Things Have Changed
Sherlock,
I had a ridiculous idea. Actually, I thought it was quite brilliant, but I'm sure you'll say otherwise. You aren't . . . like me. You aren't . . . All those people, the ones who think I'm gay. . . They're right, Sherlock.
They think we're a couple. I deny it only for the fact that I know you find the mere idea of it stupid. I'm probably stupid for wishing they were right about it. Sherlock, I think I love you. I know you don't feel the same, but I keep getting it in my stupid head, this bloody idea, that you might care. But I'm sure you don't.
Please, just . . . consider it.
John.
The doctor sighed, glancing from his paper to the door leading to Sherlock's bedroom. He stood, his leg protesting only a little. Ever since he had gotten into this fast paced new life with Sherlock, it hardly ever bothered him. But her would still not agree that it was psychosomatic.
John knelt down and placed the letter under Sherlock's door. He watched as it disappeared, Sherlock picking it up on the other side of the door. He returned to the couch, doing his absolute best not to stare toward the room while he waited for Sherlock to come out.
Instead of Sherlock exiting, a new piece of paper appeared. The doctor's heart began to pound, as though a familiar war drum was inside his chest. What if it wasn't a response? What if it was just his letter, rejected? That would be worse than a negative reply.
John made himself get up and look at it, trying to clear his head of doubts.
Come in—SH.
John swallowed. Sherlock wanted to talk about it. Oh god. Seeing rejection on paper was different than having to face it in person. At least if it was written, he didn't have to hear it come straight from Sherlock's lips, and he wouldn't have to worry about the other man seeing him cry.
He just took a deep breath and grasped the doorknob, turning it.
"Sherlock . . ." he started, but he couldn't find more words.
"Shut up." Sherlock didn't snap the words as an order like he usually did. He used a soft, calm tone. The detective turned to gaze at his flatmate. "You're right, John."
"About what?" he asked, nervously clenching his hand into a fist then stretching his fingers, a habit that had formed some time ago, showing up when he was anxious.
"You're idea about me caring."
John's heart squeezed, disappointment coursing through him. Of course he was right—Sherlock didn't care about him. Not the way John cared about Sherlock, at least. He opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock pressed a finger to it, hushing him.
"You said you thought I might. You're right. I do." Sherlock's hand reached for John's. The doctor grasped it, eyes widened. He felt like a schoolboy who had just asked a girl to prom, and she'd said yes. "Listen, John. I told you a long time ago that I wasn't interested." He paused. "Things have changed."
The detective leaned down and gave a soft kiss to the other man's forehead. "I'm not quite sure how these relationships work, so you're going to have to be patient with me. You'll have to show me how to do this. Alright?"
"O—Of course," John stammered. His heart began to flutter. He couldn't control what he did next, throwing his arms around Sherlock and burying his head into the man's chest. He breathed in that scent that was so distinctly Sherlock, and closed his eyes. "Thank you. For giving this a chance."
"You're welcome, John."
.
.
.
Thank you!
Thank for reading, everyone! I hope you like this. This was written, in part, right after I got done deerstalking in the woods. Deerstalking. Apparently, that is a real thing. However, real as it is, I did not get to wear a deerstalker. The other half of this was written when I was in algebra, because, well, algebra is boring.
I hope you all enjoyed this!