*Disclaimer*: I am not in possession of Sherlock, John, or any of the other characters in BBC's Sherlock.
There isn't much to this story except fluff, short kisses, and a little bit of whipped cream on pancakes. Enjoy!
Sherlock had been gone from the flat for a few days, following up on an old case Lestrade couldn't figure out. The flat was already starting to resemble a place two people might live in due to Sherlock's absence. The papers that usually crowded the coffee table were neatly stacked, the kitchen no longer had the stale aroma of rotting whatever-it-was-Sherlock-was-experimenting-with, the desk and all its books were finally at peace, and the blanket that was usually tossed over the back of John's chair was neatly folded. John took pride in his cleaning and organizing skills. Being a soldier, he was organized and clean in his work. Living with Sherlock was a bit of a challenge.
There was milk in the fridge, soap in the shower, clean laundry waiting to be folded. John always avoided the idea that if he and Sherlock were classified as a couple, he would be the more womanly of the bunch. Not that he had anything against men folding laundry and cooking. He rather enjoyed cooking for Sherlock, even if the man wouldn't touch any of the food.
John let out a breath as he carried the laundry to his chair, sat down and started folding. His jumpers, trousers, and button ups. Sherlock's soft scarves, and silky shirts. John turned the TV, or telly, on and watched a few minutes of whatever it was that was on as he folded his friend's laundry, and separated his in two different piles. Enough of this crap telly, John thought. He changed it to the local news channel. He finished folding the last pair of Sherlock's pajamas, and slouched back into his chair, his eyes on the news.
Oh my god, thought John. That's Sherlock. He saw Sherlock running after a short man wearing a suit that was much too big for him and carrying a giant pole. How on earth are people shooting this? Why don't they help the poor man, and catch the damn criminal? His eyes glued to the television and his eyebrows squished together, he willed the short man to slow down and make it easier for Sherlock to catch him. "The famous Holmes does it again," the commentator says as Sherlock took down the short man by tripping him with the man's own pole. God only knows what it was for. John let out a sigh. He wasn't worried about Sherlock, he just wanted his friend to be greeted with the success of a case. If Sherlock came home grumbling about the "damn short man got away", John would have had to lock himself in his room until Sherlock was done complaining.
John brought Sherlock's laundry into Sherlock's room and put it away in his closet, button ups to the left, scarves hanging on the door, hang the pants up just right. God help the man if he got it wrong. Then he went into his own room to put his laundry away. He waited for Sherlock to get home. It wouldn't be long anyway. Just in time for dinner. John put a pot of water on the stove and prepared to make bow tie pasta with a light tomato sauce and wilted greens on the side. He breezed through making his dinner with ease, as he had done it plenty of times before, although never for Sherlock and himself. Even though Sherlock wouldn't eat.
John set the table, finished up fixing the greens, and poured the sauce over the pasta right as Sherlock walked through the door.
"John!" Sherlock yelled from around the corner, throwing his coat and his scarf over the back of the couch. "John I need to speak with you!"
John stirred the sauce in and wiped his hands on his pants. "What is it, Sherlock?" he asked walking into the living room to see his friend sprawled out on the couch with red in his sallow cheeks.
"I need my patches. I need some tea. I need you to go change into comfortable clothing and bring a blanket out with you. We are having a very long conversation about numerous things I haven't gotten to talk to you about and I don't care how long it takes. Please." Sherlock said. He never considered how his actions might affect other people. Well, not around anyone but John. He knew John wouldn't be bothered by his demands and wouldn't question his motives so far as to not follow through. He admired that about John. That John was so willing to do whatever Sherlock needed of him.
John was slightly confused at Sherlock's list of things he needed to do, but he always found it better to do what Sherlock asked and then question, rather than to question and then do. To another person it may have seemed silly and slightly ridiculous, but John trusted Sherlock. He wasn't quite sure why, as Sherlock was looked upon as insane and unstable, but he did. So he walked over to the drawer where Sherlock's nicotine patches were, threw the box at Sherlock and it promptly hit Sherlock on the side of head and bounced off. "Nice throw," Sherlock said dryly. "Nice catch," John retorted with the same dull tone.
