As far as crushes go, this is the one he's had the hardest time getting over.
It's the ones that have a definite time limit – school, uni, deployment – that are easy. Not as much invested, not as much to lose. You don't give your heart away too freely when you know 6 months down the line your life could change so drastically it's like you become another person.
But this one – oh, it's been hell. Repeated, constant, never ending exposure without end in sight has obliterated him, locked him down, held his heart out in an open palm and left it hanging there, dripping.
Because he's pretty sure he left the crush behind long, long ago. He's almost certain, God help him, that he's in love.
...
Hot.
It's so bloody hot this late day in June and John finally has enough of the painted shut window in the kitchen preventing any kind of cross-breeze. He takes a crowbar and hammer from the basement, trying not to think too hard about the uses the late Mr. Hudson might have put them to, and carries them upstairs. He looks to the closed door as he passes, and realizes Sherlock isn't up yet. He shrugs. Given that it's after 1 in the afternoon, John feels very little guilt about the noise he's about to make. He gets about three good whacks in when Sherlock comes stumbling into the kitchen with his hands over his ears.
"John, what the hell are you – oh. Finally got hot enough, did you?"
John nods, distracted by a bead of sweat that's making it's way lazily down the side of Sherlock's neck and down to his clavicle. Sherlock's continued shirtlessness is about the only good side effect of the awful weather. He turns back to the window, cramming the crowbar down into the bottom edge and taking another swing. His distraction with Sherlock's body proves fatal when the blow lands off-center, the hammer slipping off of the side and smacking the knuckles on his right hand.
"Ow, FUCK!" he cries, dropping both hammer and crowbar and clutching at his hand. "God dammit!"
Sherlock takes a quick stride across the kitchen. "Let me see," he says, reaching for John's hand.
John hesitates for a moment, then stretches it out to have a look himself. "It's fine, just bruised." Sherlock catches up his fingers and John's breath stops in his throat. Delicate fingers palpate each knuckle, flexing the fingers and testing them for fractures.
"Thought I was the doctor," John says, with a shaky laugh. His heart is pounding with pain and the gentle touch of Sherlock's fingers against his own. He exhales and pulls his hand away. "Just need some ice, and it'll be fine."
Sherlock frowns. "The only ice right now is…in use. There might be a bag of frozen peas, in the back."
"In use? Whatever it is, it better not involve dead things. I'll take my chance with the peas." He turns to the refrigerator and digs around, locating and wrapping them in a (hopefully) clean dishtowel and holding them around his hand.
Sherlock has been oddly quiet this entire time, watching John tending to his injured hand. When John looks up to question why he's still standing there, he meets John's eyes with a long, serious look. John feels something coil in his gut, the awareness of something new in that piercing gaze, but before he can act on it, Sherlock turns and retreats to the bathroom. John hears the shower start up and wonders what, exactly, just happened.
...
By eight o clock, the heat has dissipated somewhat, and John's mood has brightened considerably. He dumps a pile of korma on his plate and grabs a bottle of beer from the fridge, balancing them all in his good hand. His right hand is still pretty tender, probably will take a couple of days for the swelling to go down. He settles in the arm chair and flips on the telly.
The program is hard to follow, though, when John starts wondering about Sherlock. He disappeared this afternoon, right after his shower. John had been up in his room when he heard the door to the flat slam, and that usually means that whatever took him out wasn't a case. John knows it isn't healthy, the amount of time he spends thinking about his friend, and the likelihood of anything coming from his (admittedly rather fevered) imaginings is nil anyway. He shakes off the depressing thought and keeps eating, trying to focus on the news.
Sherlock blows in a few minutes later, eyes alight. John perks up at the smile on his face, expecting a case in the offing.
"Who died?" he asks, setting his plate down.
"No one. And hopefully no one for the next few hours," Sherlock says, making his way down the hall to the bathroom, stripping as he goes. John laughs and surreptitiously enjoys the show. Their water bill was going to be outrageous this month.
