When John sticks his hand in his jacket pocket, all he expects to find are keys and maybe a few coins rattling around. What he does not expect to find is a card.
A small, white, paperboard card. He turns it over in his hand, wondering where it came from. He hasn't met anyone that would give him a business card recently, and he doesn't carry any himself. Not much to put on one, really, other than "Part-time Doctor and Gun Wielding Blogger for Sherlock Holmes." He smirks at the thought until he catches sight of the printing, in black typewriter lettering.
"I know you're in love with me."
That's puzzling. John flips it over again, examines the back for any other information. Nothing. It's completely blank other than those seven stark words, black on white.
John thinks on it a bit longer, but given it's really not the strangest thing to happen to him in recent months (the marmalade and the bees, that was strange, honestly), he simply places the card on his dresser and gets on with his day.
…...
"I see it when our eyes meet."
John pulls the card out from between the leaves of the small notebook he keeps in his desk at the surgery. He's genuinely confused by this one. No one really comes back to his small desk, nor does he take the notebook anywhere but to lunch with him, sometimes, when he has a thought for the blog he wants to get down quickly. Even then, he simply tears out the sheets he wants and takes them home, folded into a pocket. How the card got there is a mystery.
Unless…someone from the surgery managed to put it there. It wouldn't be Sarah, she knows how he feels about her (nice, but no spark) – and she about him (interested but not committed enough). He's flirted with Claire a fair number of times, but while she's always smiled in return, it wasn't like she was interested. Hell, he wasn't even that interested, but she was about 6 feet tall and gorgeously blonde, so it was almost an insult not to try. He slips the card in his pocket, closes the drawer, and makes his way back to the exam room.
…...
Two weeks go by, peppered with cases and work and Dealing with Sherlock to keep him busy, so he hasn't had time to think on the two little cards that sit on his dresser. He looks at them though, every time he puts down his wallet at night before bed. He's considered asking Sherlock if he could help find out where they came from, but Sherlock never does anything by halves, and there is a Law of Unintended Consequences, after all.
So it's a bit of a shock when he opens his locker, pulls out his white coat (needs a wash) and book (PD James is pretty tame compared to his life), and a card falls on the floor. He picks it up with trepidation, as two weeks in brought him through the first few days of nervous anticipation and back around to random speculation without care. He picks up the white rectangle, and reads:
"I hear it in your voice, when it catches on my name."
...….
It's sort of flattering, if a bit odd, even if the first message said that this person knew that John was in love with them. Since John's pretty sure he's not in love with anyone at the moment, it's a little puzzle within a puzzle. He settles more deeply into his desk chair, staring at the ceiling, and starts running a list in his head:
Sarah, Sally, Lestrade, Gregson, Anderson, Celia, Claire, Mycroft, Anthea, Molly, Melanie, Sherlock…
His mind stutters a bit over that last. Not likely. He pares down to everyone that has access to his jacket and his desk:
Sarah, Celia, Claire...and Mycroft, Anthea, and Sherlock if he were being absolutely honest.
His locker?
No one, really. Sarah, possibly.
He tries to think past the flutter in his stomach. There's one other person who would know which was his locker, and who knows the combination to his lock. He walks out of his office and steps down the hall.
"Claire, has there been anyone by to see me today?"
The receptionist looks up. "Well, no, not officially. But your flatmate was here, I saw him ducking out of the side door when I went to the loo this morning. I do wish you'd stop him doing that, it's unnerving to have him just showing up when he's not expected."
Alarm bells are going off in John's head as he backs away from the desk. He needs to get out, to think a bit, to figure out exactly what he's seeing before anything else happens.
"You alright, Dr. Watson?" Claire asks, concerned.
"Yeah. Yes. I'm fine. Going out for a minute, won't be long." He turns toward the door and bolts for it, not even bothering to remove his white coat or drop his stethoscope.
He hits the pavement and strides quickly down the street, brain whirling. If Sherlock has been the one dropping the notes, and that's a big if, why would he? In any other person it would be romantic, a declaration of intent, but Sherlock isn't one for romantic. "Not my area," he said.
And, he thinks, mind running through the possibility that it is Sherlock after all, the first note said that he knew I was in love with him. John snorts. He likes Sherlock, certainly. Cares about him, as a friend. Defends him. Wants to keep him safe. Finds him attractive, until he opens his mouth. John rolls his eyes, side-stepping pedestrians, hopping over puddles and generally trying to walk off his jarring nerves and jagged frustration at his growing certainty that Sherlock has done this, is playing a ridiculous game with him.
You don't just find yourself in love with someone without noticing.
...…
John manages to make his way through the rest of his patients that afternoon, but can't face the thought of going home quite yet, when his thoughts are still jumbled and he's almost angry at Sherlock for setting him on this road in the first place. Instead, he makes his way down to the pub on the corner, gets a drink, and sits at a quiet table, thinking.
He draws the latest little card from his pocket and lays it on the table in front of him.
He's said Sherlock's name in frustration, irritation, fear, shock, amusement and…fondness? He supposes so. Sometimes he does just have to shake his head and laugh at rows and rows of beakers taking up space in the cabinets where mugs should be, or weird noises at night that he refuses to investigate, or pouting swirls of blue dressing gown over John's refusal to let him borrow his stethoscope. Yes, they're irritating, these odd habits sprawling over everything, pushing John about and barely leaving him space. But they're Sherlock, an extension of that mad, beautiful mind, and John's found that even when he does manage to clear some away, sometimes it feels so…sterile. And boring.
Being part of Sherlock's life really is like breathing, he realizes. It's something he needs and can't live without. Graceful smiles and quicksilver mind, thrilling to the chase and quiet meals after, firelight and tea and laughing over experiments gone wrong…oh God. And if this is what Sherlock was getting at, that he, John, loves him, loves everything that is part and parcel of him, then…yes. Yes, it could be maddening and frustrating and awful, but agonizingly beautiful.
John abruptly stands, dumping his pint over on the table and ignoring it, heading directly for the door, almost running.
The front door of 221b Baker Street is locked, and it is dark. One small square of white card is pinned to the front.
"I feel it in your care for me, your fingers on my skin."
A flash of his fingers carefully fitting a dressing over a nasty burn on a pale white forearm, and the visual confirms that he's right, oh yes, he must be right.
He bounds up the stairs, opens the door to an empty sitting room and fights a wave of disappointment. Declarations and intentions live on his tongue, and the thought that he'd have to sit on them for another night or three or four is stifling. He drops his bag to the floor with slumped shoulders and defeated air, and trudges up the stairs to his room, wondering just how he can regain the momentum he felt as he left the pub just half an hour ago.
Only to step into his room and find Sherlock, dressed in pajama pants and dressing gown, asleep sitting up on his bed, back against the wall and chin on his chest. Dark curls hang over his closed eyes, eyelashes fanned out against pale, sharp cheekbones. His legs are crossed and tucked up, his hands and arms relaxed on his stomach. Under one pale hand is a single white card.
Trying desperately not to wake him, John reaches out with a shaking hand and plucks it from his limp fingers. He turns it over, heart in his throat.
"As I love you."