John then retired to the kitchen to put the kettle on, and while the water was boiling for tea, he went into his room, changed into his pajamas (an old T-shirt from his tours in Afghanistan) and a pair of boxers. It was acceptable to walk around a flat inhabited by two men in your boxers, and anyway, if Sherlock was going to keep John for so long, John wanted to be in something that he would be comfortable sleeping in. He threw his house robe over his shoulders, however, because he didn't feel comfortable walking about at an early hour in his boxers. Sherlock hadn't seen him in his boxers yet, and he intended to keep it that way. Not that he would have been embarrassed. He grabbed his favorite comforter, wrapped it around him, and walked back to the kitchen where the water was just right, made some tea, put it in cups, and walked into the living room where Sherlock was no longer sitting on the couch.
John sat down in his chair, sipped his tea and got comfortable as he waited for Sherlock to come back into the room. He figured Sherlock was putting on comfortable clothes as well. Maybe he would come out in just his sheet, like that one time. No. What was John thinking? Of course he preferred Sherlock in clothes, just like Sherlock preferred John in clothes. Well, John didn't know that for sure, but he assumed. Sherlock walked around the corner in his blue pajama bottoms and his house robe, as was normal attire for lounging around the flat.
"You've made dinner." He stated. It wasn't a question, but John replied with a "Yes, for both of us, if you feel like eating." Sherlock began shaking his head, but decided against it. He thought that maybe starting this discussion over dinner would be a good thing.
"Well if you've made enough for the two of us, I won't say no," Sherlock said. John was shocked. Sherlock never ate what John cooked him. He, although willing to eat dinner with Sherlock, was starting to question what Sherlock was up to. John got up, with his blanket still wrapped around him, as it was cold inside the flat, and walked into the kitchen. He served up dinner, and sat down across the table from Sherlock. Usually, John would avoid asking Sherlock questions, but he threw caution to the wind.
"Sherlock, what's going on? You're eating. With me. There must be something going on." John asked, completely in the dark. And he was completely in the dark. While Sherlock was chasing the short man with the pole, he realized that he would have liked to have John beside him. When John was beside him he felt safer. Of course he wouldn't let anyone see that, but he did. He felt safer when John was with him because of the many times John saved him from being killed or injured. John was a doctor, and above all, John was his friend. Which got him to thinking.
"Well yes," Sherlock nodded, filling his fork with pasta, "there is something going on." He swallowed and tried to focus on evading John for as long as he could. At least through dinner. He didn't even know what he was going to talk to John about. Well he did. He wanted to… oh God, how could he go about this.
"Well? Are you going to tell me what, or not?" John asked, taking a sip of his tea. It didn't go well with the pasta, but it was what he had, and he wasn't going to open the milk just yet. He liked to have a full container of milk in the morning. John was starting to form ideas about what Sherlock wanted to talk about that would be so important. Was he going to tell John that he couldn't live in the flat? Or that he was giving up being the world's only consulting detective? Was he going to tell John that he wanted to be more than friends? No, John thought, you told yourself you would stop thinking about Sherlock like that. He has beautiful cheek bones, and beautiful hands. The way his muscles move when he plays the violin. You love all of that about him, but he's not interested and it would be best if you just stopped feeling like this about him. It's been long enough that you know he won't ever be interested in you. Stop it.
What the hell am I supposed to tell him? Sherlock thought, I can't tell him that I'd die for him. I can't tell him that I love how he knows where all of my laundry goes. I can't. He won't believe me. I've been so cold toward him for so long he'll think that this is just another experiment. Friends, he'll believe. Something more? Of course not. And he's a soldier, he'll never be interested in me. He has been through so much more than I have. How would could I possibly live up to his standards? Oh god, what have I started?
Despite the thoughts that were speeding through their heads, they both put on a very good show. John with curiosity across his face, and Sherlock with his blank, yet thoughtful gaze. He studied John, tried to read what he was thinking. All he saw was the usual John, although he was wrapped up in a striped comforter. Cute. Sherlock gave into his feelings. He had had enough of trying to lie to himself about his feelings for John. He adored everything about him, and he couldn't ignore it anymore. He wanted John to be comfortable because he wasn't sure how uncomfortable he'd be by the end of their conversation. And Sherlock changed because he wanted to feel comfortable as well. He was finally thinking for someone other than himself, and John didn't see that.
