Really, how stupid could you get? Falling in love with Sherlock Holmes, of all people, and then consenting to be in a fake relationship with him for a case? John Watson, you have dug yourself into a deep hole.
It was a quarter past two and John was still lying awake, squeezed uncomfortably into Sherlock's bed and lamenting his naiveness. Really, what made him think that he could even pretend to be in a fake relationship with Sherlock and come out of it unscathed?
Of course, he knew the reason why. He had been painfully in love with Sherlock since the case with Irene and when Sherlock suggested they faked a relationship for a case, he jumped on the suggestion eagerly, thinking that even if it was simply for a short while, even if none of it was real, Sherlock would be his.
Naturally, since it was only for show, they only had to keep up the pretense while they were out in public. Once they were out of the public eye, in the safety of 221B, they would resume being friends. It was torture for John and he knew it.
Take now, for example. John was squeezed uncomfortably into Sherlock's bed because Sherlock had insisted that if someone was to enter 221B and find that they were sleeping in separate beds, people would be more likely to doubt their authenticity of their relationship.
Every night, John felt like simply ignoring Sherlock's demand and resume sleeping in his own bed. It would be so much easier for him. Being forced to sleep, knowing that Sherlock was merely a few inches away but not being able to touch was killing him. John could tell it wasn't long before he was going to open his mouth or do something stupid and reveal to Sherlock that he was in love with him.
He could already imagine the response. Sherlock's nose would wrinkle in disgust and he would shake his head pityingly. He would give John the same condescending brush off he had given at the very start. "I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest…"
Screw this, John thought, as he carefully scooted himself away from the sleeping Sherlock, I can't do this anymore. I'm going to drive myself mad. He tried to leave as quietly as possible, but as he reached the door, there was the soft sound of rustling cloth. "John?" came the low baritone, muffled from sleep.
He debated pretending that he didn't hear Sherlock and leaving but then decided against it. "Go back to sleep, Sherlock," he said instead. He wanted to say more, but he wasn't sure he could control his own mouth and not blurt out his secret. He faced the door resolutely and opened it, slipping out in the moonlit living room.
"Where are you going?" he heard as he shut the door behind him. John thought he heard an underlying current of hurt in the question but ignored it. Obviously, it was what he had convinced himself he heard, a result of his fruitless wishes that Sherlock loved him back.
He shook his head, he was in his forties for God's sake! And here he is, a desperate old man, pining over someone he couldn't have. Pathetic. Dragging his feet, he made his way back into his bedroom, fighting down the feeling of loneliness as he prepared himself to sleep alone in the drafty room upstairs.