The Glint in John's Eyes

It was an understatement that Sherlock would never cook breakfast. Or lunch. Or dinner. Or anything at all, really. Despite his lack of ability in cooking, he does not eat unless he's borderline dead of disnutrition, even when John is practically throwing every food he finds in their apartment right to Sherlock's face.

That was okay, though. Surprisingly, Sherlock doesn't find it annoying when it's John Watson who's trying to feed him. It was incredibly bothersome when Lestrade tries to convince him to eat, not to mention Mycroft and his not-so-subtle talks about health, among other things ( sometimes he wondered if Mycroft would notice if he smashed his violin in his head all of a sudden, so that he'd finally shut his mouth. He probably would. Pity. ). As if these two weren't enough, Sally Donovan tried to make him eat an apple during their last case, claiming he was 'too bony even for a freak'. Donovan. Sherlock wanted to die.

However, when John came up to him almost begging him to eat at least some biscuits for breakfast, Sherlock couldn't help but to find it a bit amusing, not annoying in the slightest. It made him wonder why. He looked up at John, at his bright eyes staring directly at him, intimidating and resigned, as if he already knew the answer, but figured he 'd try anyway. Maybe he did. Sherlock stared back, slowly reading him - there was a deep concern inside those eyes, oh yes. Sherlock knows he is getting slimmer and John knows it as well, and apparently is more preocuppied about it than Sherlock himself. He brushed it off his mind - it's not as if he's going to be skin and bones in a month. He is still healthy enough to run a few quilometers without the world going black, and it's more than Sherlock would have ever expected.

He saw annoyance there in his eyes too - oh, did he see it. He smirked inwardly. It was a mystery to him as to why John still put himself through this burden of trying to have Sherlock eating. He would get annoyed everyday, and yet he'd still try again the next day - Sherlock doesn't even know why John bothers, really. And yet - yet - there was something about this annoyance that brought up a long-forgotten feeling for Sherlock, called gratitude. When he stopped to think about it, though, it wasn't exactly the annoyance that caused this reaction. It was something… Different. Something he couldn't quite figure out, and it pissed him off to no end.

It was that shine in John's eyes, it has to be. It has to be, because it is the only thing John's stare differs from Lestrade's, or Mycroft's. Isn't it? Or...Sherlock shook his head vehemently, still staring at his flatmate. 'Delete this thought.', he scolded himself, 'How fool can you be, Sherlock? John's much more than Lestrade, or, to hell with family right now, Mycroft. How could I possibly compare them to John?'. He can tell his flatmate is beginning to feel slightly uncomfortably under his stare, but Sherlock noticed that he held their gaze firmly, a lifted eyebrow challenging him. Oh, John.

If Sherlock lifted the corners of his mouth ever so slightly, then he knows nothing about it. Because Sherlock Holmes is a heartless man. A machine. A high- functioning sociopath.

Isn't he?

John's eyes glinted again, inquisitive, and Sherlock snaps back to reality, analysing John once again. Truthfully, he knows he won't come up with an answer, but he refuses to give up without trying again. He spent another 30 seconds looking for anything at all that might have given him a hint, but he found nothing but the same big blue eyes with its bloody shine. He cursed mentally - he'll have to think about it later. And alas, he's been staring at John for long enough - longer than he intended, actually, so it was for the best Sherlock suddenly averted his gaze back to John's laptop screen, changing his focus immediately.

Even though he was sitting comfortably on the sofa with John's laptop in his lap, reading an article about skin pigmentation ( and he was interested - it might never come to be an useful knowledge, but Sherlock liked biology, so he never deleted anything related to the subject. He even had a shelf for it in his Mind Palace ), Sherlock was utterly aware he's plainly ignored John, and he still is. He could practically feel John's gaze burning on his face, but he decided it wasn't worth his attention at the moment - his flatmate could hardly blame him. Lestrade's called him ealier in the morning, asking for help in a case involving clowns, bloodstrains and Teddy bears ( he snorted; what people come up these days. Dull. ), and Mycroft shoved a case in his face as well, demanding payback for the last time Sherlock borrowed his brother's car for a few days and crashed it into a traffic light. And yes, his mind was thinking about those cases while reading that article, albeit a bit slower than usual. He supposed it was because of an unfinished mystery about John's - no. He won't think about it, not now. Later. Later.