John ate his pasta and his greens, and put his dishes in the sink to do later. Sherlock's plate wasn't even half empty, but John was just happy that he had gotten food into him. "That was good, John," Sherlock said. He had no idea where to go from here. He knew that complimenting people made them feel good. John nodded and mumbled a thank you as he poured himself more tea, but this time in a larger mug. He was about to sit down and have a conversation with Sherlock, and he didn't know when he might be finished. "Let's move into the living room, shall we?" Sherlock asked. He was tapping his fingers against his thighs, and acting very strangely. John noticed this and also got more nervous. What on earth could Sherlock be wanting to tell me? He's never this nervous.
The two moved into the living room, Sherlock lied down on the couch, and John sat in his chair, wrapped up with his blanket. Sherlock pushed his coat over the edge of the back of the couch and took a deep breath. John was getting more and more nervous with every second Sherlock took to get his thoughts in order. Eventually, John broke the silence.
"Sherlock spit it out. You're setting me on edge. I've got work tomorrow, you know." John had wide eyes and a nervous gaze. Sherlock nodded. "I know, I know. You've no idea how difficult this will be, but I need to get it out there. Give me time."
John didn't know what Sherlock was about to confess. He didn't know Sherlock had the will power to say what he was going to say. Sherlock didn't know that John had been wanting to hear it for far too long, and both of the men were in such a predicament with their feelings, as the time they spent with each other, they found themselves growing more and more fond of the other. John admired Sherlock's brain and Sherlock admired John's heart. The next step they needed to take was to just say it and get it over with.
Sherlock didn't know what road he was taking when he spoke, and he didn't know what road John would choose to take after he said it. But like every other situation he had been in, he acted on impulse. "John, I think you have the wrong idea about me." Sherlock said, looking up at the ceiling and exhaling through his teeth. This conversation could lead to anywhere.
"What do you mean?" John asked. He was at a loss as to where he might end up by tomorrow.
"Well. I can feel, you know. I have emotions. I know I have a difficult time expressing them, but they are there, you know," Sherlock took a breath and closed his eyes. "And no matter what I tell myself, how ever far away I place myself from them, my emotions are always there."
"Sherlock, I know you can feel. I know you better than anyone; I've seen you at your best and your worst. Don't give me that. " John was scared. Sherlock was sounding shaky and John wasn't feeling much different.
"Well, it's just that everyone thinks that I'm an emotionless whatever they call me. And just recently I've had an experience with my emotions that I'm unfamiliar with, and I need your advice," Sherlock confessed. He did need advice from John. John knew how to love and how to care for someone. Sherlock had never tried. As hard as it was for Sherlock to confess this to John, it was a very liberating experience.
John let out a silent sigh of relief. First, nothing catastrophic had happened to Sherlock, and nothing was happening to him, and better yet, nothing was happening to them. Sherlock just needed advice. Strange as that was, it was a good thing.
"Alright," John started "what kind of advice?"
"Don't you dare laugh at me, John." Sherlock warned.
"Fine, fine. Just tell me. I'll be happy to help."
"How to love a person," Sherlock quickly said and with shame. He got up off the couch and started pacing, with his hands clasped behind his back. John smirked. Finally Sherlock was getting interested in relationships. But then John realized. It wouldn't be with him. Sherlock was probably interested in someone else. A woman, probably. No matter. Sherlock was John's best friend and John would help him in any way possible.
"You've got to be more specific, Sherlock. There are a lot of things that go into loving a person. And in what way, as well. How do you want to love this person?" John asked. He took a big sip of his tea and tightened his blanket.
Sherlock thought that if he pretended he was talking about someone else, John would be more open to the idea of him loving anyone. So far, he seemed to be right. At least his deductions weren't failing him like his feelings were.
"I want to love a person like lovers do, John. Like you and your girlfriends. Only I want the relationship to last," Sherlock stated. He immediately realized his mistake "No offense" he added quickly. Sherlock didn't mean to offend John by insulting his many adventures with numerous women.
