A/N: This is half of a fic I posted on AO3. The other half involves real people (the fic as a whole is a crossover), so I could only post this half on FFN. I think it stands alone all right, but you can check my AO3 account under the same username to find out who John and Sherlock's upstairs neighbours are and what they said. Also, the whole fic is a wedding present for my dear friend jonsaremembers!

John made his way back down to his flat, mulling over what his young neighbours had told him. On the one hand, he was sure nothing could come of talking to Sherlock. Sherlock was too aloof, too different to be interested in anything like sex or relationships. And it wasn't just pessimism that stood in his way; it was also fear. But on the other hand, he hadn't become first an army doctor and then Sherlock's helpmate by letting fear get the better of him. And the lads upstairs proved that something good could come of facing your fears and talking to the person you loved . . .

Loved. Did John love Sherlock? He hadn't let himself dwell on his feelings, and he'd been able to restrict his thoughts to the word "fancy" up until now. But somehow the word "love" had just slipped in, and he couldn't really doubt that it was true. After all, he'd killed for Sherlock, and he'd known for quite some time that he'd be willing to die for him. In fact, given how dangerous associating with Sherlock was, continuing to live with Sherlock was a tacit pledge to give his life for him if necessary. If that didn't qualify as love, John didn't know what would.

All right, John needed to talk to Sherlock.

The experiment with the fingers was still going on when John returned to the flat, so he tried to blog for a while. He made one post, eventually gave up on another, and headed out to the shops to get takeaway for dinner. He returned—by some miracle—to a half-clean kitchen, with Sherlock busily trying to put the elements of his experiment away. John smiled at him and got out plates and silverware so that at least they wouldn't be eating the takeout directly out of the containers like complete barbarians.

"How was the experiment?" John asked as he set the plates down on the table.

"Very informative," said Sherlock, putting a bag whose contents John was trying not to look at in the refrigerator.

"That's good," said John, pouring the takeaway onto the plates. "Say, Sherlock, have you ever fancied anyone?"

Sherlock froze in the middle of walking from the refrigerator to his chair. "What relevance could that possibly have to anything, John?" he asked sharply.

"Could you just answer the question?" John asked. He couldn't give himself away just yet. He couldn't. Not before he knew something about where Sherlock stood.

"No, I can't 'just answer the question.'"

"Why not?"

Sherlock sighed and took his seat. "Because I don't need you calling me a freak like all the rest of them."

"You're not a freak," said John patiently. "Some people never fancy anyone and that's okay. Some people don't fancy anyone for a long time, and then all of a sudden they do. That's fine too. It's all fine. I told you that the first time we went to Angelo's, didn't I?"

Sherlock sighed. "But people say that, and then nobody means all."

John frowned. "Have you not gotten it through your head yet that I'm not 'people'?"

Sherlock frowned back. "You're a person."

John rolled his eyes. "I mean I'm not going to react the way other people have. I'm not like that, okay? I'm not other people."

Sherlock gave John a sceptical look, and John raised his eyebrows in response. Sherlock huffed. "Fine. Yes, I've fancied people in the sense that I've been excessively fond of them. No, I've never wanted anything sexual."

John nodded. "That's okay. I'm not terribly surprised."

"Don't pretend you don't think I'm a freak," Sherlock muttered.

"But I don't think you're a freak," said John. "Some people are asexual. That's not good or bad; it just is."

Sherlock looked at John searchingly. "Usually you sound different when you're being sarcastic."

"Christ, Sherlock, I'm not joking."

"But you can't be serious," Sherlock argued.

"Why not?" John demanded.

"Because—because—because nobody's okay with that."

"Again: I'm not 'people,' Sherlock. I'm not 'everybody.' Don't you know that by now?"

Sherlock looked at John for several moments. "You're being serious, aren't you?"

John nodded.

"You're really okay with it?"

John nodded again.

"Why couldn't I have met you sixteen years ago?" Sherlock asked.