He heard John sighs, and then he watched as John left the room with the corner of his eye, relaxing against the sofa. He didn't even notice he was tense - maybe it was the stare. It's ordinary for people to feel awkward, if not a bit distressed, under someone's gaze. Except Sherlock has never felt something like this before. Extraordinary. He considered he could be his own experiment - he needed to know how things like this work.

Shaking his head, Sherlock forced himself to focus on his task. Saving the article on his file, he opened the e-mail Lestrade has sent him with all the data he might need in his investigation. He didn't like this part of being a detective - there were so many more exciting activities he could do to spend his time, and he's reading bloody paperwork instead. Be that as it may; he supposed it was necessary, as much as he hated all this burocracy. Not much of a choice right now though, so Sherlock immersed himself into the case.

After a couple of minutes, a distracted hand found a chocolate biscuit that was resting on a plate beside him and grabbed it. Unsconsciously, Sherlock opened his mouth, and the biscuit was over within 40 seconds.

He did it again, after some time. And then again.

.-.

It was already afternoon when John came back to the living room, and Sherlock was pretty much in the same position since John left in the morning. He suspected Sherlock didn't even acknowledge his presence yet. John warned him he was going out to have lunch and asked his flatmate if he'd like him to bring some food to him - although he already knew the answer - and bloody Sherlock didn't even bother to look at him, much less answer him. Oh, well. Maybe he should just stop, really. It was a waste of breath.

So John went out, had lunch at Angelo's ( and had a nice chat with the owner, so he had a great time ) and bought some chinese for Sherlock in case he's hungry by the afternoon. The moment he stepped inside their flat though, he saw something.. odd, to say the least : against the sofa and in an awkward position, was a sleeping Sherlock Holmes. John blinked again to see if his mind wasn't playing a trick on him, because he couldn't believe his eyes. But it was real.

Wasting no time, John picked up his phone ( and muted it, thank God he remembered to mute it ) and silently approached his sleeping flatmate, doing his best not to wake him. When he was at a safe but perfect distance, he angled his phone and took a photo of Sherlock, the grin in his face uncontainable.

Oh, was he going to print it. John looked at his phone screen and stared at the photo, wondering how he'll manage to frame it and locate it somewhere Sherlock wouldn't find. Because John was fairly sure Sherlock will be furious if he ever finds out he's been captured in what he thinks of "moment of weakness". Really, John didn't have a hope of ever fully understand this man.

Shoving the phone into his pockets, he turned to face the sleeping figure next to him. Sherlock looked - well, he looked adorable in John's eyes. With his eyes heavily closed, head tilted to the right and mouth partially opened, Sherlock's face was so light, so peaceful, John stared in wonder. He averted his stare from his face and made a quick observation of the situation instead.

Sherlock was still with his laptop on his lap, so he must've fallen asleep unintentionally ( well, that much was obvious ). He inspectioned his clothes and his skin, looking for injuries ( you never know what could have happened when your flatmate collects such a fair amount of enemies ) and sighed in relief when he found none.

He was about to go back to his room when he spotted a plate nearby Sherlock's hip lying on the sofa. It was the plate with chocolate biscuits he'd offered in the morning, he realised, bewildered.

The plate was empty.

John carefully picked up the plate and placed it on the kitchen's table. Looking at his mad flatmate, John finally took pity on him and pick up the laptop, settling Sherlock in a more comfortable position. And with a sigh, John covered the man with a blanket, since he never bothered to care about his well-being. Only then he went to his room, shaking his head with a fond smile on his face.

x.x

Sherlock hated sleeping.

He woke up by the end of the afternoon, meaning he spent precious hours of his day doing nothing but sleeping. To say he was moody is an understatement. Still, it won't do any good if he starts sulking, because right now Shelock has things to do - there were two cases waiting for him, and he was not one to keep a case waiting. He had solved one of them in his sleep already, anyway. Sometimes having a Mind Palace was quite useful.

