John looked up from the newspaper with surprise etched in his features. "Sherlock?" He spoke softly, the word bobbing through the air like a fluffy duckling scurrying out after its mother. The tall detective had an expression of thunder, pain seeping into the mysteriously coloured abyss of his eyes as his head oscillated slowly to the side.
"J-John," was the ragged reply, laboured breathing filling the thick air that surrounded them as the tall man stumbled closer as if the very room and sense of mind was trying to hold him back.
Suddenly, Johns hands were no longer holding his paper, the wrinkled sheets replaced with soft brown curls. Sobs of anguish shook through Sherlock, leaving damp tear stains over the warm wool of the oatmeal jumper.
"Hush now," the doctor murmured, taken aback but concerned for his friend. "It will all be okay, I promise." As cool, slender fingers slipped beneath his clothes and lifted to press against his chest, he smiled softly. With a pounding heart, he began to gently pet Sherlock's hair, grounding the man and content to simply wait for him to be okay again.
Eventually, the wrecked breathing settled down, matching John's own as the other slowly slipped off to sleep, his face still pressed into the jumper clad belly.
It was in that moment that John realised how much Sherlock meant to him: he loved the dependence, no matter how slight, and revelled in being able to help the great genius in any way. At that time, he wasn't sure what this all meant.
But, let us just say that perhaps Doctor John Watson was not quite as heterosexual as he claimed.