"What happened sixteen years ago?" John asked, doing some quick maths. Sherlock would have been, what? Eighteen or so? Starting uni? Or maybe he started uni at twelve or something; it wasn't a topic he and John had discussed.

Sherlock looked down at his plate. "I fancied someone who—ahem—didn't feel the way you do about all of this. No one had ever told me it was okay to just . . . not want sex, and—"

John got up from his chair and walked around the table to Sherlock. He reached out to hug Sherlock and then stopped and asked, "Can I hug you?"

Sherlock reached up toward John in response and clung to him with surprising strength and fervor. John didn't let go until multiple minutes later, when Sherlock pulled back.

"Sherlock, are you all right?" John asked, squatting next to Sherlock's chair rather than returning to his own.

"Sorry," said Sherlock, for what John was convinced might have been the first time in his life. And—were those tears in his eyes?

"You have nothing to apologize for," John said fervently.

"But—"

"No. What happened to you is not your fault. The way you are is not your fault. Being upset about it now is not your fault. You haven't done anything wrong here, Sherlock. You were just made differently than most people and that's been hard, but that's on society; it's not on you. Okay?"

"John, I—" Sherlock cleared his throat. "I think before anything else happens you deserve to know that my feelings for you are not wholly platonic."

John smiled softly. "I was trying to find a tactful way to say the same to you."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Please don't say that just to please me."

"What? Sherlock, I'm not. I genuinely have feelings for you and I'm so bloody chuffed that you feel the same about me."

"But I don't feel the same, John," said Sherlock, opening his eyes and looking at John. "I'm sure there's a sexual element to your feelings, and there's not one to mine. This makes things harder, not easier."

John restrained himself from reaching out and taking Sherlock's hands. He couldn't do anything without asking, not given what Sherlock had just revealed about his past. "It's okay. It's going to be okay. We'll figure things out. That's what that brain of yours is for, isn't it?"

"You know I'm rubbish with people."

John sighed. "That was a joke. But really, it's going to be okay. Can I hold your hands?"

"Of course," said Sherlock, extending his hands toward John.

John took Sherlock's long, thin hands in his own stubby ones. "If you want to be with me, then we'll be together and we'll figure it out," said John. "And if you don't want to take that risk, we'll remain flatmates and friends and everything will be fine. But either way I promise you I will not pressure you for sex."

Sherlock blinked several times but kept his eyes on John. "There's no reason for me to be high," he muttered.

John frowned. "What?"

"And I never liked hallucinogens anyway," Sherlock continued. "I know I don't have any lying around."

Now John was worried. "Sherlock, are you okay? Tell me what you see."

"You're squatting in front of me. I can see the lounge from here. There are two armchairs in the lounge, and a table with wooden chairs. It's dark outside the window, but there's a glow from the streetlamps."

John checked behind him. Yes, everything looked normal, just as Sherlock described. "That's right," he said. "You're not hallucinating."

"But I thought I heard you say we could be together, or not, and either way you wouldn't pressure me for sex."

"Christ, Sherlock. That's because that's what I said. Is it that unbelievable that I believe in consent?"

"But nobody believes in it that much."

"Pretty sure that's what believing in consent means."

"But—you like sex."

"When the other person likes it too, yeah."

Sherlock looked puzzled. "Does that really make it better?"

"Oh God," said John faintly. "Yes, that makes it better. Morally and sensually."

Sherlock sat back, looking defeated. "Well that's that, then. It wouldn't be good with me."

"No, sex probably wouldn't be good with you," John agreed. "But that's okay. We don't have to have sex."

"But—"

"No. No buts."

Sherlock swallowed. "So we can't be together."

"What? Sherlock, no. We can be together. If you want. Being together doesn't have to involve sex."

"What else is there?"

"Plenty. What do you like?" John asked.

"What do you mean?"