He jolted awake, his hands flying to the laptop on his lap, ready to search for more data about Mycroft's case - but he found none. Confused, he blinked and slowly started to rise from the couch. When had he laid down? As far as he remembered, Sherlock fell asleep in the same position he was in the morning, sitting on the couch with John's laptop. He was also warmer than he should, he realised. He was wrapped up in one of his blankets, and Sherlock could only stare at it, his mind blank for one second for a change. Then he remembered.

John.

"I have a flatmate", he reminded himself. A cheesy, ordinary, short-tempered, caring flatmate, who was probably the responsible for the blanket. And the laptop. Blinking hard, Sherlock rose his head and looked around their living room - and found John in the kitchen, cooking something that smelled like fish and chips, humming whatever popular song it was in his mind these days. Annoyed, Sherlock suddenly threw the blanket away and got on his feet, his vision going black for a moment.

Oh well. Low pressure. Salt it is then.

He was already walking to the kitchen, vision slightly foggy, when he was met with a pair of stern blue eyes, examining him. He rolled his eyes, despite the fogginess.

"Really, John. It's bad enough you let me sleep for hours, could you just get out of my way? I need -"

"-salt, yes, I gathered that much." John interrupted. Then his eyes darkened, examining Sherlock more intently. "You currently have low pressure, mostly due to the fact that you haven't been eating properly for days, if not months. Your body needs energy, but even sleeping for four hours isn't nearly enough, you should have realised that by now. You need to eat or else you will end up in the hospital within a month, so you better sit down right now and wait five minutes, and then you'll eat fish. I don't want to hear complaints, understood?"

"Really John, you're overreacting. I just need some salt." Sherlock stated, his voice flat. He had been avoiding John's gaze deliberately with bored eyes, looking behind the man for their salt pot when he felt a strong grip on his arm. Sherlock looked down, annoyed, and met John's gaze with his own.

And then his mind suddenly remembered he had another unsolved mystery. John was staring at him with furious, annoyed blue eyes, but Sherlock saw it nonetheless. There it was again, that curious glint in his flatmate's eyes and Sherlock lost himself in it all over again. He knew John was saying something - babbling about how he's annoyed with him, probably. Predictable - but he really didn't give a damn.

It was downright uncommon, he was sure. He'd have noticed if a glint of this sort was present in many pairs of eyes, but it wasn't and Sherlock was truly puzzled about it. Was it a reflection of some light bulb they might have in their flat? No, he'd have noticed that too. Really though, what could he have missed? There must be something he's ignored, there must b-

He felt a hand on his cheek, and his focus snapped back to John, the actual John who's standing right in front of him. John's hand was warm, he noticed. And it was also caressing his cheek, he realised, astonished. Sherlock's eyes widened ever so slightly, but John noticed anyway - of course he did, when did he not? - and smiled a small smile to Sherlock.

John's eyes weren't stressed as before. In fact, they expressed something similar to... affection?

Sherlock was lost. He didn't know to deal with this, he didn't understand it. He doesn't like not knowing, he never did. So Sherlock did the only thing he could at the moment, with his mind working slowlier than ever.

He went straight to his room. He needed to think.

Behind him, John simply watched his friend go, resigned. He knew he shouldn't have displayed such an amount of emotion to Sherlock of all people, but he couldn't help it. He was looking at John the same way he looks at a new case, challeging eyes full of wonder and determination, and John just couldn't take it.

Oh, he knew why his heart raced when Sherlock's attention returned to him, when his eyes widened at the feeling of his hand. He knew exactly why, and sometimes he did blame himself for letting that happen. He was completely aware of what he was getting into when he first stepped inside their flat, but still. In his defense, John didn't notice he was falling until he fell very deep, almost reaching the bottom but never really getting there. The next thing he knows, he had fallen for his flatmate. Hard.

It's a damn good thing he's not in denial anymore, or else he would have been panicking. Instead, John just relished in the memory of Sherlock's surprised expression, and let himself daydream and pretend it was all a façade, that Sherlock actually had buried feelings for him just as he did.

