It had begun gradually, almost imperceptibly. Sherlock hadn't even realized he was keeping track, although he must have been, even then, at the beginning of it all. It had been a touch on the shoulder for his attention, a brush of fingers as tea changed hands. On top of the medical necessities, of course; aside from the cleansing of wounds, the application of ointments and plasters. But it had grown, somehow, and he had hardly dared to analyze it. It was too fragile a thing, and it pulled at all the wrong heartstrings. To be fair, any tug of his heart was marked wrong, off limits, out of place. Dangerous.
There had been a ruffle of the hair, next, in passing. An act which was hardly necessary or practical. He had been curled up on the sofa, face pressed into the cushions. A week without a case, thoughts spinning, spitting, splitting through the seams. Too much. And then John's hand had been in his hair. Brief, a second's worth, perhaps, but enough for Sherlock to blink open his eyes, all thoughts focused suddenly on the touch, the footsteps passing, John, John, John. Far preferable, despite the niggling worry which came with such single-minded focus. He stayed close to him for the rest of the day, and the fog cleared.
After all, John was nothing if not the sun. Warm, welcoming, a source of life. Deadly when focused, yet equally capable of thawing the most stubborn of frost. And Sherlock had fancied himself a glacier.
People were often wrong when it came to their partnership. They saw John as his loyal companion, his follower, his satellite. But John could never be reduced to a mere moon.
His pulse. That had been next, a press of John's fingers against his vein which had morphed into something else. John's palm had pressed against his own, fingers curling around his hand, only for a moment. A squeeze, for what… reassurance? That was hardly necessary, as Sherlock was perfectly fine, if perhaps a bit lightheaded. Nothing that biscuits and tea couldn't cure. Honestly. John was behaving as if he'd collapsed, when the room had only gone a bit grey for a few seconds. Silly.
The shifts in proximity were sometimes a matter of meters, but were usually better measured in centimeters, millimeters. After John had first chosen a seat of the sofa, invading Sherlock's space, his territory, and yet in such a way that Sherlock found he didn't mind, it had decreased to these small increments. A shift closer for a better view into the kitchen. A hand on his knee, once, as they both laughed about a man behind bars. The distance between their knees closing, until.
Sherlock hadn't intended to fall asleep. And when he had, John rightly should have moved him. Shouldn't have allowed him to slump against his shoulder, his face pressed into the crook of John's neck. It was post-case, and several days devoted to the Work had left him frustratingly in need of sleep.
What John really shouldn't have done was wrap him in his arms. He shouldn't have arranged things so that when Sherlock woke, hazy, dulled by sleep, he'd find himself enveloped in comforting warmth. His heart swelled, and his eyes moistened for some odd reason, and he didn't want to hear John's "Alright?" Yes, of course, perfectly fine. He nuzzled gently against John's shoulder and closed his eyes again.
Lips. Pressed into Sherlock's hair, gentle affection. But it brought to mind what else those lips could do, and Sherlock finally pulled away, retreated. John would want to use them in those ways, would want more than Sherlock could give, if he wanted this at all. And he did seem to want Sherlock close. There had been a pleasing lack of girlfriends lately, an increase in fingers brushed together and pats on the back and "amazing, brilliant, wonderful." Smiles which spilled rays of light.
He should have brought an end to it sooner. Before the lips.
John had knocked on his door. Incessant, insistent. Sherlock burrowed under his blankets so that when John inevitably opened it, nothing could be seen. He let the moment pass.
"Sherlock, we need to talk. There's, erm, something I'd like to say."
Sherlock arranged his face in a neutral expression, but John seemed to see something in his eyes. He reached forward for Sherlock's hand. Sherlock didn't pull it away. Together, on the sofa. John was nervous, anxious, sincere.
"This is…" A sheepish smile, a glance down at their hands. "This, here, with you. It's the happiest I've ever been."
Good, so far. Sherlock glanced, too, at their hands.
"And I know you're married to your work, and all…"
But was John not a part of that work, now? Integrated, integral.
"So, I just want you to know that, this is enough. The way we are now, it's, well, brilliant."
"John-"
"No, let me finish. I've been doing a lot of thinking. And. I've decided that this is where I want to be. Until the end, really. If that's alright with you. As friends, or… or whatever else, but I want it to be with you."
Friends. Sherlock didn't want that, no, he wanted John's hand in his, he wanted John arms around him at night, he wanted togetherness. John as his, him as John's. And as far as he knew, friends, platonic, weren't meant to do those things. And as firm as he was in the belief that caring was not an advantage, that sentiment was a defect found on the losing side, as deeply as those convictions had been ingrained in him, he found that now, with John, his source of warmth and tea and the very essence with home, the risk would be worthwhile. John had chosen him, by some miracle (not that there was such a thing), by a beautiful twist of chance. Now, if only they could get the details straight.
Sherlock collected the words into the right order. He knew he had to choose correctly, that this moment was important. He spoke slowly, he met John's eyes, his fingers traced along the paths of John's veins.
"I want to be with you. Of course."
He swallowed, eyes glancing down, then back. He wished that this weren't necessary. He wished that he could breathe it all to John through a kiss, that he could give him all he wanted and more. John would always want the more.
"However, I can guarantee that I won't want to be with you in the carnal sense at any point in time. That will not change. It has never been where my interests lie. John, this choice…"
John was letting go of Sherlock's hand. Sherlock held firm. John had misunderstood.
"This choice is not one that you have to make. It would likely be best for you to move on to the next batch of dull women. But I want all the rest of it, if you're willing to give up the sexual element."
Sherlock's voice had sped up by the end, becoming more clipped as his grip tightened. He waited, expectant, terrified and fully embarrassed of that fact. Now that he had thawed, he wasn't certain that he could revert to his previous state. The packaging, after all, always advised against refreezing.
Fortunately, the silence wasn't long enough for him to turn into a puddle.
"Were you not listening to me?"
John was pulling him in, taking his other hand.
"I said anything, friends or beyond. It would be my honor, my absolute pleasure, to be your… whatever it is you're proposing. Your romantic partner. I'm not a sex fiend, alright?"
John's arms were around him, and it was good, it was earth shattering, and Sherlock never wanted him to let go. He smelled of jam and toast and fabric softener, sea breeze.
"This is good. More than good. This is… hey, it's alright. This is perfect. You're perfect."
Sherlock sniffled and burrowed closer. Not strictly true, but he could take it.
Sherlock had once called John a conductor of light. He'd been focusing on the wrong type. When it came to intellect, Sherlock was certainly a star, but in many other areas, John far outshined him. Perhaps they'd both formed from the same cloud of dust, perfect complements. John excelled at this, being a beacon of comfort, a certainty in a world which was hard to trust.
"I love you," Sherlock mumbled.
"I love you, too, you big idiot. That's the point of this. You really should pay better attention."
Sherlock butted him in the shoulder, and John laughed, filling the room with summer.