A/N: This is the longest story I've written in 8 years. I wrote a (very) short drabble a year and a half ago, but this one is really a labor of love. I cannot thank goodoldjames enough. Without him, this would still be an idea; he challenged me to write something again, and was a fantastic beta-reader. It is because of him that this is anything readable at all.

Entwined

John fell in love suddenly. It was a sunny afternoon during a particularly difficult case and he was lying on the couch, trying to catch a quick nap. They had been up late the previous night running down leads and John was exhausted. He drifted in and out of sleep while Sherlock sat at the desk, poring over textbooks, trying to find the next piece of the puzzle. Frustrated, Sherlock let out a groan, bringing John from his state of semi-awareness. Glancing at Sherlock through slit eyes, his breath caught. John had always seen Sherlock as attractive, he was sure most people did, but he never really thought of it in terms of being attracted to him. Looking at him now, though, he couldn't deny it anymore.

In the years John had known Sherlock, he had slowly found his view of relationships changing. Once, he would have proclaimed loudly "I'm not actually gay." Now, things were different. He had slowly stopped dating, not that any of them had really been successful. John had initially blamed Sherlock, but a year later he had seen that his heart had not been in it and as he lay on the couch and silently observed the detective, he realized why. Somewhere along the way, it seemed he had fallen in love with Sherlock.

A week later, the case had been solved and a bored Sherlock had ransacked John's rooms looking for his gun. When John got home, he saw the mess, and sighed. Once, he would have gotten angry, but now he wasn't even surprised.

"Sherlock!" he called at the top of his lungs, "Get up here and put everything back where you found it."

John walked down the stairs after a few minutes, only to find Sherlock lounging on the couch, deep in thought. He searched the wall for new wounds, but could not find any. He called Sherlock's name several times to no avail. In the end he just sat in his chair and opened a book, waiting for Sherlock to come back to reality.

As Sherlock lay on the couch, hands steepled under his chin, his mind raced through the timeline since John's life intertwined with his. He had recently come to the realization that he was beginning to feel something more than friendship. If he was being honest with himself, he had felt this way for quite a long time. He walked through his mind palace to John's room. As he examined the data there, he noticed that John consistently defied his every initial perception. He couldn't seem to pinpoint the exact moment he fell in love with John, but rather a series of events beginning with the time John saved his life with a single shot from his Browning.

Sherlock marveled every time John opened the fridge and didn't demand the removal of some gruesome body part. He was astounded at John's questions and observations at crime scenes. He was left breathless every time John returned with the shopping, having procured every one of the strange ingredients Sherlock needed for the experiment of the day. Sherlock's favorite thing about John, though, was his need to ensure Sherlock ate. Yes, Sherlock may complain about the actual eating, but he loved how John felt the need to take care of him. He hadn't had that kind of protective love in a long time. Mycroft cared about him in his own way, and he could be very protective about Sherlock, but he did not show love the way John did- and Sherlock loved the way John showed his affection, however platonic it may be.

As Sherlock thought, he saw a million possible timelines. Each decision he made could spawn several different branches of the main line that was Sherlock and John. Sherlock had once thought people were simple creatures – then he met John. John consistently surprised him, reacting in ways he never even imagined. He knew John was special, and he resolved to entwine their timelines so messily that they would never be untangled.

Things came to a head one night after chasing down a suspect. It was successful in that they caught the criminal, however, it was less successful in that Sherlock got stabbed. A lucky jump prevented any lasting injury, but he had a nasty graze across his hipbone.

"Christ," John swore, "You're so fucking stupid sometimes." The two men watched Lestrade drive away with the suspect. "I can't believe you actually jumped in front of an armed criminal!"

"I did it for you," Sherlock mumbled, apparently cowed by John's words. It wasn't often the detective showed softer emotions without an ulterior motive, but he seemed sincere. John's face softened.