John laughed. God, he felt he was back in his teens, all sappy and dreamer. Smiling a bit, John returned to cooking fish. It didn't really matter, after all - Sherlock was still living with him, was still his best friend and that's all he cares about.

'Well, not really' John thought, frowning at the fish. Sherlock ended up not eating his fish. Bastard.

x.x

Inside his room, Sherlock was sitting upright in his bed, his mind racing. He could still feel the warmth of John's hand on his cheek, and it made him blush for some reason. Curious, Sherlock brought his hand to his face, finger tracing the area where a strong hand was a few minutes ago. It sent a funny felling to his stomach and it was all so odd. His body wasn't usually this sensitive, and though he knew something about romance - yes, he did aknowledged that what happened was awfully suggestive of romance. It took him three seconds to figure that out - he didn't think he was ever going to truly experience it. He had never bothered to, if he were honest to himself. It's such a waste of time.

But was he really? He had all the evidences, true ( and it did bothered him indeed. He believed he was safe from this inconvenience, since society was so boring, but apparently he wasn't. Mycroft would never let him live down. ) but he couldn't quite bring himself to believe it.

Sherlock faced the fact: he is in love with John, as unfortunate as it is. He wants to be sulking, he really wants, but there are more urgent things to think about. He could sulk later, he decided.

Why did he fall in love with John? Why him, specifically? How did it happen? How could he miss it?

'Well', Sherlock mused, 'John is quite extraordinary, in a way.' He truly was - at least he could comfort himself he didn't fall for some ordinary person. Had it had happened, he'd never forgive his traitorous hormones - no wonder it's the brain that does all the thinking. Had it been the hormones the world would be a disaster.

Sherlock shook his head. He was distracting himself, he needed to focus. So he fell in love with him, all good. It's done already, there's nothing he can do about it at the moment. But he knows a bit about romance, and he knows there should be some memory of John he was rather fond of, even if he didn't realise it. There had to be something about him that attracted him somehow. He just had to figure out what.

He laid down on his bed, facing the ceiling, and entered his Mind Palace. He overlooked all the memories they shared, every moment he spent with John during one whole year and he understood. Not completely, but he can see clearly now - how did he not notice it happening?

And then he felt a rush of affection towards John while experiencing all their adventures again, his eyes following his every move, his mind capturing little events that showed how much John cared about him, how he had changed his life so wildly and yet he didn't think it was bothersome at all. He remembered how he didn't mind John trying to feed him because it was John, and it meant he was taking care of him.

He recalled this morning, when he offered chocolate biscuits to him and didn't leave when Sherlock didn't answer him at all. He recalled waking up warm and comfortable, and knew it was John who had bothered to care after him. He remembered his hand, his warm and big hand in his cheek so tender and soft and the memory did funny things to his stomach, heart clenching in affection.

He had never felt this way - it was overwhelming as well as terrifying. He accepted he's in love, yes. Sherlock isn't a man that neglects his feelings, let alone science ( yes, he measured his hormone levels, just to be sure). What he doesn't know is what he's going to do next.

Maybe talking would be good? John liked him to be honest about everything, didn't he? Plus, Sherlock knows his flatmate has feelings towards him, it was obvious after some months. He just didn't realise it was to this extent.

Actually, Sherlock doesn't really know if it's a reciprocated feeling. He might as well lose his only friend - and his heart clenched again, though for a whole different reason now. He couldn't lose John - not now nor ever.

However, Sherlock isn't a man afraid of loneliness. Quite the contrary. Furthermore, he was a Holmes - and a Holmes always risk something. Life'd be boring otherwise.

With resolute eyes, he got up.

x.x

John is cooking a dessert now - which is uncommon by itself. However, now that Sherlock got his feelings cleared and settled into place, he caught himself admiring his back and watched him cooking intently. With his injured arm his movement was limited, but he had never once complained about it - which is one of oh-so-many things Sherlock lov -liked - about him. He started walking forward, careful not to make any noise. He was about to risk everything he's got, so he might as well do it properly.

