It is midnight, the night Sherlock witnessed the Hound in the moor. John walks down the hallway where they're staying, desperate for a bite to eat. He rummages through the cupboards of a kitchen until he locates a small jar of jam. Unable to locate any bread, he sighs and uses a spoon to get a small sampling. It's strawberry, his favorite. He smiles, and decides that it simply must return to his room with him. He departs the kitchen and begins the short walk back to his room. On the way, he passes Sherlock's room, and rather than the soft, pleasant sound of Sherlock's snore, he hears an alarming sound that resembles sobbing.
John knocks on the door.
"Sherlock?" He calls worriedly. He tries again, his tone more frantic. The sobs stop briefly, and a wobbly voice calls from within, "John? I-i-is that you?"
"Yes, Sherlock, it's me. I'm here," John says, trying the doorknob. Thankfully, it's unlocked, and he slowly opens the door. Sherlock is curled up in a ball on his still made bed. His face glistens in the moonlight streaming in from the windows, and it is easy for John to make out the tearstains.
"What is it?" John asks quickly, rushing across the carpeted floor to Sherlock's side.
"I see it still," Sherlock responds, his pale blue eyes widening, his breathing coming in short gasps.
"Oh, Sherlock, not this hound business again," John says dismissively.
"John, I know what I saw. Why won't you believe me?" Sherlock doesn't sound like himself, and it scares his only friend. John sighs, realizing that he has to lie to comfort Sherlock. Hopefully, Sherlock is in no state of mind to realize he's lying.
"I believe you, Sherlock," John says. Sherlock's eyes narrow for a moment, but the scent of booze drifts across the space between them, and John realizes Sherlock hit up the bar after he left angrily earlier in the evening. Clearly, he won't remember this in the morning.
"You do?" Sherlock asks, his tone hopeful and innocent.
"Yes, of course." John tousles his hair as if Sherlock were five, and Sherlock gives him a small smile in return. Sherlock sits up suddenly and looks John straight in his eyes.
"John," Sherlock begins, and John is confused.
"Yes?"
"Do you believe I love you?" John is taken aback, shocked to hear the words escape Sherlock's lips, words he's always hoped to hear.
"I like to," John replies, giving him a small smile. Sherlock places his hand on the nape of John's neck and pulls him forward, drunkenly kissing him for the first time. John tastes like strawberry jam, Sherlock's favorite. John is hesitant at first, but after the initial surprise wears off he gives in, returning the kiss. They stop and both gasp.
"I love you too, Sherlock," John says, smiling broadly. Sherlock smiles back and laughs a little, a rare laugh that is music to John's ears, a laugh that's typically reserved for new crimes to solve. They stare at each other lovingly for awhile, until sleep finally begins to take over Sherlock. His lids begin to droop, and John draws back his covers. He helps him into bed and tucks him in, stopping just short of kissing his forehead.
"Goodnight John," Sherlock says, the last words he utters before he falls fast asleep.
"Goodnight Sherlock," John whispers after his best friend is already asleep. He creeps out of the room, stepping gingerly over the jam he spilled during their kiss. While he knows Sherlock won't remember in the morning, he is happy to just have had that brief moment with him.
Sure enough, Sherlock doesn't remember about the moment they shared at midnight. But he apologizes for cutting him off the previous night, and that's all John needs. When he does, John turns and walks a ways down the road, so Sherlock doesn't see the pleasure it brings him to be called his only friend. He likes to think he's special, and now he's had it confirmed twice by the most important person in his universe. He's content to be friends for awhile longer, but he hopes to be more someday soon.