A short Johnlock drabble. Post-Reichenbach, their relationship could be either established or non-established depending on how you look at it. Just a ficcy describing how John fell in love with his flatmate, and how his flatmate loved him back.
This is a slash pairing. Read at your own discretion. I own nothing of Sherlock.
Sherlock. In John Watson's eyes, there was nothing in the world that could rival such a cold, detached beauty. It was a strange insanity that made all the sense in the world, with a mind so sharp, so keen that only unseen things could escape him. And even then, not very much did.
It had taken a while for the doctor to accept the taller man's interest in him, and even longer for him to begin to return that interest. It would have been a strange time had they been teenagers, but both the men handled their situation calmly, observing all possible outcomes and picking their way to the most favorable one. Which was the two quickly, blindly falling in love.
And now he was gone.
Dead and gone, buried under the ground in a coffin two sizes too small for the lanky man.
With only a letter goodbye in the form of a phone call. A letter goodbye that was full of lies. They had to be lies, there was no other way. John knew Sherlock. Or at least, he thought he did. Heck, he was in love with the man! Surely he would have been able to see any telltale twitches, shifty eyes that signaled that he was lying.
And yet a part of his mind told him that he wasn't so sure. But for now, he would wait. He would wait for his genius to come back.
Sherlock watched his John, watched his John pray for him to be alive. Beg him. It took all his willpower not to rush to his doctor, rush to him and hug him and kiss him and touch him like he had wanted to do for as long as they had met. Even when John protested vainly that he wasn't gay, that he and Sherlock weren't in a relationship, the sleuth could see the little touches, glances, little actions that led Sherlock to believe that there was a possibility that John liked him too.
The detective wasn't all that innocent as some would like to believe. The Woman had taught him of such things, Irene in all her wondrous glory. Indeed, Sherlock had come to like her too, in a completely different way of it. He admired her mind, her analytical deducing. But he never loved her like he loved his John.
So now, now the only one for him was John. John Hamish Watson, who always stayed by his true love's side.