John stared at Sherlock again. The world's only detective was currently staring out the window of their flat into the night. John stopped looking at him long enough to finish making his tea. When he was done, he looked up. Sherlock was still standing there. John sighed. It had been three straight hours since he had last moved.
John slowly walked up to Sherlock. "I made you tea," he said. Sherlock continued to stare. John rolled his eyes with exasperation and set his flatmate's tea on the table. Just as he was about to walk away though, John saw it. And thought he was dreaming, or imagining it. Because there was certainly not tears rolling down Sherlock's cheek. John blinked. And blinked again. They were still there. Quietly cursing himself for not noticing earlier, John stepped closer to the genius. He asked, gently, "Sherlock, what's wrong?" Sherlock, in answer, looked at John. And back out the window. John ran his hand through his hair, frustrated by his feeling of helplessness. He gently grabbed Sherlock and led him to the couch. Deciding to try one more time, he asked Sherlock again, "Sherlock, what's wrong?"
This time John received an answer. Sherlock looked at him, tears in his eyes. It took every ounce of self-control John had to not reach out and hug him right then. Instead, he let Sherlock talk. "Why," the detective said. Then he wiped his eyes, cleared his throat, and continued. "Why do they call you a freak for hanging around me? I don't mind when they call me a freak. But then they say that you are a freak for loving me, and that you're going to leave me and-" Sherlock took a deep steadying breath. "Don't ever leave me. Please." He looked at John, eyes brimming with tears, and John lost his self- restraint and pulled him into a tight hug. He then kissed the top of Sherlock's head, getting a nose full of dark curls. "I'm never leaving you," he said. He then took his finger and used it to lift up the taller man's chin, and kissed him. A few minutes later, as he pulled away for air, John realized he was angry. Angry with the NSY for making his boyfriend, who prided himself on not showing emotion, cry. And he said what he thought. Out loud.
"You know what, Sherlock? People will talk, they always will. They do seldom else, as you once said. And some of those people will not say nice things. Some of the things will hurt you, and some of the things they say hurt me, and no matter how hard I try to hide it you can always tell, from the way I walk or the way I blink. So I want you to tell me when they hurt you, Sherlock, because I love you and I would never ever leave you. They'll say what they say, and they'll think what they think, but it doesn't mean a goddamn thing. I love you, and I want to help you."
Sherlock and John were both surprised at his outburst. Sherlock stood up and crossed the distance between him and John. "Okay," he breathed. Then he kissed John. They slowly made their way back to their bedroom.
The next day, when the typical jeers of "freak" and "psychopath" came from Donovan and Anderson, Sherlock wasn't disturbed by them. Instead, he held John's hand a little tighter as they walked into the crime scene.