"What's on your mind John?"

Those five words. What does he expect me to say?

"You, Sherlock are on my mind. You and your obnoxious behaviour, your ridiculous experiments, you waking me up at five in the morning to test blood splatter in sub zero temperatures. You and your high angle cheekbones, your blemishless skin, your ability to take my breath away whenever I think of you."

But I didn't say that, I could never say that.

I'm not gay. At least, I don't think I am. I'm into girls. Normally.

I guess I'd better start at the beginning, it's easier to explain that way. At first he mystified me, I couldn't grasp the fact that such a person existed and was not insane, famous or in some sort of relationship. I moved in with him after just one day of knowing who he was and I never looked back. Romantically speaking though, I guess it started with a white shirt.

We were going through a rough patch. I'd been staying with him for a couple of months and were facing Moriarty. He was giving Sherlock a series of challenges to - well I still don't know why exactly. I guess to relieve boredom. Him and Sherlock are so very alike in that respect. Both of them seek the the thrill of the chase so much, that they're willing to go to obscene measures to fulfil their need.

We were in a swimming pool, where a boy named Carl Powers was murdered aged 14. It was Moriarty's first kill. The one that started his taste for blood. Sherlock had a gun aimed at the vest. I'd never seen him so cold and hard.. But passionate. He knew what he wanted and it was like the gun and him were one. They fused into each other to become a god-like bringer of justice. He looked at me for conformation, then his eyes drifted back to Moriarty. He cleared his throat, moved the gun back up so it was level with Moriarty's head. He smiled and said, "Sorry, but no."

There was a shot. I reacted instinctively, using all of my military-created brute force to get him into the water. It turns out the explosives were fake. Moriarty would never take down such a trophy for himself like the pool. It was just a ruse to get Sherlock to be serious and give his best game, so Lestrade told us. Apparently Moriarty's right hand man handed himself in afterward. His name was Sebastian something. It turns out me and Sherlock weren't the only duo in London with adrenaline cravings.

Back to the shirt though. Do you know what happens when white material gets rugby tackled into a swimming pool? It turns rather see through. Not unattractively.

It kills me to write all this down. (Not like anyone's going to read it anyway, I doubt that there's anyone who looks at the bottom of my underwear drawer. My briefs aren't that interesting.)

We were back at 221B, having answered what felt like three billion questions and Sherlock having gotten into an argument with his brother regarding The Bruce-Partington plans.

His shirt left very little to the imagination by that point. I honest to God swear that was the first time I looked at him -or any man- like that. But it certainly wasn't the last.

The contours of his shoulders, the pale stillness of his chest as it slowly rose and fell with his exhausted, slurred speech. It was good, too good.

I realised that I was stupidly and unmistakably turned on. What was I, a schoolboy? I made some sort of mumbled excuse about being freezing and jumped the steps two at a time up to the bathroom. I peeled off the chlorine-stinking clothes, dumped them in a corner and stepped into the shower. Hot water ran into my face, down my back, to the inside of my thighs. I shook my head and slapped myself. What was happening to me? Had being in the military affected me somehow? All I know is I saw Sherlock with the gun, the cool, shiny, dark metal of the L9A1 and something awoke inside me. This time he was not shooting at the wall in sheer, insane boredom. He was calm and calculating. And beautiful. No. I slapped myself again. I needed to reason with myself. 'He is your flatmate. Your asexual, sociopath flatmate. You are straight. You like waists, breasts, soft lips.' at this thought though, I paused. My mind flitted over to the idea of Sherlock's lips. Sherlock's lips on mine, on my chest, moving down... Oh god.

That was when I realised I was completely and unconditionally in love with him.