was strange that Sherlock had come home at this time, but thought it was best not to ask, he would have his reasons, and he probably wouldn't share them anyway. Not with him.

He decided to go downstairs and make some tea and toast. He didn't know if Sherlock has eaten while he was away, but he was damned if he was going to let him starve again. He remembered the incident when Sherlock had refused to eat for 4 days solid, and had promptly collapsed at a crime scene. Lestrade had managed to film it, although John wasn't sure why he had been filming Sherlock in the first place. They had stood, dumbfound, for 2 whole minutes before deciding to call an ambulance. The doctor's there had been extremely concerned about Sherlock's eating habits, and had nearly called him in for some sort of anorexic treatment. Sherlock had been insulting them until they let him leave. He really didn't want to go through that again.

He got changed into his jeans and cream jumper, and went downstairs and into the kitchen. He boiled the kettle and searched around for the teabags. He opened one of the cupboards, and heard something hit the ground hard. But the noise didn't come from the kitchen. No, the noise came from the bathroom. He walked over to the bathroom door.

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

He heard things being moved and something else falling to the ground.

"Hmm?"

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

"What was that noise then?"

"It was just the… shampoo bottles."

John sighed, he really didn't want to have to tidy up after Sherlock again, he had only just got this flat cleared from Sherlock's destructive boredom. He decided to leave it, and go and make the tea. He looked in a couple of other cupboards, before finding the tea bags and putting one in each mug. He poured the hot water into the mugs, and nearly tipped one of the mugs over when he heard a crash from the bathroom.

"Sherlock! What was that?"

"Nothing, it was nothing."

"It didn't sound like nothing."

Sherlock decided to ignore this statement. John sighed; it was like working with a 5 year old sometimes. He decided to try again.

"Sherlock, what are you doing in there?"

"Just… stuff."

John frowned. What on earth was Sherlock doing in there? And why wasn't he telling him? Normally, Sherlock would just be vague or confusing, but he was actually avoiding the question altogether, which was very unusual. Why didn't Sherlock want him to know? Was he doing some sort of experiment? John looked towards the kitchen table, the only bit of the flat that he hadn't attempted to clean up. It was covered with various scientific bits of equipment, and he couldn't see anything missing that Sherlock could use for experimenting. So, what could he possibly be doing in there? There was another crash in the bathroom, followed by a whispered 'damn it'.

"Sherlock, what was that?"

"A box. A big box."

"Sherlock, there aren't any big boxes in the bathroom. Let me in."

"There aren't? Damn it."

"Sherlock, let me in."

"NO! You can't come in! You're not allowed!"

"SHERLOCK! What are you doing in there?!"

"Um… just give me a second…"

John heard another crash, and he heard Sherlock cry out in pain.

"SHERLOCK! If you don't let me in now, I'll break down the door!"

"What?! No, I'm fine, I just, argh!"

"Right, that's it."

And with that, John got Sherlock's lock pick and unlocked the door. He burst through the now open door, and was met with a sight that left his mouth hanging open.

Sherlock was sitting on the floor, surrounded by shampoo bottles and toothbrushes and boxes. His pyjamas were a mess, and his wild unruly hair was ginger. John stared at Sherlock's bright orange hair, a hair colour that John had never imagined Sherlock to have. Sherlock glared back at him with a mixture of 'please don't tell' and 'I hate you'.

John struggled to form words in his mouth. "Um, you-you dye your hair?"

Sherlock looked at the ground and gave the smallest nod, but he didn't say anything. He looked distressed, although John didn't know why.

"Um, are you ok? Do-do you want some help or…"

Sherlock quickly shakes his head, hugging his knees against his chest.

"Are you sure?" asks John, picking up one of the hair dye boxes and walking towards Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes widen and he shakes his head vigorously. "I can help you-" John stops mid-sentence as he takes a closer look at the hair dye box. It isn't orange hair dye, but brown hair dye.

"You're… ginger?" John asks in bewilderment. Sherlock nods his head and then buries it in his chest.

"What's wrong with that?"

Sherlock curls himself into a tighter ball, and replies with silence.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock lifts his head slightly. "Are you going to laugh at me?"

John frowns. "No. Why would I do that?"

"Because everybody laughs at me. They think it's funny."

John goes over and sits next to Sherlock. "I don't think it's funny."

"Yes you do. Everyone thinks it's so funny."

"I don't. I think you look very nice."

Sherlock raises his head and looks into John's eyes with hope.

"You… do?"

"Of course. You're my friend."

Sherlock smiles just the tiniest smile. John ruffles his hair and Sherlock's smile widens.

"Thank you."

Sherlock and John were sitting in their respective chairs, drinking tea. John had successfully dyed Sherlock's hair brown again, and John had made some fresh tea. John had also coaxed Sherlock into eating some toast, after finding out that he had only eaten twice in the time he was gone. Conversation turned to the happenings in the gallery.

"John, why did you save me from getting shot, if you had the chance of getting shot instead?"

