"You know, I just realised something." John says from his chair, one day well into their stint as flatmates. Sherlock (who is at the moment staring longingly into his microscope) doesn't reply of course, but John doesn't miss the way his head tilts towards him, as though his hearing is bad in one ear. It's how he knows he's being listened to, even if the great God of Baker Street deigns not to reply.
"You're always so straightforward and direct. Blunt, really. Frank, outright, rude. Incredibly and morbidly honest." He continues.
"Your powers of observation astound me, John." Sherlock says a moment later, still not turning from his place at the kitchen table. He tries to sound caustic, but it comes out like something that's been said through a smile. John glances over his shoulder to see that it is.
"You never hesitate when it comes to giving anyone and everyone your not-so-humble opinion- but- and this isn't a hard and fast rule- sometimes you're not that way."
Sherlock actually does look at him this time. John feels the back of his head being inspected and smiles fondly.
"When am I not? Do tell. It's important that I correct this behaviour immediately." Again, a slight smile, but more so a smile to cover up the fact that he's worried the cracks in his armour have begun to show.
"Sometimes with Mrs. Hudson. Like the other day when she broke your jar of thumbs, I thought you'd explode- you usually would have. But you didn't. And there are times when, and I'm just using my astounding powers of observation," Sherlock huffs out a laugh at that, "but it seems to me that you're hiding something. keeping yourself, your honesty, at bay, for some reason. I would hope it's not something important. Or illegal."
"Nothing untoward, honest." Sherlock pledges somewhat mockingly and returns to his microscope.
"So you're not denying that there is something you're not telling me."
"There are plenty of things you don't tell me, John."
"Yeah but you can always guess what they are." John actually turns in his chair to look at this man, curious with himself to know why he's suddenly so concerned with the things he doesn't know. They never bothered him all that much before. But now-
"Would you tell me if it was really important?" He asks, wishing that Sherlock would look him in the eye so he knows they understand each other. Sherlock sighs, almost inaudibly.
"Yes, John, I would. Honest." And he looks John, in the eye, but only for the moment that John's name crosses his lips.
"Alright, that's good, that's- that's all I really needed to know." John goes back to his laptop and Sherlock goes back to his lens. But it's not an easy silence. There's a tension, like a chill in the air neither of them can explain. Well, John can't. Sherlock begins incessantly tapping his foot on the floor, trying to focus but failing. It's like his shoulders are under an enormous weight and he's about to crack under the strain.
"Damn it." He mutters under his breath, quietly enough so that John doesn't hear, will never hear: "I love you. Honest."
*alternate ending below because that one suddenly got sad*
"Damn it." He says rather loudly, and John looks around at him.
"Damn what?" John squints at him in question. Sherlock jumps up, nearly frantic, and practically jumps across the room until he's standing in front of John. He takes the computer from his lap and (carefully) tosses it onto his own chair behind him. John is looking very puzzled at this point.
"Damn it all. All of it." Sherlock says determinedly. He takes John's hand and pulls his best friend to his feet, takes the man's face in his hands and kisses him. Right on the mouth. Like he's longed to for ages but could never quite talk himself into doing. And the reasons why all come flooding into his head at this most inopportune moment, like John is straight, remember?, and, he was a soldier, he'll kick your arse, or, it'll ruin your friendship, and then ruin you, and even, you're such a stupid child, Sherlock (that one always sounded a bit more like Mycroft).
But then John kisses him back and his mind goes blank. He's never had that experience (it frightens him, quite frankly, to have a blank mind). But suddenly it doesn't matter. At all. None of it matters. All there is now is John. John's smell, John's lips, John's taste, John's fingers in his hair. John not pulling away but pulling him closer.
"So that's it then?" John's breath warm against his face. "That's the 'nothing untoward'?" John's laugh, John's sweet, full laugh.
"I love you John." Sherlock murmurs as he leans in and kisses John again.
Honest.