John huffed. "I know you, Sherlock. You wouldn't have been in a relationship if you hated every minute of it. You don't have that much of a capacity for self-denial. You must have liked something in order to get into a situation where you were putting up with unwanted sex."

Sherlock looked down, breaking eye contact for the first time in a while. "That's not how this works."

"What do you mean?" John had a realization. "Was it drugs?"

"What? No! I just meant—the things I like don't come free."

"What do you like?" John pressed.

Sherlock continued looking at his lap. "Cuddling? Back rubs? Foot rubs?"

"Oh God," John breathed. "And someone made you pay for those in sex?" He stood slowly, both because he was stiff and altogether too old to crouch for that long, and because he didn't want to yank Sherlock's hands upward as he stood. "Can we take this to the sofa?"

"Why?" Sherlock asked, looking up at John distrustfully.

"Because you sound like you need a cuddle, and to be honest I could use one myself."

Sherlock pulled his hands out of John's. "But I thought—"

"No strings attached," John promised, folding his arms. "I swear."

"There are always strings," Sherlock insisted.

"No," John insisted. "There aren't. I'm not other people, Sherlock. Please believe me."

Sherlock stood, glancing at John, away, and then at John again. John took that as a good sign and made his way to the sofa, where he sat down, kicked his shoes off, and folded his legs up under him. Sherlock followed John and sat, too, just out of reach.

"No cuddling?" John asked, trying to keep his tone neutral.

Sherlock threw another glance at John. "No strings?"

"No strings," John affirmed.

Sherlock scooted closer to John and leaned sideways until his head rested on John's shoulder, which required a bit of contortion given the height difference. John liked the weight of Sherlock's head on his shoulder and the tickle of Sherlock's curly hair against his neck.

"How would you feel if I put an arm around you?" John asked.

"Still no strings?"

John resisted the urge to sigh or snap. This was coming from somewhere, he knew. Sherlock wasn't being dense on purpose; he was struggling with a concept that should have been familiar but wasn't because he'd been mistreated. "Still no strings," John promised.

"Then I think I'd like that," said Sherlock, so John put an arm around Sherlock's bony shoulders and felt Sherlock relax into him.

"How's that?" asked John.

"Good," Sherlock said. Then he took a deep breath and said, "Is this—all?"

"What do you mean?" John asked.

"Is this all we're ever going to do?" Sherlock clarified.

"Unless you want more."

"I mean, is tonight—"

"Oh," John interrupted, unable to contain the word when he suddenly understood what Sherlock meant. "No. Definitely not. I've fancied you for months, Sherlock, and until tonight I hadn't seriously considered that you might fancy me back. I'm not going to suddenly give up on you just because you don't want sex."

"You say that like it's not a big deal," said Sherlock.

John felt caught. He didn't quite know what to say.

After John had been silent for a few moments, Sherlock murmured, "See? It matters. You know you don't really want this."

John sighed. "No, Sherlock, I do. Sex matters, but it isn't everything. I'm not quite sure how this will work and I can't promise right now that it'll be forever, but I can promise it'll be a good long while because I'm in love with you and I can't picture that changing anytime soon." He took a breath for the first time since beginning to answer Sherlock and then said, "Is that good enough for you?"

"You're in love with me?" Sherlock whispered.

"Sorry," said John. "Too much?"

"No, I just—you mean that?"

"Yes, Sherlock."

"Oh," said Sherlock. "Oh." And then: "I love you too."

"Yeah?" said John.

"Yeah."

This wasn't the end of anything. It would take more talking—more convincing Sherlock that John really believed in consent—before anything was really settled. But it was a good beginning, and, with the weight of Sherlock's head on John's shoulder and the tickle of Sherlock's hair on John's neck, John was convinced that this story would spool out for a long, long time.

Next he saw them, he'd need to thank the lads upstairs.

A/N: The title is from Bastille's "Icarus" and the themes, Sherlock's hangups, and John's insistence on consent are drawn largely from sylviarachel's "That's How the Light Gets In."