"You'd think I'd be glad to hear you say that, but honestly, it gives me the willies. What's going on?"
"I have a date," Sherlock calls from the bathroom, shouting to be heard over the water. John's not entirely sure he heard correctly, so he goes down the hall and cracks the door.
"A what?"
"You heard me," Sherlock yells from the shower. "A date. You know, when two people who like each other go out, et cetera."
John turns and leans back against the wall, and wonders if korma looks the same coming back up. He's just lost the war without firing a single shot.
" – and I'm almost certain he's taking me to Elysée, which given the weather, will be quite refreshing. John? John. Are you listening?"
"Listening to you natter on like a teenage girl," John snipes. Lovely. Greek prawns and a rooftop garden. Shit.
Fifteen minutes later John's sitting in stunned silence in his chair when Sherlock throws his door open and strides into the sitting room
"Well?" he asks, fiddling with his cuffs.
He looks devastating, white slim fit linen shirt over pearl grey trousers, dark curls artfully tumbling over one eye. He's pacing, smoothing his palms over his shirt and looking – nervous? John swallows down the bile that threatens to rise up in his throat.
"Fine. You look fine. Better than fine, actually."
Sherlock flashes a pants-dropping smile that stops John's heart. "Thank you. I'll see you later, then, yes?"
"Yes," John says. No, his brain pleads, Please don't. Stay here and let me open that shirt and press your skin against mine, kiss you until there's nothing left but the taste of you on my tongue, and me on yours.
The door slamming downstairs shatters him.
...
John's still sitting in the same chair when Sherlock bounces in after midnight with a box in his hand. He reeks of cigarettes and oregano and wine, with a high flush on his cheeks.
"Manage to get yourself laid, then?" John asks out of the darkness. Even as the words are coming out of his mouth, he's berating himself for saying them.
Sherlock stops short at his tone. "Not that it's any of your business, but no."
"Must have at least gotten a hell of a snog out of it, given the state of your hair."
Sherlock reflexively reaches up a hand to smooth the curls tangled on the back of his neck and eyes John warily. "I wasn't aware that it mattered to you."
"It doesn't."
"Then why are we having this conversation?" Sherlock asks, dropping the box and his keys on the kitchen table.
"Just a bit surprised, is all. Thought you were above things like dating."
"I'm not. Care to elaborate why you're so irritated about it?" Sherlock asks, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall.
John huffs, letting his annoyance get the better of him. "Because I distinctly remember hearing 'married to my work'!"
"And you said 'I'm not asking!'" Sherlock shouts, pointing accusingly.
"You know why that is?" John yells in return. "Because I was clearly told that you don't date! Because I've been so busy respecting your boundaries – that you insisted on, by the way –that I just let you go, even though I want you more than –" John stops, breathing heavily.
Fuck. That went well.
John throws his hands up in the air in frustration. Sherlock is staring at him, lips parted and eyes feverishly bright.
"Forget it. I'm going to bed."
Sherlock starts toward him, one hand outstretched. "John, please wait, I think –" John supposes it's meant to be a conciliatory gesture, but he's just humiliated himself and his instincts are telling him to get out, now. He cuts Sherlock off.
"Not now, Sherlock." John wraps a hand around the back of his head and closes his eyes, summoning calm. He takes a deep breath, holds it for a count of three, and releases it on one full sigh.
"Please. Not now."
...
John stares at the two pieces of baklava in the box Sherlock brought home with him last night and abandoned on the table. John supposes it's still good – how bad could honey and nuts go overnight anyway? – and picks it up to put it in the fridge.
"That was for you, you know," a deep, sleep-roughened voice says behind him. John freezes in trepidation, then turns slowly to see a disheveled Sherlock staring at him, leaning against the doorway to the kitchen. He still isn't wearing a shirt, pajama bottoms slung low on his narrow hips, and John curses the unfairness of it all. Neither says anything, and the stillness is stifling.
