Inspired by a drawing by sherlock-fanfic-quotes on Tumblr (thank you again, I hope this lives up to expectations). In my head this is set sometime pre-Season Three. I would recommend listening to Your Song (Ellie Goulding's version, but the original with Elton John works too) before/while/after you read this, as I think it's thematically appropriate. Enjoy.
Empty.
Vacant.
Not for long of course. John was only at Tesco, he'd be back soon. Sherlock rested his left hand on the headrest, bringing his mug of tea (prepared by John) to his lips mechanically. And he thought.
He thought a lot. It went without saying, it was the basis of his livelihood, scratch that, his life, but today the subject of his turbulent thoughts wasn't the Work. It was John. Even if he was part of his work now.
John was an enigma wrapped in Arran Island jumpers, who had somehow managed to insert himself so well into Sherlock's life that he wondered if they even could separated now. Surely it would be impossible, like trying to separate the fungus and the algae that made up lichen. Not the most appealing of metaphors, but the symbiosis was something he could relate to.
He should be worried, Sherlock supposed, that he found himself so dependent on one person, especially after so many years of independent living. But he wasn't. It was inexplicable, infuriating, but…nice. He liked John. And John liked him too, he wouldn't have stayed for so long, or indeed shot a man on the very first day of their acquaintance if he hadn't. He didn't like that phrase people used, someone's "other half". Surely he was a whole person in his own right? As was John. But together, they were more. Like the lichen, like a chemical compound made of two atoms that were elements in their own right. Two jigsaw pieces that didn't even look like they came from the same box, never mind the fact that they fitted together perfectly.
John was, dare he even think it, a friend. He had had precious few of those, and none like this. It was hard to articulate it, even in the security of his own mind. John was special, he cared for Sherlock like no one else did, apart from family, and they were sort of obliged to.
He loved John.
Sherlock scowled and lowered his mug. That was something he had never admitted to himself, even in his head. Such a short phrase, yet the connotations were enormous. Ridiculously so for a four letter word.
And it wasn't even in the way everyone assumed. It was more like a brotherly affection (contrary to popular belief he did love Mycroft in his own way) but that didn't seem quite right. Sherlock was pretty sure he didn't feel sexual attraction, or romantic attraction for that matter, and certainly not in relation to John. He didn't think he did at least. It was one area that he found terribly confusing. There was nearly no quantitative or qualitative data for starters, how on earth was he supposed to know if he experienced these things if he had no idea what to look for or what to expect? And while some subtext of that nature went over his head, he was almost one hundred percent certain that John didn't feel that way about him either.
He had been present at more than enough occasions when John saw or talked to a person he found sexually attractive, but he had never seen John display any of the same signals when he interacted with him. John thought he was doing a good job of hiding it, but if he suspected that Sherlock knew that he was bisexual he didn't comment. It didn't make a difference anyway, why should it?
Except that it did, in a way. Because even if there was little to no chance of Sherlock becoming involved in a romantic relationship, there was a high chance that John would find someone (most likely a woman, he seemed to be primarily attracted to them) with whom he would want to live. And he would leave, probably. Needless to say, Sherlock didn't want that to happen.
He loved John, adored him, was besotted by him in the most platonic way possible and there seemed to be no way for him to express this without relying on words and phrases reserved for romantic love. Which could lead to a misunderstanding that he desperately wanted to avoid. It was unfair, so unfair, that as clever as he was he couldn't solve this seemingly simple problem. This puzzle of the heart. For as much as he hated to admit it, this was une affaire de coeur, one that couldn't be reasoned out neatly or logically.
He couldn't imagine life without John now. Somehow it felt like John had always been with him, invisible, unseen, until that day in the hospital when some mysterious force had brought him into view for the first time. Like he was meant to meet him. It was sickeningly sentimental, reminiscent of a fantasy novel, but it was the only way Sherlock could describe it.
John Hamish Watson, so unassuming, so seemingly normal and ordinary, had won him over in the most unconventional way possible and he didn't even know how he had done it. Nor did he know how to thank him. Because he wanted to. He wanted to prove that John was important to him, more important than any mere sexual partner or work colleague, but he didn't know how.
He was still pondering this when John's footsteps sounded on the stairs and he entered the flat, placing the shopping on the table.
"You alright? You haven't moved since I left."
Sherlock blinked and looked down at John, now standing in front of him. He blinked again. "I'm fine John." He liked saying John's name. So round and resonant. Solid. No nonsense. Like the man himself. Comforting in a way.
