I don't own anything. Everything Sherlock belongs to Mofftiss, BBC, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I'm just writing.
The alarm blared. Seven A.M. Ugh. John rolled over, stretching, expecting Sherlock to be there, but his arm felt only the cool sheets. Hm. He strained his ears and heard the sound of running water. Stripping down to nothing, he meandered into the bathroom, steam unfurling when he opened the door. He pulled back the curtain and hopped into the shower. "Morning, Sherlock!"
"Good morning, John." Sherlock tried to look unfazed, but he was delighted that John had decided to join him in bathing. A small smirk played across his face. He located the soap and began to cleanse himself. "Anything new? Did Lestrade call?"
John's smile left his face as Lestrade entered the conversation. "No, nothing. I…suppose you're bored, then?" His voice reverberated in the stall, and he reached for the shampoo.
"Not really." Sherlock bit his lip. He shouldn't have said that. Now John will read too much into it. He countered that by saying, "How long are you expecting to be in here?" Then he winced when it sounded cruel.
"Oh." John shifted. "Not long." What was Sherlock's problem? Whenever he said something remotely affectionate or sweet, he always made up for it by being a complete asshole. He pulled the curtain back, stepped out, and wrapped his green towel around his waist angrily.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. John always had to overreact. He turned off the showerhead and left, pulling the curtain closed behind him. He paraded nude to his room, where John sat on the edge of the bed. "What now, John? Have I gone and been inhuman again? Big surprise." He pulled on underwear and grabbed a clean, folded shirt from a pile.
John sighed. "Sherlock, you—you have to just control yourself! That could've been nice." He ruffled his hair in exasperation. "You know how to ruin a good moment. That's all. And you didn't even towel off."
By this time, Sherlock was dressed, and his hair was dripping. "So?"
"So…so nothing, Sherlock." John yanked up a pair of boxers and pulled his robe around him. He walked pointedly around Sherlock and headed into the living room, settling down with his laptop. No sooner had he logged in when he spied a new file. Aha. So Sherlock has been using my laptop. Clicking on the icon, a word document opened. On it were four words and one unmistakable signature.
I love you, John.
-SH
John's mouth opened and closed. Sherlock hadn't expressed this to him yet. They had been moving as slow as molasses recently. He gulped. Had Sherlock left this so John would find it? Did he know John had read it? He stared at it for a while, trying to make sense of it.
Sherlock came in quietly, and slowly, so John started in alarm when he sidled in beside him on the couch. "Did you-?" John asked, pointing a finger at the message surrounded by a sea of empty white space.
Sherlock looked down and away in embarrassment. John smiled. Now was the time to rectify the situation. He grabbed Sherlock's face gently, pulling towards him and bringing his lips to Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock stiffened in surprise, before putting his arms around John and kissing back.
So much for 'slow as molasses'.
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