"Because I'm your friend, and that's what friends do."

"No it isn't."

"What?"

"Normal people don't put their lives on the line for their friends."

"Well, I did because you're my best friend. You didn't deserve to get shot in that gallery."

"You're… my best friend?"

"Yes."

Sherlock's face beamed. He had never had a best friend before. He liked the idea. But something else was tugging at him, tugging at his heart.

~just friends, is it~

_best friends_

~best friends are still friends~

_I know that_

~yes, but is that what you want? ~

_if John wants to be friends, we can just be friends. I can live with that_

~really? ~

_yes, it's alright if were just friends_

~I think not~

_look, if he wants to be friends, we can be friends. If he wants more, we can be more_

~so quick to choose? ~

Sherlock decided to stop thinking about it. Really, he had no idea what he was suggesting. What could be more than friendship? He had a vague idea, but he wasn't going to think about it, because it was ridiculous, and it confused him. He decided to drink his tea.

"John, what happened?" the words tumbled out of his mouth before he knew what he was saying, but it was too late to take them back.

"In the gallery?"

"Yes, in the gallery."

"Well… we were following the murderer, when we got split up. I saw the murderer, and I followed him at ground level. Then I saw you, and I saw where the murderer was standing with a gun, and then I ran into you, and surely you know all this!"

Sherlock frowned. John had stopped at the bit where he and John had fallen to the ground. Why had he done that? He was trying to avoid it, but why?

"What happened then?"

"Then I shot the murderer, and then we went to get him, and then the police came-"

"Stop. You missed something."

John's cheeks went red, but he quickly hid it.

"No I didn't." he said, a bit too quickly.

"Yes you did. Tell me what happened."

John looked away, flustered, and looked at the window. He then looked at the ground, and then at the kitchen, everywhere but at Sherlock.

"John! Look at me and tell me what happened."

John looked around the flat, his face red. He couldn't bring his eyes to look at Sherlock.

"Well, um… I…"

Sherlock darted forward and held John's face in his hands so that John had to look into his eyes.

"John, tell me!"

John looked into Sherlock's eyes, at a loss for words. He was sweating now, and was trying to get away from Sherlock, but his grip was strong. Sherlock could feel his defences weaken, his face trying to show some sort of emotion, but he kept it stony and unfeeling. John, on the other hand, was not as good at hiding his feelings, and his eyes started to dilate. He broke away from Sherlock, and looked away, his face beetroot, but Sherlock didn't notice. He just sat there, trying to digest what he just seen.

~error~

_that wasn't an error, you saw what happened_

~nothing happened~

_does he like me? _

~of course he likes you, you're his friend~

_does he like me more than a friend? _

~nothing happened~

_stop denying it_

~what if he doesn't like me in that way? ~

_then it is what it is_

~3~

"John?"

John walked towards the door, obviously upset, but Sherlock was quicker, and he grabbed John's wrist before he could leave.

"Sherlock! Let go!" John said, looking at the ground instead of at Sherlock.

Sherlock pulled John back into the living room. He scanned John while he pulled at Sherlock's arm helplessly.

"Let me go."

Sherlock stared into John's eyes, willing him to stay. John was afraid, and a bit confused, and determined to leave. He pulled at Sherlock's arm again.

"No." Sherlock said simply, and leaned forward to kiss John. This caught John completely by surprise, and it took a moment for him to realise what had happened. After a full second of John trying to figure out what was happening, he holds Sherlock's face in his hands and starts to kiss Sherlock back. This lasted a full 20 seconds until Sherlock pulled away, wondering if John was actually kissing him back or if it was just his imagination.

_good kisser_

~he didn't kiss you back~

_yes he did. Good kisser_

~it's just your imagination~

_no it isn't. John Watson kissed me_

~shut up, he did not~

_did too, did too_

John looked into Sherlock's eyes with a mixture of relief and shock.

"Did you just… kiss me?"

Sherlock turned red. "Yes."

"Good" he said, and pulled Sherlock in for another kiss.

"So, the great detective Sherlock Holmes has a crush, does he?"

"Um… I'd call it more than a crush."

John giggled, he was so happy right now. He had no idea that Sherlock had liked him, but he was glad that he felt the same way as he did. Even if he found it hard to say out loud.

"So, what would you call it?" he asked teasingly. He found Sherlock's inability to say his feelings just a little bit amusing, although he'd never tell him.

"I would call it… sentiment."

"Sentiment?!"

"Um… yes. I think…"

He laughed at Sherlock's confused face as he tried to find a more suitable word than sentiment to describe his feelings for John with.

"Passion?"

"I suppose so…"

"Must I really say it out loud?"

"No, but I enjoy watching you try."

Thank you for reading. Now go and read the stories I've favorited - I've only put the best. They deserve credit, so go and review.
Wait wait wait I haven't finished yet. Come back here! Right, as I was about to say, don't go yet. You haven't reviewed this first. Sheesh.