Sherlock Holmes was a genius.
From a young age, he had always surpassed his teacher's intellects and found nothing but boredom in his lessons. He could recite entire chapters of his favorite books, and knew many pieces of sheet music like the back of his hand. Finding a suitable instructor had always been a daunting task, and he never hesitated to point out the not so obvious, no matter how much the truth hurt. He had a superb level of intelligence, memory and wit. His thought processes and reaction times were spot on and never delayed.
And John Watson managed to halt it all and make him freeze.
It had happened very infrequently at first, and the loss of words was never enough to affect his performance in thinking and execution of actions. Within a month however, John could open his mouth and Sherlock would close his, the river of wit and words running dry. He studied the way that the man spoke. In times which called for great intensity, his brows furrowed and his eyes became hard and unwavering. In times of happiness or ease, a gentle smile played at his lips and his voice was soft, caring. Sherlock preferred the the former, enjoying the way John's eyes lit up. Unfortunately, his behavior and treatment of others often made Sherlock the subject of John's disappointment and anger, leaving him to only wish for the calm, pleased gaze.
Attractions to others had never caused a problem either. Sherlock had always viewed dating and intimate relationships are rather tedious, time wasting things. Everything you needed to know about someone could be figured out with a few hard glances at their appearances and mannerisms. Then going as far as to neglect the person's name in exchange for something like love, honey, darling, or god forbid, babe; it was all very stupid and he had no use for it.
Yet, John did. He enjoyed these dates, meeting women and sharing a table and dinner with them, talking and learning more about a new person. Sherlock accompanied him sometimes, his presence going unknown of course. John would smile politely at first and allow the woman to talk about herself, or anything she found appropriate to mention. John held off on personal information about himself until asked or it became of other relevance. He detailed about his time at war, obviously picking up on how his date would always scooch a little closer, stare at him with more interest. A deciding factor in where the date would go often laid in her reaction to John's injury that had made him be discharged. If she pitied him, apologized on his behalf, another date was not to be made.
Sherlock found that women loved to pity his flatmate, and John would have none of it.
That being said, he did manage to find a few women who did not feel sorry for him, did not treat him differently after. They were allowed second dates, third and when one of them got a fourth, Sherlock felt something beginning to grow inside him. He began to hate the gleeful look that John came home with, knowing it was directed at someone else. They did not deserve John, he was far too interesting and intelligent to even know them.
But what made Sherlock so deserving?
He began to wonder after the relationship that had lasted nearly a month crashed and burned and left John moody and sad. Sherlock felt happiness swell inside him once she was gone, and he hated himself for it. He hated that John had managed to dig up undesirable traits such a jealousy and need, and that every single word from his mouth, every single accidental touch left him craving for more. Sherlock did not see much good in himself, excluding his intellect and wit of course. Without those, he would be boring; average. He knew his personality was horrid, and that many people went as far as to hate him for it. His features were nothing special, just another face churned off the genetic assembly line. He had trouble keeping weight on, and the infrequency of meals only accelerated weight loss, leaving him a bony and rather unattractive mess. Or at least, that's what he thought. Back when he was a teenager, he had heard the whispers of girls cooing his name and squeaking out favorable opinions on his looks. But they didn't matter, they were all very plain and very uninteresting.
But John, oh John was not average in the least. His intelligence was above the national average, even if only by a few marks. His face showed lines from stress and war, but his eyes were soft and welcoming, and the color was a deep brown-grey hue that looked phenomenal in moonlight. He was short yes, but the manner in which he spoke and held himself made him stand taller than Sherlock himself. His smile was wide and his laugh robust with joy. He was caring and protective, and so, so perfect.
Why did Sherlock feel as though he was worthy of any of that?
It dawned on him one night, as they headed back from Scotland Yard at close to 1 in the morning. John had fallen asleep on his shoulder, and Sherlock watched as he slept, the ex army doctor's features softening and his face going slack. His hand was so close to Sherlock's and the detective wanted so badly to clasp it and feel the warmth radiate from John. He replayed the day over in his mind, and to see his consciousness become clouded with images of his flatmate, John frowning, John yawning, John smiling as he praised Sherlock's deductions lightly. Then very clearly, a highly irritable and exhausted John going off on Sally and Anderson who had been saying some not so kind things about Sherlock. The detective left Lestrade's office to catch a few of his words in return, such as "prat", "twat" and then a very lovely explanation of why the both of them should fuck off and make sure not to be caught by Anderson's wife. He stormed back over to Sherlock and told him that they were to depart right then. He complied, hailed a cab, then sat in silence as John drifted off and got him in his current situation.
The shorter man awoke as the cab slowed in front of the flat and slowly exited the vehicle as Sherlock paid the driver. The two of them trekked up the stairs and once inside, john managed a quick "goodnight" before going to his room and presumably falling right asleep. Sherlock shed his coat and scarf, then took place in his chair. He went through all the possible reasons once more, then came to terms with the only one that made complete sense
He, Sherlock Holmes, was completely and utterly in love with John Watson.