Quietly, Sherlock approached John from behind and breathed into his ear, wrapping his arms around his waist. He felt John's body stiffen, and rubbed his sides with his thumb, trying to soothe him and lessen the shock John's probably having.

"I understand now." was all he managed to whisper, his voice so low he didn't even recognise it as his own. Slowly, he let his primal instincts lead him for once, and he kissed John's neck, not missing the gasp John let out. He didn't know exactly what he was doing, but it felt good and he might have taken a look at those cheesy movies John liked to watch every now and then, so he had some background. Hopefully.

Suddenly, John turns around to face him and Sherlock lost himself hopelessly in blue eyes again. He has a feeling he's going to lose himself everyday if this continue, so he's hoping fervently it's just because everything's new to him. John, on the other hand, seemed to be analysing Sherlock, eyes franctic and desperate. He didn't - couldn't - be another experiment for Sherlock, not when it involved his feelings.

Sherlock must have sensed his desperation, or maybe he just felt John's heartbeat quicken. Or perhaps he just read John like an open book as he always does - and John hoped he did, because he'd very much appreciate an explanation while he's still breathing, thank you. Sherlock's arms didn't leave John's waist and his thumbs were still soothing him and his face was so close and all this was messing up John's feelings, his heart pulsing so hard he thought he might have a heart attack if Sherlock kept looking at him with his eyes brighter than he has ever seen.

"I... I understand now. I don't know how I managed to miss it, but apparently I did, and I realised the depth of it only moments ago. I do believe in science, and my hormones level could not fool me. I just do hope you'll either reciprocate or at least understand me. I don't want to pretend this isn't happening and I don't want things to be embarrassing later, but you're important to The Work and you deserve to know. I realise that if you don't fell the -"

John didn't need to hear more, really, so he stood on his tiptoes and kissed Sherlock full on the lips, like he had wanted to do for months now, eyes fluttering closed as he felt the softness of his mouth. It was a chaste kiss, enough to shut him up. John drew back, a smile breaking into his face when he looked up to face Sherlock. His expression was very close to awe, and John took his time to appreciate it - God knew how rare moments like these were, so John had learned to enjoy them.

Then Sherlock smiled at him, actually smiled, and John's world spinned happily on its axis. The next thing he knows, Sherlock is pressing him against their stand, his mouth prying John's open, his hands caressing and groping everywhere. John laughed into their kiss and lift his hands to Sherlock's neck, rubbing gently at the skin, playing lightly with his curly hair. Sherlock moaned in response, grinding their hips together which earned a gasp from both of them. John barely registered what Sherlock was muttering, only catching random words like "mine" "you're brilliant" "John", and he could only nod, his mind too busy, deliriously happy to care.

"John" Sherlock murmured between kisses, "how come you've got a glint in your eyes?". John hummed in responsed, his mind not really following the conversation, but he forced himself to focus a bit - then he realised the reason why Sherlock stared at him strangely twice in one day. He chuckled a bit, breaking the kiss. "Do try to read romantic novels, Sherlock. It's all about love" and he kissed Sherlock again, not giving him the time to proccess what he's just said.

They eventually separated, both staring at each other while trying to catch their breath. Sherlock's eyes were dark with lust, and John supposed his weren't so different. Nonetheless, he had to say something. Things aren't simple like that.

"You know we're still going to talk about this, don't you?" he asked, lifting one eyebrow. Sherlock nodded, as if he was already expecting him to say something like that, but his eyes darkened and he looked straight into John's eyes. "Later?" he said, his baritone sending thrills to John's spine. "Yeah, later."

Then Sherlock was moving towards him again, but John blocked him. With big puppy eyes, Sherlock looked at John with an expression that made him want to laugh. Instead, he simply led Sherlock to the chair, forcing him to take a sit. With amused eyes but a serious face, John handed him his meal, fish and chips still warm from earlier and carefully placed on a plate John had made for Sherlock.

Sherlock stared at him with horror and betrayal, and John did his best not to laugh at him.

"Eat it."