"Alright, I've just got a call from the clinic, they need me to come in, so I'll see you later."
Damn these emotions! Damn societal expectations and conventions that as much as he liked to think he didn't subscribe to he followed anyway because it made his life somewhat easier. Damn whatever had happened in recent years that had made this type of love somehow less worthy and harder to express than romantic love. Damn it all.
It was at times like these that he wished that he really was a sociopath. Because even if he didn't like to show it, even admit it most of the time, he did feel. Oh, how deeply and intensely did he feel. And the cruel irony of it was that he, Sherlock Mr. Punchline, Always Have the Last Word Holmes, master of sarcasm, lord of witty remarks, couldn't articulate them. He usually wielded words with the skill and precision of a surgeon, of a swordsman, but in this area he was mute. Blind. As if the words he needed were in the dark and just out of reach of his fumbling fingers.
Even tears, the go to of normal boring people which he usually scoffed at, which he could produce at will if a case called for it, had failed him. He could feel them, burning drops of frustration building behind his eyes, threatening to spill over, but refusing to. It was like his own body was mocking him, mocking his inability to feel things ordinary people took for granted.
Sometimes, in these rare moments of despair, he wished he were gay. Or bisexual, like John. At least then he could express these things in a way John would understand. At least he would have a reference, data, to give him an idea of what to do. But he wasn't, he seemingly wasn't any sexuality at all, and while he could pretend for a while if absolutely necessary, it wasn't real. It wasn't him. Even if he was, John wasn't attracted to him in that way. And as good as he was at using manipulation to achieve his goals, he preferred honesty, and lying about one's self to one's self seemed even worse than lying to others.
So he did what he had done on other occasions when his feelings rushed out of the iron box he had constructed for them in his Mind Palace, like the winds out of the bottle in that Greek myth he'd thought he'd forgotten, when they snatched the reins out of his tightly controlled grip like a runaway horse: he composed.
oOo
When John came home, it was to soft violin music that made him pause on the last step. It was soft, yes, but strong too, melancholy, yet hopeful, serious yet with an element of playfulness. John waited until the music ceased, then stepped over the threshold.
"That was beautiful."
Even with his back to him, he knew Sherlock was pleased. When it was just them, when Sherlock let his mask fall away, he could be very expressive. The way his shoulders lifted ever so slightly, how he stood up a little straighter, lifted his head a little higher and turned it just the tiniest bit so John could see the edge of his mouth curl into a smile told him that. John smiled himself and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on, unaware that Sherlock seemed to deflate a little in his absence. Nor did he hear Sherlock say, in his quietest voice:
"It's for you."
oOo
Later that night found Sherlock curled in his armchair, head on the armrest, and watching John update his blog from the comfort of his own chair. His mood had lifted slightly when John had made him more tea (and deposited a plate of his favourite chocolate digestives in front of him for good measure) and had sat opposite him, close yet so far.
He didn't know how people dealt with these kinds of emotions on a regular basis, it must be exhausting. His eye flicked from the uninteresting patch of rug he had been staring at to John. John was concentrating, his typing slow but methodical. Careful. Precise.
"I love you" was such an overused phrase wasn't it? Why did romantic people bandy it about so much, surely it had lost all sincerity at this stage. It wasn't enough, it wasn't nearly enough. And it often sounded juvenile. Rehearsed. Routine. No, it didn't do his feelings justice. It didn't do John justice.
Then, as if he had heard him, John paused in his typing and glanced up at Sherlock. And then he smiled at him. Just a quirk of the corner of his mouth, a wrinkling of the skin around his eyes, a tiny smile that none the less reached those dark blue eyes.
And Sherlock knew. Knew in that short moment that his feelings were reciprocated. He didn't know how, but know he did. Somehow.
He smiled back, a real smile, his "John" smile, and John's smile perked up before he bent his head and continued typing. Still smiling.
Sherlock held on to his own as he shut his eyes. Who needed sexual or romantic attraction? (they both sounded far too distracting anyway). Why had he worried needlessly over what to say when he hadn't needed to say anything? Because he had known all along that John loved him, that he loved John. They didn't need clichéd phrases. Theirs was unspoken, yet heard and acknowledged all the same.
And at this moment, Sherlock wouldn't have had it any other way.
I was so tempted to finish at "It's for you", but that would have been a little more angsty than I set out to be. As always, constructive feedback is greatly appreciated.