John's fairly certain they might be right.
That is to say, all these random people who keep thinking he and Sherlock…
He can't finish the sentence –isn't exactly sure how to finish it. Because that's the thing –what are they? Friends, right? But then there's all those strangers –the waitress or waiter, a mom shopping nearby, someone on the Tube –"you two are cute together", "how long have you been dating?"
John can't deny that he's been thinking about what it all means. Hell, that's why he's lying awake at three o'clock in the morning…
At first, he just shrugged it off, but goddammit, what's he to do when it happens at least twice a week?
It's not that he's being –heavens no. He just –God. It's rubbing into his brain or something. They'll be in the street, and John will wonder vaguely if they look like a couple, and then he'll immediately mentally kick himself. And then he'll look to Sherlock and wonder what people presumed he saw in the detective. (Consulting detective.)
The dark curls, maybe? The exotic cheekbones? The piercing eyes? An accentuated upper lip, probably perfect when—
John balks at where his line of thought it going. His breath catches.
Does this mean-? Well, no, he was just thinking, no harm in that. Besides, Sherlock probably doesn't even…
Oh.
John frowns. Does Sherlock even-? Would Sherlock even be interested? Which is not to say John is… alright, alright, maybe he is!
He sits up suddenly, sighing heavily.
He can't sleep.
Might as well make a cup of tea while he's up. He's going to be utterly tiresome, later, when he's cranky with no sleep.
John slips a robe over his pyjamas.
He supposes he shouldn't be so surprised that Sherlock is out of his room, too. Does the man ever sleep? Wait no, that's a terrible question.
John makes a noise of acknowledgment to Sherlock as he goes to boil some water.