A/N: Because I wanted more ace!Sherlock and hetero!John lovin'. And I wanted to try writing as John in his blog.

The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Login/Sign out

New private entry (enter text):

Okay, I think, in order to help process this, I need to write it. But I really rather not post it for everyone to see; now that I've figured out how to make private entries, I've been using them to write out my dreams and any personal things. Things too personal and irrelevant to cases and the major events in my life to bother anyone else with, because they don't need to know. It's just little stuff about me that I've taken the habit to writing out in order to think it through. This is probably my, what, fifth entry like this? I haven't needed to use the feature much.

However.

Sherlock has been especially pensive the past few days. And just yesterday I finally found out why. And it's taken me until this evening to grasp it. It was… singularly the oddest thing Sherlock has done to date.

I was folding laundry, incidentally, and humming along with the radio when he suddenly bolted up from the sofa and stood in front of me. Like always between cases, he stayed in his loungewear all day, dressing gown and pyjamas and all, and I don't think he had showered. His hair was more unruly than usual, and a little flat in back from lying on the sofa.

"What's the matter?" I asked him, finishing folding a lounge shirt of his and setting it aside in his pile of clothes. He hadn't spoken more than two words to me for three days straight, so it was a wonder he was suddenly staring me down, his eyes light blue-gray, ever-changing colour, his expression utterly sound.

"I have thought about it thoroughly."

"Yes? Thought about what?" I humoured him, smiling slightly as I continued folding; a pair of trousers this time, lying them flat and smoothing them out.

"It is the only explanation," Sherlock went on, his words very precise, as if he'd rehearsed them. He probably had, in retrospect; it would account for some of the time spend being silent.

"I've really no clue what you're getting to," I said. I glanced up at him, and he placed his hands over mine, lying them flat on the desk. I blinked down at them before looking up at him questioningly. "Sherlock?" I ventured warily.

"I love you," he declared. He lifted his hands from mine, but kept his gaze pinned to my face. "I have gone over the facts, the evidence, and the meaning behind our relationship, my reactions to you and things you do, and the strange thing I catch myself doing when you aren't looking, such as watching the way your eyelashes flutter from a certain perspective as you read the newspaper. And the only conclusion that covers all the bases of the collective information is that I must be in love with you, John."

I stare at him, probably in disbelief, but honestly, at the time, I couldn't feel my face. I was too centered on the notion that Sherlock can love someone, and oh, what do you know, he has put that affection and interest on me. I didn't think he felt things that way. He surely was interested in some way in Irene Adler, but it wasn't love, and I knew that. So what did this mean, then?

I shook my head at him and breathed out a shaky laugh. "Come off it, Sherlock; you're having one on me, aren't you? Is this one of your social experiments?"

He actually looked hurt by that. His eyes flickered and his lips formed a line. "No. I would not joke about something as out of my league as this, John. I love you. It is a fact I can no longer ignore."

I felt heat scorch along my neck, to my ears, and across my nose. The sincere way he said it, the way he was looking at me; he was being as open and honest as I have ever seen him. Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration; he's been honest to me before about things. Other things. Different things. But not quite like this. He was showing me a vulnerability, which must have been extremely difficult for him, considering his personality. He was being blunt about it, acting like it didn't intimidate him, but I could tell it did by the way leaned back and took on a closed pose, his hands on his hips and his chin lifted slightly.

"Well? Thoughts?" Sherlock asked of me. "Quit stalling like a brat at a spelling bee and say something."

I forced myself to breathe in and out, slowly. "Um, that's… Well, it's flattering, Sherlock, a-and I'm glad you care about me, but… you do know I'm not gay, right? I've said it enough."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't be stupid, John. I'm not propositioning you to engage in sexual relations with me. I'm trying to do that thing people like to do – express their feelings, or whatever. I thought you might appreciate it instead of my acting on it without warning or your consent."

"Oh. Erm. Thank you for that," I corrected weakly. I cleared my throat. "So you didn't mean…" and I drifted off, unable to complete the idea, let alone the sentence.

"No," Sherlock retorted, waving it aside with a hand. "You know that I don't care for sex. It's a waste of time and energy, is utterly unhygienic, and rots one's brain into incoherent garbage during and for much the time after the act of it. I'm not asking that of you, John. I merely –" He stopped short and pressed his index finger to his lips as he sighed out through his nose agitatedly. He then turned away dejectedly, muttering, "Never mind. Forget I said anything at all. I'm having a shower."