John brushed it off as he thought most of his relationships were rubbish anyway. "No offense taken. But you're wanting to love a person like lovers do? Why?" John asked. Curiosity got the better of him. He had to keep his smile in check, he didn't want to laugh at Sherlock, but something deep down was making him so happy that he couldn't help but grin with goofiness when Sherlock's back was to him.
"Because, John. I think I'm ready enough to be in a relationship. Now what have I got to do?" Sherlock demanded. Getting answers right from John would make it easier to start showing John how exactly he felt about him.
"Well, who? Who do you want to.. you know.. love?" John asked. Teaching someone to love wasn't the easiest feat in the world. Not to mention that John was teaching Sherlock. A seemingly emotionless drone was married to his work.
"Just someone. Tell me!" Sherlock barked. He was getting antsy, pacing to and fro. He just wanted answers.
"Alright, alright!" John responded. "First of all, you've got to know what they like and don't like. If they like classical music or not. If they like Italian food or not. That sort of stuff. Do you?"
"Of course I do, John. You do know who I am," Sherlock responded softly, not meaning to sound cocky, but being cocky nonetheless. John nodded, and brushed this comment aside.
"Alright. And then you've got to know how they respond to things. Like to movies. If they cry or not. Stuff like that. Do you? Wait, yes of course you do. Anyway, then you've got to know them. What they're like. If they are outspoken, kind, rural. And you probably know that. You've got to be able to please them. To do things that make them smile. Do the dishes once in a while, rent a movie, cook a nice meal." John stopped. He was listing things that he did for Sherlock all the time. If he didn't stop, Sherlock would realize how John felt about him.
Sherlock was listening intently and pacing, shooting quick glances over at John. He knew everything about John, like John said. That step was out of the way. He knew exactly what John was like. Kind, understanding, quick to help. Then he needed to start doing things that John would appreciate. Maybe he would cook dinner for John the next night. "Go on," Sherlock said, interrupting his own thoughts.
"Alright. And then if you think they aren't interested in you, you've got to find out first. See if they actually are interested in you. That should be easy enough for you," John said. If only you knew, John Watson, Sherlock thought.
"Then if you know they aren't interested, you go about getting them interested in you. Do things they like, dress subtly to make them notice you more. Things like that. But if they are interested in you, you go on a date. You know what those are," John said, finishing up his tutorial. Sherlock paced back and forth for a few more moments.
"I think I understand now. Thank you." Sherlock said. And then he flopped down on the couch to process. He was going through the steps when he got to the part where one is supposed to do things that the person they are interested in like. Sherlock liked it when John put his clothes away, when John brought home the groceries, when John answered the phone, when John brought home awful detective movies that Sherlock saw right through. John couldn't have been doing this just because they were friends. He realized that this whole time John was actually interested in him. John, by his definition of love, loved him.
They both sat in silence for a while. John wondering if he gave away too much, Sherlock wondering what he would do next to further his progress with John. Wanting to end it all, John looked over at Sherlock, and said "Is that all?"
Sherlock, being startled out of his thoughts, sat up and nodded. "You can go to bed, now, if you'd like."
John nodded and brought his tea mug to the kitchen, set it in the sink, and made his way to bed. He drowned his thoughts in deep sleep. Sherlock was quite certain that John had been showing his love for a very long time, and that made him happier than he had ever been. As he padded his way down to his bedroom, he smiled wide and sighed in contentment. He knew what he'd do tomorrow.
Sherlock woke up early the next morning and went immediately to the kitchen to do the dishes and make breakfast. Even though he didn't cook regularly, he had done enough studies to know how to make very good pancakes. He set the tea kettle on, mixed up some batter, threw John's favorite fruit (blueberries and strawberries) in it, and made three for each of them. His timing was impeccable. As he set the table, after cleaning up the counters, he could hear John coming down the hallway into the kitchen. Sherlock busied himself with making John some tea just the way he liked it.
