Chapter 1
BANG.
The sound resonated up into John Watson's room upstairs. He let out a resigned sigh and stood up, stumbling a few steps from tiredness. He shook himself awake and jogged down the stairs to the living room. Another loud bang sounded, and John opened the door with a huff. He found Sherlock Holmes standing on his couch, pointing a nice revolver at a picture pinned to the opposite wall. He didn't even look at John before firing another shot directly into the picture's forehead.
"Sherlock!" John yelled, storming over to his flatmate and attempting to grab the heavy gun from the slender fingers.
"John, let go, I need this for an experiment!" Sherlock grunted, fighting back the grabbing hands. Another shot fired while they were fighting over the gun, and the recoil of the '44 Magnum sent them toppling onto the couch, John on top of Sherlock. There was a moment of silence, and John looked down at Sherlock, who looked back up at him. John admired for a moment the way that the taller man's curls fell over his forehead, and how impossibly sharp his cheekbones were. He snapped back to reality and quickly snatched the gun, jumping off Sherlock, who let out a whine of disapproval.
"I do need that you know," he said. John clicked his tongue.
"I'll not have you firing into the walls! You know how Mrs Hudson hates it, and where in London did you manage to find this?" John lectured, looking over the lovely revolver before locking it in a drawer with two more firearms. "That's the third time this month Sherlock! Hasn't Lestrade given you any more cases?"
Sherlock flipped over to lie on his side facing the wall. "They're all so BORING, John! So simple that Lestrade could figure them out!" he sighed melodramatically.
John sighed back and brought a hand up to massage his temple. "Oh, John," Sherlock said, as if just remembering something.
"Mm-mm?" John replied. Sherlock flipped himself over to face John.
"Could you put on some pants?" Sherlock smiled as a blush crept over John's face. The army doctor looked down to the realisation he was only wearing his boxers. He excused himself and walked upstairs.
Upon reaching his bedroom, John locked the door behind him and flopped down onto the bed. Stupid John, he thought, Stupid, stupid John. He smacked the palm of his hand against his head and sighed. Forgetting his pants any other time would have been a laughable thing, but he'd tackled Sherlock. They'd fallen onto the couch. John was on top of Sherlock. John had stayed down longer than necessary.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, John thought, He could have found out.
That was a stupid thought in itself. John knew that Sherlock knew. He was Sherlock bloody Holmes for god sake. There was no way he hadn't noticed John's feelings for him. And if he hadn't before, then he'd definitely know now.
After a few moments, John finally stood and got dressed and put on a pair of shoes. He shook off any remaining embarrassment and walked downstairs to the kitchen. Sherlock was nowhere to be found, and John decided to make himself a cup of tea. He leaned against the bench and exhaled loudly. Sherlock's equipment was still set up on the kitchen table, and there was a jar of what seemed to be teeth sitting on top of the refrigerator. The ex-army doctor smiled a little at them. John often thought that Sherlock's weird habits were quite endearing. Body parts in the fridge, eyeballs in the microwave, it was never as disgusting as he often expressed. He'd seen worse in his time, anyway.
The kettle let out a whistle, and John turned back around to finish making his tea. His favourite thing to think about was the smile that would creep onto his friend's face whenever he'd successfully solved a big case.
There was no doubt about it; Ex-Army doctor John H. Watson was completely infatuated with one Sherlock Holmes. He had been for about six months. And so far he'd hidden it well, though he had this constant fear that despite this, the detective knew. Which was a highly likely situation, when you think about it.
John laughed a little, and poured some milk into his cup. "I'll have one too, if you're still making one," a voice behind him said. John spun around to find the tall man standing in the doorway to the hallway, looking at him. John cleared his throat.
"What would you ah, what would you like?" he asked. Sherlock yawned.
"Earl grey, one sugar. Do we have any left?" Sherlock replied. John turned around and opened the cupboard. He peered inside and pulled out a small box.
