It's late on a Friday evening. The sky outside the window of Baker Street has darkened into night, but Sherlock hasn't noticed. Stretched out on the couch since morning – without even bothering to change out of his bedclothes – he's been pondering the most recent case Mycroft has twisted his arm into looking into. (An information leak in MI6 isn't quite as amusing as he might have thought it would be, but he'd needed the distraction and Mycroft had provided him with one.)
What hauls him out of the recesses of his mind palace is the clicking of fingers beside his ear. He's able to ignore it at first, but soon it infests itself into his very thoughts. Opening his eyes, he's ready to growl at the interference, until he sees John standing there. Blinking against the sudden light in the room (wasn't it turned off when he'd settled in here?), he grumbles about the intrusion on his work.
John doesn't pay him any heed, hasn't paid attention to such complaining in years and finds that he's the better for it, too. But he hides the grin that wants to break out in spite of his nerves, not wanting to annoy Sherlock. "Do you want me to order Chinese?" he asks instead, hoping that the nerves don't bleed through his voice.
Sherlock frowns at him, confused by John's behaviour which doesn't match his appearance. "Aren't you eating on the date?" he asks, hoping the stab of jealousy in his chest isn't noticeable. (John's much more perceptive about these things than he used to give him credit for.) "You always used to eat on dates."
Now it's John's turn to frown. "What date?"
"You're clearly nervous about something. Add that to the new, well-fitted clothes, the very recently combed hair and the truly outrageous amount of aftershave and it's the only logical conclusion to reach. You've got a date." (All of these years, and saying that never gets any easier.)
John clears his throat, all of the lines he's thought up in the back of the cab deserting him in a moment. "That's . . . that's for you, actually."
Sherlock stares blankly at him – twice as confused now, and wondering if he's fallen asleep again while in his mind palace. That's the only explanation presenting itself, because John Watson has proven time and again to him with his girlfriends and his wife that while he may be bisexual (though that, too, is open for debate) he has absolutely no interest in Sherlock Holmes.
John shrugs and turns around. "Knew I shouldn't have said anything," he murmurs, walking towards the door. "Just forget about it."
Sherlock's on his feet before he realises it. "No, John! Wait. I – You . . . you really mean that?" He bites down on his lower lip to keep it from trembling.
John turns around, looking back at his best friend of so many years and nods. "Yeah. Yeah, of course I do."
"I never thought you felt that way."
A rueful smile. "I think everyone else realised it first."
Sherlock steps across the room and looks down on this man who's meant so much to him for so long. "I've wanted this for years." The words are hardly words, spoken so low.
"I should have realised it sooner. I was an idiot."
"We were both idiots." A chuckle erupts from Sherlock's chest, and he grins that toothy grin, before leaning in and pressing his lips to John's. Chaste though it is, it's the first kiss of many more to come. (And both finds that it comes much easier than they'd thought it would.)