A/n: Be warned, this gets a little silly at times. Also, be warned that I am in no way affiliated with the BBC or Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes wasn't sure when his feelings towards John Watson had changed, but change they did. And oh, what a startling change it was—once he finally noticed it had occurred, that is. Somewhere along the line he had begun to feel something other than just friendship towards the man. In fact, he supposed it could probably be called romantic in nature. The thought was physically jarring. He knew the definition of romantic love an emotional attraction to another person associated with feelings of love, origin being in the chivalric codes of Medieval England and was aware that it was experienced by the masses; however, it had never occurred to him that he was capable of such a thing, as he had never before experienced it.

But here he was in 221B Baker Street having a cuppa and contemplating just when it had happened to him. The idea occurred to him that John would probably know, being the resident love expert of the flat. But surely that had to be the last thing he could resort to, asking John. No. He would have to figure it out himself. He ran through the possibilities in his head the cabbie's death—running from the police hand in hand—laughing senselessly high on adrenalin—the fall—the…He was startled out of his thoughts. It could only make sense for it to have been during his time…away…that the change had really happened in his sentiments towards the doctor.

"Damn," he muttered aloud quietly as the door opened. His attention snapped onto John as he entered the flat. Shoulders tenser than usual—lines between his eyes—visibly fatigued. "Rough day, I see."

"You have no idea." Sherlock refrained from correcting the man, despite knowing that Mrs Tunney had been in again with yet another imagined illness and that a young child had cried for the entire visit—including the wait time. John smiled, some tension leaving him as he realised what he'd said and that his friend had staid himself. Friend, the word prickled in Sherlock's mind, leading him to stand and pace as the other man sat down. "How was your day?" John inquired.

Sherlock ignored the question, instead blurting out, "Let's go to Angelo's."

"All right," the older man replied cautiously. "Though I'm a fair bit surprised you aren't too busy sulking. Haven't had a new case in weeks."

"I have been otherwise occupied."

"Oh!" John replied, "What's the experiment this time? And are there hidden body parts I need to be aware of?"

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "No experiment." Before John could respond he picked up his violin and began to play in a screeching manner that not only belied his true talent, but also inhibited further conversation. As he played he agonized over his impulsive suggestion that they go out to eat. While the act of eating together in public was not particularly odd in and of itself, the sentiment behind it was—or so he thought. Dare he say it, but he almost wanted it to be (and he quaked to even think the word) a date. But, he wondered, is it still a date if one party isn't aware that it is? He pulled the bow forcefully across the strings causing the instrument to shriek. So occupied was he in his thoughts and (what could only loosely be called) music that he didn't notice the other man leave the room shaking his head.

The pair arrived at Angelo's around seven-thirty. Sherlock had purposefully worn the purple top that he had deduced was his flat-mate's favourite by the odd, yet appreciative looks it received from John. He was satisfied that it had done its job. However, the slightly amused look he had gotten as he walked into the living room to leave had unnerved him slightly. From that point forward he kept a close eye on John, hoping to understand what the look had meant. His observations did not get him as far as he'd hoped, or expected. The sum of them seemed to suggest that there was a joke that he was clearly not in on. Though, how, he wondered, had Angelo of all people figured out what was so amusing when he hadn't? The answer, he decided, must lay in the baser human instincts which he was unfamiliar with and did not sink so low as to exhibit. That was, until he figured it out.

The candles…candles…It's something to do with the candles. Ah! John tends to complain about the candles. And when he doesn't verbally, he still shows annoyance via facial expression. He didn't today. He smiled. Angelo! He smiled as well. They smiled together. Why did they smile? His brain whirled at a mile a minute, pulling the pieces together. They smiled because they share a common knowledge. What do they know? What do they know that would be relevant? It must be something clear, something obvious. Something I'm not seeing. His eyes went wide and a small gasp escaped his mouth. John stopped midsentence to address the clear epiphany that had just occurred, his eyes twinkling.

"Figure something out, Sherlock?" he teased. The younger man nodded. "Out with it then."