I didn't like how he darted out of the room, leaving me and an unfinished load of laundry in the static-clouded noise of the radio. I moved to shut it off and looked after where he had gone. I heard the pipes squeak on and the water in the shower distantly pelt the floor of the stall.

Dismayed, I finished my chore and waited for Sherlock to exit the bathroom. Frankly, I didn't know what he expected, informing me of something like that, that he has feelings for me. What did he want? Surely something, right? No one says, "I love you" or "I'm in love with you" to someone else without wanting to date. It's a romance thing. Lust and love, sex and affection. They go hand in hand. And if Sherlock loves me but doesn't want sex, then what does he want?

Because he would know not to say it unless it gave him something in return. Sherlock is all about gain. He wouldn't declare something if he knew it was a moot point. Which was why I was so dumbstruck: I didn't understand his logic in working it all out only to tell me to forget about it.

When he emerged, I heard him slam his door, hiding out in his bedroom. But I didn't stand for it. I gathered up a bit of courage – it takes some special amount of it to face one's flatmate on a personal issue like this, I have to say – and knocked on his door. When he didn't answer, I barged in.

Sherlock was curled up in a bundle of sheets on his bed. There was no use digging for him in all that; he was fully cocooned. So not to risk tangling him further or yanking until he fell off the bed (although I was tempted to do the latter, let me tell you), I sat down on his bed, leaning against the curve of his spine swathed in blankets, and talked it out.

"How do you think I feel right now?" I asked him.

His reply was muffled, but intelligible. "I knew the outcome would be one of the following: disgust, acceptance, embarrassment, reciprocation, or annoyance. Possibly even a combination. But judging by your tone just now as well as the blush you displayed when I confirmed it was not a joke, I am leaning toward 'embarrassment' and an outcome I didn't prepare for, but should have: oh-this-is-another-one-of-Sherlock's-quirks-that-I-must-take-in-stride. Which does not count as acceptance, in case you were wondering. It falls more into the category of tolerance, like your reaction to body parts in the refrigerator."

I laughed quietly and patted his hip, which was easier to reach. "Wrong."

"Wrong?" he exclaimed, leaping up, the covers being torn away from his head. His hair hadn't been toweled off properly, and frizzed and hung in odd places, dryer on the side he was laying on and wetter on the opposite side, and his part was skewed, putting hair in his face. I smiled a little more, the way I do when he gets childish. "I am not wrong! –Why are you grinning at me like that? John!" he cautioned irritably, but I only chuckled again.

"I got a little scared, to be honest; no one's really said that to me and meant it the way you did. And yeah, embarrassed because it's a bloke saying it to me. I was really confused, too; I didn't think you would feel that way about anything except your work. You even told me so, the night we became flatmates."

"That was before I fell in love with you," he argued. "I have since then recalculated, and now regard you just as highly as my work. You are parallel to it, part of it, and therefore, not a distraction from it, despite how I feel for you," Sherlock clarified. He narrowed his eyes. "I didn't factor in fear or surprise, and it's not a confusing matter in my opinion, but what of the rest of it, then? It still doesn't account for how I'm wrong."

"You're wrong because you don't think I feel the same way about you," I told him quietly. This is where things got out of hand, and why I'm writing this (basically to myself, unless Sherlock or Mycroft find a way to hack into the user-private side of my blog, in which case, I'd rather not know they know, because that is a whole level of humiliation I'd like not to face or have used against me). I didn't think I would say that. I didn't even think I was in denial until Miss bloody-fucking Adler brought it up to me. So I've known, since the whole spiel with her, that I love Sherlock, but I in no way ever planned to tell him or act on it. It was just… something about myself I had to deal with, shove down, because I thought he would scoff about sentiment if I said anything to him.

Needless to say, I was – am – pleasantly surprised.

Which was, in fact, the expression he gave me next: that of sheer happiness he didn't see coming. He smiled at me in a small way that usually came with solving a particularly complex (or challenging, although he'd never admit that it had been difficult at all for him) puzzle.

"Is that so?" he quipped, and shuffled out of his covers more to turn and face me better. His amusement left him as he pondered, "What do we do about it? This isn't my area, you know. Relationships. The most successful one I've ever had has been being your friend. Even as a flatmate I'm not the most ideal, I know. And the romantic relationships I've had in the past, during my years at Uni, haven't lasted longer than a week because either I couldn't stand the other person's stupidity or they couldn't stand my… general disposition. And once or twice, simply didn't like that I refused to have sex with them."

