Watson didn't know when it had started. At first it had just been morbid fascination and gawking awe that had drawn him to the so-called "consulting detective," but lately it had become more than that. Sherlock's ticks became less of a deterrant and more of a quirky endearment. His casual insults to his intelligence seemed less and less important as he realized just how powerful Sherlock's intelligence truly was, and how that was as much a curse as a blessing. Sometimes ignorance truly was bliss.
Fascination turned to gratitude, which turned to loyalty and protectiveness. Sherlock needed him. It was an exquisite feeling knowing this, even if he knew Sherlock would never admit it. He never wanted this to end, never wanted to leave this dysfunctional little life he and Sherlock had made together.
John supposed this was why he never let Sally get as close as was normal for their kind of relationship. The more they progressed, the more pressure there was to move in together, and no matter how they sliced it, it would disrupt the delicate balance of his life. He might have even quit his relationahip with her a long time ago if it wasn't a major argument against those that suspected him of a romantic interest in Sherlock.
Lately, though, he wasn't so sure that he wasn't interested. Sometimes, when he let his guard down and his eye wander, it often settled on Sherlock, sometimes even in less decent areas. The more he thought about it, the more curious he became. How would it feel to be so close he could hear his heart beat without a stethoscope, to absorb his warmth? What would Sherlock think? Would he stutter, blush, if he kissed him? Would it make his heart pound, his breath come short, pressed together, skin to skin?
These thoughts scared him more than anything else, because he was helpless against them. He was used to the physical, visceral dangers that you can touch, and fight. These slips bloomed from nowhere, escaping through his grasping fingers, gone like smoke only to reappear once more. Sometimes they made sense, like when Sherlock touched him, glancing over more sensitive flesh on the way to his arm, or pocket. Sometimes they were vague, more asthetic than anything else, like when Sherlock got that special face as he solved the case, as though, if only for a little while, all is right in the world because everything makes sense. Sometimes it was proprietary, a delicious dream of Yes, he's mine, he's brilliant, and he's mine. But most of all, it was the down times, the simple little meshes and rubs that came with living together, his mind whispering, this is me; this is where I belong; I could do this forever.
He didn't know if Sherlock knew. He was so observant that sometimes it seemed he must, and then he would go and say something offensive and show no recognition whatsoever and he was reminded that Sherlock was only a genius at some things, and at others he's hopeless. Surely he saw the gradual distance developing between him and Sally; maybe he just didn't care. Whatever it was, the longer John let the thoughts go on, the more he filled with an unspoken tension, filled with fear of disappointment, guilt for leading Sally on, nervousness of being found out, conflict within himself as to the veracity of his affections. Every day it grew, until he feared that soon he would snap, and do something dumb that would likely leave him alone at both ends. Please, whatever happens, don't leave me alone again. I don't think I can stay sane without him anymore.
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