"We're out, I'm afraid. We've got Irish Breakfast if you like tha-oh!" John turned around to find his friend standing a mere two feet from him, peering into his eyes as if looking for something. John stood stock still and looked everywhere but at Sherlock.
"Ahh, what are you doing?" he asked. Sherlock looked a little closer.
"Something is wrong." He said, startling John, who side stepped away from the situation.
"Nope, not at all. What makes you say that?" John evaded. Sherlock stepped over to where John was now standing and looked the smaller man over.
"Hmm, perhaps not wrong. No. Something is right. Yes. That's it. But what?" Sherlock said, asking himself.
John turned around and started making Sherlock's tea. He knew the detective was right behind him, looking at him, making deductions. "Nothing in particular, I'm just in a good mood. It's a lovely day outside, you know? I might go for a walk later. You should too!" he replied, curving the conversation.
Sherlock pressed on. "You were giggling when I walked in. Your pupils have dilated slightly and you are obviously trying to deter me from asking about it. You are also blushing," The tall man indicated.
John's cheeks went even redder. Sherlock knew. There was no way he didn't. "I wasn't giggling, Sherlock. I was having a bit of a laugh to myself. How long were you even standing there? And how do you know if I'm blushing? You can't even see my face!" John pressed.
This made Sherlock smirk. "It's my kitchen too, so that doesn't matter. And I know you're blushing, because your neck is red too, just like whenever you're around those silly women you always seem to want to da- Oh!"
Sherlock's face held the same expression it usually had whenever he solved a nice murder. He stepped back and John turned around to face a knowing look.
"What?" he questioned, his voice laced with nervousness.
"You're in love. It's quite obvious. But this is different. No, not like the stupid little affections you have had before. No, you are completely in love. So, the question is, who is it? It's not another boring teacher is it?" Sherlock revealed his hypothesis, and John's breath hitched for a moment. His face was redder than ever and having Sherlock looking at him, deducing everything wasn't helping.
"I'm not in love, Sherlock. Don't be daft!" John stammered, to no prevail. Sherlock smiled wider.
"Well, the evidence is stacked well against your claims, John. I shall have to guess," Sherlock dictated.
"So, considering this is not just a fondness, it must be somebody you converse with on a regular basis. You normal people do take a lot of time to fall in love. It's quite melodramatic, really. Now, who would you see on a regular basis? Ooh, is it Molly? No. It is obviously platonic between you two".
John swallowed as Sherlock took to deducing. It wouldn't be such a problem, except that Sherlock had made it known within their first day of even knowing each other that he wasn't interested in anything. And he'd spent so long trying to prove he wasn't gay.
"Hmmm, it's not any of the women you've previously dated. What other women do you see on a regular basis? Not Donovan. Or perhaps it's not a woman at all. Seems much more likely, considering the amount of women you see on a daily basis compared to men. Your pupils are now fully dilated and you are most certainly blushing. It is a man," Sherlock deduced, grinning at John, who was trying to keep his cool.
If Sherlock were to find out, well, he'd never hear the end of it. And he didn't doubt that the whole of Scotland Yard would end up finding out if Sherlock did.
"It's a patient!" John said quickly. It was futile to lie to such an intelligent man, but it was worth a shot.
Sherlock stopped for a moment. He looked at John, curious. "Hmm?"
"She's a patient, from the clinic. I, uh didn't say anything because it's against the clinic's policy," John lied through his teeth, hoping he was being convincing enough.
A moment of silence followed, and Sherlock stood up straight, fixing his jacket. "Well, you had better not tell anybody then, could be bad," he said, walking out of the kitchen to sit on the couch. John sighed. He'd dodged a bullet there. But he couldn't help but notice that Sherlock seemed a little disappointed. Probably because he didn't get to deduce truth, John thought.
He looked back to the tea and frowned as he realised both cups were stone cold. He tipped them down the sink and walked out to the living room, grabbing his jacket and opening the front door.
"Where are you going?" Sherlock said, not bothering to look up. John walked out the door and called out to his friend, "For that walk I mentioned before," before closing the door behind him, leaving Sherlock in silence.