"I've gathered as much about you," I murmured. "I actually thought you had never been with anyone before at all, since no one could remember you ever being with anybody as long as they've known you. Which," I snickered, "Could be why they thought we were dating and made so many jokes? You… well, you don't have many friends. Or acquaintances. So when I came along, I guess it must have looked… the way it did to them," I worked out on the spot. Sherlock joined me in a chuckle over it, most likely because he realised that the first time it was brought into question. Clearing my throat, I told him firmly, "Anyway, my point is, I'm don't think that will happen to us. We've lasted this long as mates, haven't we? So we're bound to make a good couple, I think. Just… a non-sexual one. Which is fine, by the way. I don't want to… to do that with you. And you don't seem to want it, either, which is good," I said with a relieved smile. But my smile falls as I realise with a wince, "I might need sex sometimes, though, Sherlock. With women. –But I won't date of them; just a one-night stand here or there is all I mean. Is that okay with you?"

Sherlock shrugs. "As long as I know you love me, I hardly care. I understand the carnal urges ordinary people have; I ignore my own if they come to pass, but it's not so easy for others. So it's fine if you do that. You'll be committed to me otherwise, and that's all I want."

"So it's alright, then? We can try this? This… thing between us?"

"This love-and-dating thing," Sherlock mused, "Yes, we can try it."

"Good," I said gleefully. "Let's start with your hair first," I teased. "It will dry oddly, sticking up at all ends unless you towel it off better and comb through it."

So I did that for him. I sat behind him on his bed and he hunched down for me, and I finished rubbing dry his hair and ran the comb through it until it was orderly. Or as orderly as Sherlock's hair can get.

And then I felt like rubbing his shoulders, and he let me. And then he asked for my hand, and I gave it to him, and he kissed it. It was otherworldly, seeing him press his lips to my fingers, feeling the warmth and smoothness of them on my hand. I didn't know he could be affectionate. He disregarded personal space on a daily basis because he lacked boundaries with people (he didn't care about them), but I didn't realise that he could be lonely, could crave affection.

After that, I left him to sleep and I put away out laundry. He looked tired; he had been mostly awake for three days, after all. I don't know if and when he got any sleep during that time, so I let him rest.

And today, earlier, when he woke up, he came into the kitchen, asking for coffee as usual. When I handed it to him, however, he thanked me with a peck on the cheek. It was… nice. I didn't think it could feel so nice.

And later today, he came up beside me on the sofa and snuggled into my side while I watched the telly. He didn't say anything, just held my arm and dug one foot under my thigh and pressed his head into my good shoulder. And that was that.

Right now, as I'm tying slowly but furiously away, he's watching me between pages in a book as he sits in his chair. I think I'll ask him out. See if he wants to go get dinner tonight, maybe go for a walk or something, a real date that normal people take. (If left to him, all our visits to crime scenes would count as a date because that's fun for him, and a little bit for me as well, and according to the definition I gave him once in our early months together, it would be a "date" to inspect a dead body or someone's ransacked flat for clues.)

And… huh. That's about it for right now. There's not much more to say, other than the fact that I get the feeling, in a few weeks, we'll be at the point where we might kiss or sleep in the same bed or something, but aren't likely to ever have sex, because I'm really not like that, and neither is he, but we will still probably partake in everything else. I'd like to, anyway.

I can imagine some of it now: lazy snogging on the sofa, no feeling up or anything, just body heat and comfort. Maybe cuddling? I've never been one for it, and I don't know if Sherlock is the type either, but I can see it happening if we shared a bed. Our limbs knotted together, chests or backs touching somehow, hands laced together. It could be really sweet, really nice. I might have less nightmares that way.

Or maybe none of that, I don't know. I'll have to wait and see. I just think that, regardless of any contact we might share, this could be the best decision we've made, saying how we feel. I don't know how long it will last, but I feel like it might be for a long while. And when it ends (if it does; I have a hopeful outlook, even though I do get so fed up with his rubbish at times), it could be either the ugliest breakup or the cleanest, and I'll deal with it.

But for now, I'm content to finish this post, close my laptop, and go over there and suggest an outing with my boyfriend; and God, there's a word I thought I would never apply to myself! Yet I don't mind at all, because it's Sherlock I'm talking about, and he defies all rules of society and even all the ones I have set for myself, and it might just be the best damn thing for me.

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