Author's Notes: I wrote this for a drabble meme prompt on my Tumblr. It's my first attempt at Sherlock/John. Will most likely be adding more drabbles as well. Hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Honestly

John Watson did not know the point at which he became a compulsive liar. It wasn't in his nature, nor had he ever considered himself to be anything but a completely honest man, whether it was to himself or anyone else. But this Sherlock character- this man who had calmly swished into his life with his insane chases and snarky comments and tight silk shirts and.. Oh God, thought John. Don't think about the shirts. Whatever you think about, don't let it be the shirts. But that was the issue. I didn't matter what he thought about. Everything about this man made John want him more. He didn't know the exact point that he had developed this crush. Crush? He thought. Now you're just kidding yourself. This isn't quite a crush, now is it? Maybe hero worship gone horribly awry. And somewhere deep in his gut, he knew that wasn't true. Because that's the kind of man he is. The kind that has the strength to admit something he isn't necessarily proud of. He wasn't sure, however, if he was the type of man who could admit to others something that he wasn't necessarily proud of. And so began the lying.

When Lestrade asks politely if he's interested in Sherlock (trying, John thinks, to break Sherlock's asexuality to him gently), John scoffs and says, "No, no, of course not. What on earth would ever give you that idea?" When Anderson notices John holding his gaze on Sherlock for a bit longer than may be appropriate, John clears his throat and looks at the floor, the ceiling, anything but Sherlock, his cheeks burning.

Nothing seems quite as hard as lying to the man himself. When Sherlock asks him why he broke his relationship off with Sarah, John replies, "Things just weren't quite working out." Of course, this isn't true in the least. It nearly tears John in half not to reach over to him, hold Sherlock's face in his hands and say straight into his eyes, "Because she wasn't you, you beautiful, brilliant sociopath." John may be an honest man, but he wasn't about to confess lust- no, it must be love- to an asexual consulting detective.

John was really quite surprised Sherlock hadn't deduced it by now. Wasn't he always solving people, figuring out what was inside their head? It was ridiculous that he couldn't tell his own flat mate had a raging crush on him.

Mycroft had figured it out. One conversation and John knew that he was on to him and his little secret. A little twinkle in his eye, a sarcastic smile when John blushed at the mention of Sherlock's strange habits. Sherlock's brother had deduced it, why couldn't he? Or did Sherlock simply not care enough to mention it? John immediately put that thought out of his head, as the thought of Sherlock simply not caring that much about him packed a searing punch.

One quiet day ("Disgustingly quiet," according to Sherlock) at Baker Street, John came to the conclusion that he couldn't lie to Sherlock anymore. He deserved the truth, the same as anyone else. John Watson would not become a liar. He never was, and he never would be dishonest man.

Sherlock was sitting at the table pouring boiling water over a heart in a dish. I really, really hope it's not human, thought John, but couldn't convince himself fully. The doctor opened the fridge and looked inside, hoping that by some act of God, Sherlock had done the shopping. Finding nothing edible, John shut the door and looked up. To his surprise, Sherlock was studying him with an almost suspicious look on his face.

"What?" said John, taken aback.

"You've combed your hair differently, you put on cologne, and you're wearing your favorite shirt. You're asking a woman out. Who?"

John stared at him. Of course he wasn't this dense? This man had caught criminals even the best of the best couldn't lay their hands on, and he was confused as to who John was interested in? He thought he was interested in a woman?

John's deer-in-the-headlights stare must have given him away because suddenly, Sherlock's eyes grew wider. He brought his hands up with steepled fingers. "Oh." He said, finally putting two and two together. "Why… Why did you never say anything?"

"Because….because…" John stumbled over his words, trying to form a coherent sentence. He hadn't counted on it happening this way. He looked away. Why was it so hard to lie to this man? To just tell him that it had been a misunderstanding, or lust, or a crush, or… "It's nothing. Really. Nothing." He silently cursed himself for being such a goddamned terrible liar.

Sherlock stood up and walked to John. "Considering you can't even tell a proper lie, I'd wager it's a bit more than nothing."

"A bit," said John, feeling rather small (emotionally as well as physically, for Sherlock stood a full head above him.)

Sherlock put his hand underneath John's chin, pulling his gaze upwards, "You, good doctor, have no idea how long I've been waiting for you to say that."

As he leaned into John to kiss him, John stepped back abruptly. "But… you're asexual. You told me yourself."

"And you, John, told me you were straight, which was also rather amusing. I would say we're even," he growled, his hand on the back of John's neck, the other on his waist. He looked at John properly now, his magnificent eyes just thin rings around an abyss of black pupil. "Though I happen to enjoy your company much more when we're frank with each other."

John smiled, and, grabbing Sherlock's shirt collar, pulled him in for another kiss. A kiss that had been waited for far too long. It held pure, true euphoria and the Doctor Watson had never been happier in his entire life. Honestly.