"I take it your hand is feeling better?" Sherlock asks, somewhat haltingly.
John holds out his hand to take a look, the first knuckle red and swollen. "Just a glancing blow. Nothing too serious."
"Nothing broken?"
"Just bruised."
"No permanent damage, then?" Sherlock says, and John frowns, wondering if they're still talking about his hand. It's just so awkward, Sherlock shifting from foot to foot and John trying to look anywhere but Sherlock's taut stomach.
John tries for normal. Normal is good. Normal is comfortable. Normal isn't telling your friend you're in love with him like a blithering idiot. He leans his bum casually against the table.
"Wasn't your date a bit put off by you bringing another man dessert?" Jesus wept, John. That wasn't how to start.
Sherlock grins. "Yes, actually. He told me to bloody well shut up about my flatmate."
John laughs and shakes his head at the image of Sherlock going on and on about cases and dead bodies over dinner. Pretty common by their standards, pretty freakish, probably, for the poor bloke he was out with. "How long had it been since you'd been on a date, anyway?"
"About five years, if you count laying my dealer in the back of a van a 'date.'"
"Laying your – good God, Sherlock. That's all kinds of levels of not good, and don't ever give me details, alright?" John crosses his arms and tucks his chin against his chest. Time to bite the bullet. "I'm sorry. I don't know what got into me last night. Let's just forget it happened and we'll go on like always. Delete it."
A smile curls Sherlock's lips. He steps across the space separating them, right up to John's chest. He grasps John's wrists, uncrossing his arms and wrapping them around his own slim waist. John inhales sharply, gets a lungful of detergent and sleep and musk, his fingers splayed against hot skin sticky with sweat. They're so close, and John feels the searing touch of Sherlock's skin through him to the point of sensory overload. He starts to tremble, clutching Sherlock's back, wondering what fresh hell Sherlock's come up with to torture him with now.
"What if I don't want to forget," Sherlock says lowly, his hands settling on John's shoulders.
John heart stutters to life and he melts against him then, his cheek coming to rest against Sherlock's sternum. He sits quietly listening to the steady beat of his heart, hope and fear building in his chest. "You just went on a date. Your first date in five years. With someone decidedly not me."
"Because he asked me. No one's ever asked me on a proper date before. And…I wanted to be sure that what I was feeling for you was related specifically to you, rather than a temporary upsurge in my libido."
John ignores the libido comment for the moment. "No one's ever asked you on a date?"
"Not really, since school. I didn't encourage it." Sherlock shifts, speaking into John's hair, thumbs caressing his neck. "I'd be lying if I said I didn't have reservations about this. I don't want to ruin what we have. How well we work together. I don't want to destroy it with a disaster of my own making."
John pulls back and looks up at him then. "I see," he says slowly. "You wanted to a, make sure you weren't just horny, and b, spare me the pain of your inevitable cock-up of this whole thing, is that the gist of it?"
"Yes, exactly." Sherlock nods.
"You're a rubbish liar."
Sherlock splutters. "I am not."
"You are. You panicked, admit it."
Sherlock flushes, smiles and ducks his head, pressing his forehead to John's. John can see his lips, slightly parted, so close to his own, and that last miniscule distance within the space of sharing breath disappears in one decisive move.
And John's heart explodes, love and lust and warmth, fear and affection pouring out of him in one kiss, a press of lips against lips. He whimpers, clutching at Sherlock's back, with Sherlock's hands cupping the sides of his face and peppering kisses across his cheekbones. As John moves to take his hand and pull him back to his room, Sherlock stops, forcing John to look him in the eye.
"How long?" he asks. The trepidation inherent in this simple question is plain on his face, hesitation lurking in those luminous eyes. John tugs Sherlock's body to his again, sliding his hands along the waistband of Sherlock's pajamas and kissing him on the throat.
"Always," John whispers.