"You're aware that this is a date." The words almost sounded like a question, he had phrased it so hesitantly. John nodded in encouragement. "I am glad. Glad that you are aware, that is."

Laughing the older man added, "And I'm pretty glad it's a date."

"Good. I had hoped so." A moment passed where John openly gazed into Sherlock's face, studying it, tracing every detail with his eyes. The younger man squirmed, understanding for once the discomfort others must feel when he does similarly to them. Breaking the silence, he asked, "Could you tell me how Angelo knows?" The man in question had been hanging back, listening to their conversation, and upon hearing his name jumped. The plastic tray he had been holding dropped when he was jarred by the fear that his eavesdropping had been noticed. He slunk back into the kitchen upon receiving a glare from the consulting detective.

"Well, you didn't really make it hard for him."

"Oh?"

"Nope," John replied. "When was the last time you looked so nervous to have dinner?" he asked with a smirk. The man responded by cutting his eyes at him. John shrugged, confident that the answer to his question was a simple "never."

"We're not having sex," Sherlock stated firmly as they sat on the couch together, some programme that he didn't find even remotely interesting playing on the telly.

"God, I should hope not," the older man replied.

"Good." Sherlock was quiet for a few minutes, just long enough for John to get back into the show before he spoke again. "Why are you okay with this?"

John's brow wrinkled. "Okay with what?"

Sherlock sighed in a most put upon manner, "Not having sex together. You are a healthy, virile male who appears to have a stronger than average libido. That would imply that intercourse is something you look for in relationships."

"Sherlock, I mean this in the nicest way possible, but I'm not sexually attracted to you," John replied slowly. He noticed the eye-roll his tone received and calmed down the snark for the rest of his thought. "And to be honest, even if I was, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to know you aren't interested in me—or anyone really—like that either."

"Ah." The younger man nodded. "I see. Will you require having women around such as you do now; because I'm not very good at sharing, which would likely cause a problem." He held his breath, hoping for a response of no.

"While I appreciate that you took that into consideration, that won't happen. It must have escaped your notice—which is a feat in and of itself—that I haven't brought a girl round in ages."

Sherlock nodded in approval. "Good, they were boring."

"They were fine," John replied. Before the scowl could cement itself to his companion's visage, he added, "but they weren't you." He smiled at the softening of the younger man's face. A question came to mind and he said more seriously, "Sherlock? How is it that you didn't deduce that I wanted to be with you? It's not like you to miss something so obvious."

He shook his head. "I don't know," he said with a shrug. Sherlock scooched sideways, leaning more against the other man who lifted his arm, which allowed the lanky detective to fit himself to John's side. "It didn't seem obvious to me. Though, perhaps I just didn't want to see it until recently. I hadn't even known that I wanted this." He sighed dismissively.

"I'm honestly a little surprised you do want this," John replied. "You have said that you are married to your work more than a few times." He felt the younger man shrug under his arm.

"You're part of the work, John," he said seriously. "You are my blogger, and my partner in crime-solving. It is hardly like a relationship of a romantic nature could make that any less so, assuming that we are in said relationship for as long as the work lasts or longer."

John smiled, "I imagine we'll be at this for a while yet, until we're old and grey. London is never short on murders and crime!"

Sherlock hummed in happy agreement, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. "And may it never be."

Sitting pressed against the other man's side it occurred to him that it was all very easy. He had gotten himself into a tizzy earlier for no reason because being in love with John was hardly different than just being his friend, change in physical proximity aside, of course. But even that, he realised, wouldn't be such a change really. He'd always felt drawn to the man, and to finally be allowed to dismantle the charade of personal space they followed was bliss. And while he had never before felt this way for another soul and had for many years considered himself aromantic, his fear and confusion had mostly faded into contentment with his new-found understanding of their relationship. The only uncertainty that was left was why the other man was happy to be with him. But that, he decided, could be dealt with another day.

A/n: Thanks for reading! Hoped you enjoyed it; drop me a review and let me know what you thought.