Have you ever seen a child in a toy store? They always want everything and throw a tantrum when their parents refuse to buy the latest toy on the market, crying as if it was the end of the world. That's how John felt, except he had enough self-control to keep it all inside.
It was hard to hide it from Sherlock though. Especially since it was Sherlock who made him feel like a five years-old again. It was ridiculous, really. Just the sight of the detective currently sprawled on the sofa was sufficient to make John's stomach twist and his heart race. He wasn't a teenager overwhelmed by his hormones anymore, for god's sake!
With a sight, John turned the kettle on. He leaned on the table while waiting for the water to boil, enjoying the peacefulness of the night as much as he could.
Baker Street was dark behind the windows and the flat was only lit by the soft lamp of the kitchen. It was one of those nights when a nightmare from Afghanistan would wake him up at incongruous hours, panting and unaware of his surroundings. There was no way he could go back to sleep after it.
It was also one of those nights when Sherlock fell asleep on the sofa after three days without any rest. He was beautiful, John couldn't help to observe. His long body was hidden under the blanket John had pulled over him. His black curls were a mess, standing in every directions and half-covering his closed eyes. His lips were — no. John wasn't going there. He shook is head to try and clean his mind from non-desired thoughts and took a cup out of the cupboard. The simple task was as noisy as a storm in the silent flat. John checked the cup for any trace of mould — it's a risk when you live with a mad genius — before pouring hot water in it. A tear of milk later, he headed toward his armchair, settling comfortably in his usual spot as his eyes landed on the sleeping beauty.
How strange was it to see the usually buzzing man like this. Him, who never ever stopped, whose mind was always running, observing, analyzing, was now lying unconscious in the warm arms of sleep. John smiled. This was all he wanted, seeing Sherlock secured and happy.
Ever since this first night when Sherlock had been so close to take the pill, John had made his mission to keep him safe. He wouldn't be able to say when, but the platonic and protective nature of his intentions slowly turned into something more. Something that made him want to punch the wall or curl up on the floor, crying, each time the words 'married to my work' crossed his mind.
Because that's what love is, isn't it? Even if it isn't reciprocated, even if it is unwelcome, love is irrevocable and immortal. 'Love isn't an emotion. Love is a promise.' How accurate… A promise to always be there. A promise to never leave. A promise to shut down the child who wanted to throw a tantrum inside him for not having Sherlock. Because, after all, John Watson wasn't a child anymore.
John Watson was the doctor who went to war and who came back home to fight a greater one. A war against himself. A war against his heart. A war against love itself. No matter what Sherlock wanted, whether it was a platonic friendship or a fiery romance, John will be there, always and forever.
The doctor closed his eyes. The tea was far too hot but it successfully cleared his mind. Putting the cup back on the table before him, he opened the newspaper without a thought for his burned tongue. Pain was just an old friend after all.