If John was the sun, then the map of the cosmos had been drawn before the days of Copernicus and Galileo. He was lost hopelessly in Sherlock's orbit. And although he disapproved of the notion that Sherlock Holmes was the center of the world, he'd certainly been quick to take up a position at the center of John's life.
Yes, John had continued dating for some time. He had fought the notion at first, the idea that Sherlock was suddenly the focal point of everything he was. It had seemed absurd. He rarely liked blokes, he wasn't interested in dating one, and he certainly didn't plan to fall in love with one. The trouble was, no matter how he rationalized it, he'd begun to fall from the very beginning. After all, the odds are slim when fighting a force of nature.
Sherlock fascinated him. He was energy, electricity, lethargy, despondency, highs and lows at such extremes and all wrapped into one. A whole planet's worth of personality. John had been suffering from a lack of momentum when they'd first met, but by the end of their second day together he was going full throttle again, and nothing could explain it aside from the fact that he'd been pulled in by Sherlock's gravity.
It wasn't something he should need, was the problem. He shouldn't fall still without a commander, without a man of mystery for his days to revolve around. He was competent, capable, and yet he no longer felt complete without Sherlock by his side. And by now, it could be considered a pattern. Men who held themselves in, bundled up all of their softness and left it for him to discover in bits and pieces along the way. John was amazed by Sherlock's intellect, yes, but that wasn't something he hid; Sherlock's heart, on the other hand, was under careful guard, and John took pride in each small glimpse of it.
He'd tested his boundaries slowly. Sherlock needed caring for, needed someone to remember that he still, in fact, had a body when he was far too engrossed in his calculations and deductions to take note of the fact. John made his tea, coaxed food into him, looked after him in small, unimposing ways. Sherlock rewarded him by letting his skies clear a bit when it was just the two of them, and John learned how to look through his outer atmosphere at the goings on below. He learned how to read his mood in his music, his movements, his habits. He began to piece together what he was at the core.
And all of this, all of the coaxing and cajoling and caring, had somehow taken center stage. The people around them would notice, would point out how thoroughly John had devoted himself to Sherlock, which would bother him, because they didn't know anything about it. They didn't know the mournful cadence which signaled a bad day, nor the look in Sherlock's eyes when everything was too loud and too much and he needed someone close. They didn't understand that John wasn't waiting to snog him silly, but rather to hold him in his arms as storms passed around them.
The girlfriends left, needless to say, and John stopped looking. He had everything he needed right at home. He was finally ready to admit to the fact that he'd be spinning circles around Sherlock for as long as he was permitted, and that nothing would make him happier.
After all, Sherlock was caring for him as well, in his own way. He looked at John and saw all of him. He seemed to know when he needed out of the flat, needed action, adventure, challenge. He knew when Harry was getting worse, when the clinic was too stuffy. When his violin was needed to break the stillness of the night, washing away war with gentle lullabies. John could see Sherlock's storms in the clouds surrounding him. Sherlock could see when John was burning.
He did need this, then. John needed Sherlock, and so he joined him on the sofa and held him while he slept. Smiled when he woke and didn't move away. Kissed the top of his head when he leaned in close post-case. Except.
Sherlock had retreated, had holed himself away and buried himself in blankets. And John knew that he had to make himself clear, because this wouldn't do at all.
He tried to be patient. He waited for Sherlock to warm up again, for winter to become spring, then suggested a film. A few hours close on the sofa so that they could get accustomed to each other's space again.
Sherlock probably knew he was planning something long before he came out with it, but he was courteous enough not to let on.
"Sherlock, we need to talk. There's, erm, something I'd like to say."
Sherlock had gone blank, but he hadn't shied away, which was good enough for the moment. He looked a bit frightened, and John took his hand, because it wasn't that sort of talk. It wasn't anything that should worry him, if John was accurate in his readings.
"This is…" John smiled sheepishly and glanced down at their hands. "This, here, with you. It's the happiest I've ever been. And I know you're married to your work, and all…. But, I just want you to know that, this is enough. The way we are now, it's, well, brilliant."
"John-"
"No, let me finish. I've been doing a lot of thinking. And. I've decided that this is where I want to be. Until the end, really. If that's alright with you. As friends, or… or whatever else, really."
There. He'd gotten it out, managed to put words to the overwhelming feeling that he belonged here, by Sherlock's side. Not any less whole in himself, but home.
Sherlock took longer than he normally would have to reply. Unfamiliar territory, John supposed. Still, he couldn't help worrying. Perhaps he should have taken the previous retreat as more of a warning then he had done.
"I want to be with you. Of course."
A release of breath. Sherlock's thumb was stroking John's hand. He waited, expectant, open, somewhat relieved already.
"However, I can guarantee that I won't want to be with you in the carnal sense at any point in time. That will not change. It has never been where my interests lie. John, this choice…"
John began to pull away. Sherlock seemed to be advocating simple friendship, not this sort of hand holding, and he was surprised when he wasn't allowed the withdrawal. Not disappointed, but surprised.
"This choice is not one that you have to make. It would likely be best for you to move on to the next batch of dull women. But I want all the rest of it, if you're willing to give up the sexual element."
As if there were any choice. As if there had ever been any choice. This brand of relationship may not have been what he'd pictured for himself when he was younger, and it certainly wasn't what he'd strived for when he was naively chasing the standard wife-kids model, but the universe had made different plans for him, and with a strange, gorgeous madman as the solution, he wasn't going to complain.
"Were you not listening to me?"
He pulled Sherlock to him, taking his other hand so that he could squeeze both tight.
"I said anything, friends or beyond. It would be my honor, my absolute pleasure, to be your… whatever it is you're proposing. Your romantic partner. I'm not a sex fiend, alright?"
Sherlock was swaying in closer, so John took him in his arms. He was trembling a bit; he must have expected a different response. Received one in the past, maybe. Although, with Sherlock, even 'just friends' could make John feel like he'd been gifted with an entire planet.
"This is good. More than good. This is… hey, it's alright. This is perfect. You're perfect."
John combed his fingers into Sherlock's hair as he waited for the storm clouds to clear up again.
"I love you," came the muffled voice.
There was only one answer to that.
"I love you, too, you big idiot. That's the point of this. You really should pay better attention."
Sherlock's head bumped against John's shoulder, and he laughed. Clear, bright joy. He held Sherlock tight against his chest, he breathed in the scent of his posh shampoo, and he thanked his lucky stars that he'd be allowed to orbit his own brilliant world forever. So what if it looked ridiculous to the rest of the galaxy, a sun about a planet; he had absolutely no desire to be conventional any longer.