I loved Sherlock first.

He caught on fairly quickly, though. Not to detract from his side of things, not at all.

I remember being at the flat that night, having just gotten off a case. Sherlock had dragged me halfway across the country and back that day, and I was bloody exhausted. I didn't want anything to do with anyone that night, just wanted to curl up in my armchair and bathe myself in the low light of some night-time telly. The case had us in Sheffield, if I recall correctly. No matter, really, wherever we were, it involved rather too much running after criminals and not enough sitting around in cabs for your average bloke's taste. (Thank God Sherlock knows I'm not an average bloke.)

Sherlock's solution had been brilliant, of course, and spot-on, but I wasn't ready to admit that to him quite yet. I'd learned by this time how to milk him just so that I could get the best out of him—not much, perhaps he'd make the tea for once or do the shopping, but those sorts of things are more than you can ask for when your flatmate is Sherlock Holmes. So I sat, brooding and stretching my tired legs, trying to hide the grin that Sherlock must have known I was choking on.

This was all relatively normal for the night we closed a case. Sherlock would become bored within the hour, I would tell him to piss off, et cetera, et cetera. This night was different though—Sherlock was quiet and keeping to himself. It seemed to me that he was even more exhausted than I was. I noticed myself actually beginning to pay attention to what was on the telly before I realized something must've been up with him. I picked up the remote and hit the mute button, listening keenly for movement in the house. None. I got up from my chair, looking around cautiously as if my flatmate would pop out from thin air (a feat that I wouldn't be surprised in the least if he achieved).

"Sherlock?" I called out tentatively. No response. I called a bit louder. "Sherlock, have you snuck out again?"

"Mm." A grumble came from the other side of the kitchen as Sherlock emerged from his room, wrapped up almost comically in his blue robe with a blanket over his shoulders. "Hungry," he puffed.

"Hungry? That's a new one," I retorted, laughing at him under my breath as I made my way to the kitchen through the clutter. Not entirely unheard of, but Sherlock would never admit to it. "And were you just asleep?"

Another grumble came from inside a cabinet in which Sherlock was digging, head-first. "Tired."

I chuckled. It was nice to see him this way. It made him seem endearing, almost. As endearing as a man as intimidating as Sherlock can be, at the very least.

Sherlock ducked out of the cabinet, grabbing a slice of sandwich bread rather violently before stuffing it into his mouth. I almost choked between my laughter at his sleepy antics and the surprise I had when I saw his head poke out from behind that cabinet door.

"Sherlock, have you cut your hair?"

I didn't need an answer; it was obvious that he had done just so, and he had done a ghastly job of it. Stray locks stood out at varying angles and curls hung unevenly over his forehead. The mad was a wreck, and for some reason I found it completely adorable.

Sherlock didn't answer me through his mouthful of white mush. I took a step closer and lifted a curl in my hand. "Bloody hell, Sherlock, do you always do this?"

The man nodded, swallowing. I guiltily noted the bob of his Adam's-apple as he did so. God, how I wanted to press my lips to it and feel Sherlock's heat. Sherlock spoke, distracting me from my reverie. "Yes," he looked at me warily. "Is… something the matter with it?" He looked at my hand, which I hadn't realized was still tangled in his hair. I drew back quickly.

"Well. Ah. I guess I've never seen it short… your hair was long when we first met," I backpedalled.

Sherlock nodded again tiredly. "I suppose it was."

"But, um… well, let's see, here." I bit my tongue, trying not to giggle at the absurdity. I grabbed a pair of kitchen scissors, checking them over in my hand. "You seem knackered, do you mind if I… even it out a bit?"

Sherlock's surprise was dulled by his tired expression and the dull, yellow light pouring in from the other room. "I… alright."

I chuckled again, smoothing the hair back from his forehead. "I'll only be a minute." I smiled warmly. God, I loved that man, and he had no idea. It was nearly unbearable. And here I was, snipping away at his uneven curls as if he were my child. It was absurd, really. Crazy. But then again, nothing involving Sherlock was quite normal. I recall having to stand on tiptoe to reach the top of his head. Thank goodness no one we knew could see us in that moment, or we'd have been the laughing stocks of the entire country by the time noon rolled around.

In between snips, I couldn't help studying the face of the man who stood before me. Our eyes met more than once. I smiled at him when this happened, trying to contain a blush that must have surely betrayed me. He was gorgeous, even now, with his drooping eyes and childish haircut. I'd never wanted anyone more in my life.

I drew the scissors away. "There," I said, gesturing to his reflection in the kitchen window. "What do you think?

Sherlock looked up, eyes bright, and smiled that charming and so preciously rare smile. "You've done alright, John."

When he looked back at me, I think that's when I finally lost it. That smile, directed at me, and so close, it was too much for me to take. "Sherlock."

"John…?"

And we were kissing, and my arms were full of Sherlock and freshly trimmed curls and his arms were full of me, and I knew I could never love someone more than I loved Sherlock Holmes.

He pulled back and looked at me. "Oh," he murmured.

"What?"

"I didn't realize…"

"Realize what?"

"Didn't realize… that this was what I was feeling."

Then he kissed me again, softly, quickly. "You're beautiful, John," he whispered in my ear, causing me to shudder.

"And you are the most fantastically gorgeous man I have ever seen."

The kissing continued, never really escalating past sweet and gentle, and I was perfectly okay with that.

Sherlock went back to bed, plus John Watson.