John came into the kitchen smelling something delicious. He turned the corner and saw a table set for two, with two plates of berry pancakes, a container of whipped cream, and a tall glass of milk by one plate. Sherlock's back was to him, and John took the opportunity to look at the muscles of Sherlock's back move underneath the thin fabric of his house robe as he stirred the sugar and cream into the tea he was making for John.
"I decided to make breakfast today, sit down," Sherlock said and he handed John the cup of tea. John rubbed his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair. His favorite breakfast was sitting before him, and the dishes were done. John didn't want to question Sherlock, but he remembered the conversation they had the night before. He wondered, well, hoped, if Sherlock was doing this because of the reasons they had discussed. Hearing a growl in his stomach, however, set John to spraying the whipped cream on his pancakes and eating them without so much as a word.
Sherlock even ate his breakfast, slowly, as he was watching John devour his. After John had finished, he looked up at Sherlock who had a soft expression on his face. "What occasion?" John asked.
"Hm?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow "I'm not sure what you mean."
"What occasion is it? It's not my birthday, not Christmas. What prompted you to make these?" He asked. All hopes of love and romance escaped him. He couldn't let that haunt him anymore.
"Well," Sherlock began clearing the table with John. They put all the dishes in the sink and as Sherlock was putting the toppings away, he said "I once heard that if you love someone, you do things that make them happy." He smiled as he stood up and leaned against the fridge.
John stood in shock. Sherlock couldn't have said that. "What?" John said, trying to clear his brain and open his ears to what Sherlock had actually said.
"Someone very special told me that if you love someone, you do things that make them smile." Sherlock repeated himself. John had heard right.
"Oh my god," John said in shock. He stood gawking at Sherlock.
This wasn't quite the reaction Sherlock had anticipated. "What? What's wrong?" He asked. Had he ruined everything by making a simple mistake? Maybe he used the wrong kind of berries. No, that couldn't have been it.
John's shocked face turned into the biggest smile. "Nothing. Nothing is wrong. I've waited for so long to hear those words, Sherlock, you wouldn't believe me. I've spent months trying to get over you, thinking my chances were zero to none. But you just told me, you practically told me that-that-"
"I love you, and I always have?" Sherlock finished John's sentence. He took three steps to John and wrapped him up in the long and lean arms that John had been waiting to be in. There was absolutely no word to describe the joy John had felt in that moment.
"Sherlock," John said without any intention to finish his statement.
"John," Sherlock responded. They smiled and stayed wrapped in one another's arms for what seemed like hours. Sherlock leaned back for a second and looked into John's eyes, searching for the certainty he so needed. Immediately he found it, and brought his lips to John's. It wasn't a deep kiss, just a light one, that lasted for a fleeting moment.
"Perhaps you should call in sick, today, John. I got a new detective movie I want to watch with you." Sherlock said. He had planned this day out to this exact second, until the end of the movie.
"There's nothing I would want to do more," John said with a smile and walked over to the phone. He coughed into it, with a croupy voice and told the desk worker that he couldn't come in. Sherlock had walked into the living room, pushed the coffee table out of the way, and created a large empty space between the couch and the television. He lied a big blanket down over it, put pillows against the couch, and closed all the blinds. He put the movie in and went to get John in the kitchen.
"It'll be like our own drive-in," Sherlock said and grabbed John's hand. He pulled him to the living room and sat down with crossed legs leaning against the base of the couch. He patted the spot next to him and John happily sat down next to him. Sherlock put his arm around John and pulled him close so that John was leaning against his chest.
"Sherlock, I adore you," John said looking up at Sherlock. Sherlock smiled down at him.
"I'm sorry I've kept you waiting, John," Sherlock responded. John lifted his face towards Sherlock's and their lips locked for the second time. They breathed in each other's scents. John smelled like his cologne, English tea, and a little bit of mint. Sherlock smelled like pancakes, laundry detergent, and a little bit of gun powder. As they kissed, they both smiled. The movie started, but they didn't care. As long as they were with each other in the way they were meant to be. Cuddled up on the floor, instead of in two separate chairs. Locking lips instead of locking themselves away from their feelings. This is where they belonged.
"I love you" they said at the same time, as they took a short breath between kisses. They wouldn't be able to tell anyone about the movie they watched, because they only got so far as the beginning credits.