They were there in his head, always, even when he didn't think about them. The "emotions", the ones that he tried so hard, too hard, not to feel. Why? Because they get in the way, they make mistakes, they're not rational (but really what is?). Sherlock had many excuses.
He just didn't want to get hurt.
But then he met John. John, sweet, calm, caring John, who would always look at him with those gorgeous blue eyes and tell him that he would always be there. His John. He knew he couldn't lock up the emotions anymore. They started to hurt him, drive him crazy. So finally, after having a little too much to drink one night at Angelo's restaurant, Sherlock turned to John and told him flat out "I love you". John looked at Sherlock; those big brown eyes, they said everything his mouth didn't. John's mouth said he was straight, that he was sorry, that Sherlock had just had a lot to drink, and that he wasn't thinking straight. But Sherlock didn't hear any of it. Not a single word. Because he heard John's eyes better. John's eyes, he could relate to. His eyes said that he was confused, and angry, and scared, and didn't understand why he wasn't sure, and didn't know which side of his heart to trust, the side he wanted or the side he wanted to hide.
But you can't hide anything from Sherlock.
Sherlock heard that in John's eyes and turned away, afraid to look any longer in case John decided to play straight.
John looked away from Sherlock hurt and confused and trying to figure things out.
Sherlock opened the door to the flat and went to his bedroom immediately. He lay on his bed and realized he was crying; letting out all of the hurt that was inside. He thought telling John how he felt would make it easier, thought that John would understand, maybe even feel the same way. Sherlock thought about getting his violin, but that meant moving, and more importantly walking past John, and that was something Sherlock wouldn't, couldn't do.
Sherlock cried himself to sleep that night wondering why he'd ever let his emotions go. they had gone and done exactly what he'd known they would.
They'd gotten him hurt.
John sat on the couch staring into the empty eye sockets of the skull on the mantelpiece, trying to figure out what had just happened. Sherlock had just confessed love for John, and he, John had brushed him off like the gunpowder off the furniture, or tried to. John didn't know what to do, he didn't understand how he felt, he wanted to but he couldn't. He picked up the pillow and threw it across the room. He wanted to scream, to yell, he wanted to understand, and then like dust settling at the bottom of a glass of water, he could, he knew which side of his heart he trusted.
John stood up and walked toward Sherlock's bedroom door, hesitating for a moment at the frame; then slowly pushed open the door and lay down behind Sherlock and stared at the back of his neckmemorizing everything about it. Where his curls stopped, every crease or line, the pale color of his skin, everything, and then he whispered one word.
"Sherlock-"
Sherlock stirred gently in his sleep, and John sat up and looked at Sherlock's face. He wished he could just freeze time right then and just look at Sherlock forever. But he couldn't, so instead he leaned forward and slowly whispered four words in the sleeping man's ear.
"I love you too."
And Sherlock smiled.