Blush
John was lying on the soft, emerald green grass with his hands folded underneath his head and his legs crossed at his ankles, his bad leg over the good one. He was looking up at the pale blue sky that was dotted with occasional fluffy, white clouds and sighed contentedly. Eyes half-lidded, he felt the heavy pull of sweet slumber on his lids, making his gaze go glassy and unfocussed. Before he could drift off into sleep, he slowly turned his head over to Sherlock, who lay beside him, curled up like a cat next to a warm fire.
The dark-haired man lay beside John with his eyes closed and his breathing shallow and slow. John could only guess that he was either asleep or somewhere in his Mind Palace. He preferred the former, as Sherlock had barely gotten any sleep since they had been on this week-long vacation, too focused on not having any cases and his experiments he brought with him to even think about something as pointless as sleep.
He smiled as he looked at Sherlock's calm face. He rarely got to see the detective like this; vulnerable, firm mask turned soft, and serene features drawing all the attention to his face.
John thought about the first time he had seem Sherlock like this before. When he confessed. When John confessed his love for Sherlock, telling him how much he needed him, that he didn't want to lose him, that he wanted to be with Sherlock, more than just flatmates or friends. John knew that when he said those things, there was a possibility of their friendship being ruined, that Sherlock would not, could not, return his feelings, his love. But there was also a possibility of the man feeling the same way, too scared to mention it to John, afraid of the same thing happening. And that was enough chance for John.
He had taken that chance and confessed to Sherlock once evening when there was a break in cases and Sherlock was sprawled out across the couch, one arm draped over his eyes and the other splayed across his stomach. His blue robe was crumpled underneath him and his gray pajama shirt and striped pajama trousers were riding up across his chest and legs.
Sherlock sighed deeply, obviously bored by the lack of activity.
"Something wrong?" John asked. He knew what was wrong, but he wanted a reason to talk, anything to break the silence between the two.
"Bored," Sherlock stated in a drawling tone. He raised his arm off his eyes and looked over at John, who was sitting in his armchair with a cup of tea on the table next to him. John was looking at Sherlock pointedly, his eyes completely focused on the man.
"What?" Sherlock asked.
John took a quick breath in and said, "I thought, um, if you weren't—if you felt like it—that we could go out. Dinner. Or something like that. You know. Sine there aren't any cases."
John knew Sherlock was a smart man. He knew that the man could solve arduous cases in seconds when it took others weeks. He was smart.
But John was surprised when Sherlock didn't catch onto his meaning.
"Why? It's not like the cases will happen if we go eat—or if you eat, and I sit there. It would be worse, anyhow. I won't be able to work on my experiments when the urge arises. I'd rather be here where I can work on them when I want," Sherlock said in a matter-of-fact tone.
John hurriedly explained that was not what he meant, "I don't mean for cases, Sherlock. Just… for us. You know. Dinner. With me. Together."
Sherlock sighed, looked over at John, and opened his mouth to say something, but when he caught sight of the earnest hope in the man's eyes, he shut it. He stared at John for a few seconds before speaking, his voice softer and quieter than before, "You—You mean… Dinner."
"Yeah," John said. Now he was catching on.
"With me?" Sherlock asked, clearly blindsided by John's desperate request.
"Yes."
"Why?" he asked thoughtfully.
John puckered his lips, thinking of what to say. "Well, um… Be—Because, well, I… want to have dinner with you."
"Yes, but why me?" Sherlock asked desperately.
"I—well, I," John blushed intensely as the words surfaced in his mind, but didn't make their way out of his mouth. I like you. But it was more than that. It wasn't that he just liked him, like some passing fancy you have for when you get bored. He really liked him. Enough to explore the possibility that he might not be completely straight. He knew he liked Sherlock. And lately he had caught himself having unorthodox thoughts about other men. Nothing quite explicit, but he had a feeling that other straight men wouldn't notice how well this certain man's pants complimented the curve of his arse. He wouldn't think about them sexually, but thoughts like that, coupled with explicit thoughts of Sherlock, made him question his sexuality.
And what better way to find the answer than doing on a date with a man? With Sherlock, no less?
He found the courage to voice his thoughts and lifted his chin, "I—I like you. And I want to have dinner with you," he said solidly.
Sherlock stared at John for a few moment longer, obviously surprised at John's bluntness, but eventually found himself again and said, "A—Alright. Tonight, then?"
"Tonight," John affirmed.
It had been months, almost a year, since then and their relationship had grown into something more than just having dinner with each other.
John smiled to himself as he felt the grass underneath him cool his back, the vivid memory fading into something more obscure. He became aware of movement beside him and slowly blinked his eyes open and turned to look at Sherlock. The man had his head resting on his arms which were folded sideways underneath his head and he was staring at John with a soft expression in his eyes. John propped himself up on his elbows and was about to ask 'What is it' when Sherlock leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to John's lips. It lasted a mere few seconds, but it was enough to convey Sherlock's feelings, and what he had been thinking about during John's flashback. Love. I love you. I want you. I always want you with me, near me, in my heart. I won't let anything hurt you. Nothing will come between us… Do you love me? Please love me back. I need you to love me back. Please.
When their lips parted, John realized he closed his eyes and now opened them to see Sherlock looking at John cautiously. He looked broken, like John had said he didn't love him, like he had said he wanted their relationship to end. Like he had been hurt by John. Sherlock's eyes held a great suspicion of John not loving him back, when he had been so open, so vulnerable, with him.
John smiled and his eyes softened from their concentration. He lifted one hand to Sherlock's face and cupped his cheek. "I love you, Sherlock. I always will."