"Come here. Let me see your injury." John pulled Sherlock's shirt from the waistband of his trousers up and examined the cut along his hip. Sherlock's flesh broke out in goose pimples where his fingers ran along his skin, but John was too busy inspecting the wound to notice. "This is going to need stitches. Let's get you to the A&E."

"No," Sherlock said firmly, "You're my doctor."

John looked up, saw the stubborn set of Sherlock's jaw, and sighed. "Let's get you home, then."

After catching a ride home from a police officer on the scene, John helped Sherlock up the stairs, and then retrieved his medical kit. As John cleaned and stitched the long cut, his anger started to return. While Sherlock's admission that it was for him had temporarily staid his ire, the wound was worse than it initially looked. The idea that anyone would do something like this for him scared John, and instead of actually admitting to the uncomfortable feeling of fear, he used his anger as a shield. He looked up at Sherlock after snipping the thread and returning his material to his bag.

"I still cannot believe how incredibly stupid that was. What if his aim had been better? Some injuries are much harder to heal."

He stood up and went to make tea, exasperated. He began to fill the kettle until he suddenly found himself roughly turned around and pressed against the wall, trapped by Sherlock's arms by his head. Sherlock's eyes met John's, seeking consent. John was surprised at how much he enjoyed this feeling of being trapped. He had pushed other people against walls, but he had never been the one captured by strong arms and he definitely saw the merits of it now. A thousand thoughts streamed through John's head, but each held the common thread of "oh God, yes." Sherlock watched the other man's face as he passed through different feelings: slight panic and surprise at being turned so suddenly, confusion as to who turned him, hope and finally consent. Sherlock loved how open John's face was when Sherlock was around him, intentional or not. He dipped his head and caught John's lips with his own. John let the wall hold him up as Sherlock poured all of his frustration, passion and love into the kiss. He thanked God for the wall; John was sure his knees would have given out had it not been there. Breaking away, Sherlock leaned his forehead against John's

"I could have lost you tonight. That's why I jumped," he whispered. Sherlock's lips were so close to John, he felt the words more than he heard them, "I'd be lost without you. I would jump every time, if I could save you." Sherlock lowered his head, capturing John's lower lip between his teeth. He nibbled and sucked, leaving John breathless. John loved how assertive Sherlock was. He had never been on the receiving end of so much passion. It seemed as if Sherlock was trying to make up for lost time, assaulting John in what he thought was a fantastic way. Sherlock's tongue invaded John's mouth, knotting the two of them together. His lips began to drift, peppering kisses across John's jaw, cheek and temple. John found his head turning, allowing access.

"I couldn't bear to lose you," Sherlock spoke, working his way to the sensitive skin below John's ear, nipping at it gently. John gasped, and Sherlock captured his lips again. He briefly wondered where Sherlock had learned to kiss like this, but was brought back to the moment by Sherlock sucking on his tongue. They finally broke apart, John searching Sherlock's face.

"What was that for?" John asked, slightly out of breath. He was fairly sure he knew, but he needed to hear Sherlock say it.

"I would think that was obvious."

"No, I mean…why?"

"Because I care about you. And you care about me." Sherlock spoke as if explaining a simple concept to a child.

"How long have you known?"

"For some time," Sherlock admitted, "I just wasn't sure what to do about it until now. Expressing emotion is not a strong suit of mine."

"I think you did just fine," John said, pulling Sherlock back down.

Later, in a jumble of legs and arms, the two of them lay on the couch together. John gently carded his fingers through Sherlock's curls, smiling at the purr-like noise that Sherlock emitted. John felt almost like a teenager again, but without all of the unpleasant hormones. There had been no rush to their discovery of each other, no push to have sex right away. Both men looked forward to slowly peeling each other's layers away, finding the core of their relationship. They both had realized that they interlocked in every way, and that delving deeper into each other was the final piece. As Sherlock had promised, their timelines had become messily entangled, twining perfectly to create one single thread that no one would be able to pull apart.

A/N, part 2: Thanks for reading this, it really means a lot to me. Constructive criticism is always appreciated.