Sherlock returned to the flat, cold and miserable. He stopped in his tracks when he caught sight of the couch. He had anticipated that John would have given up by now and returned home. He realized the flaw in his assumption immediately. He had neglected to factor in John's exhaustion. You're slipping, Sherlock he chided himself.
He was unsure how to proceed. He could simply flee the flat again and return when he could be certain that he would be alone. He could also try to sneak into his bedroom and lock the door. Both sounded childish, even in the privacy of his own mind. Then again, that had seldom stopped him before.
With a sigh he sat down on the table in almost the same spot where John had been earlier and studied the man across from him. Clearly, John had stubbornly decided that Sherlock would not get away from this conversation so easily. Now he was fast asleep, leaned back in a sitting position on the couch. Sherlock could already see exactly in which spots his neck and shoulders would be sore in the morning from his awkward sleeping position.
Sherlock saw the dark circles under his eyes, saw his furrowed brow, saw a man that even in his sleep looked tired and worried. It tugged at something deep inside him, something that he kept hidden in the darkest corner in the basement of his mind palace. He had buried it there, in the hope that this act would keep it from his mind and from his heart. But he had always known that he was kidding himself. Just like he knew as soon as he started his little speech at the airfield that he would not have the courage to see it through. For all his bravery, for the countless times he had faced death with determination, this was beyond his capabilities. John had changed his life in a million gigantic and tiny ways, had changed Sherlock himself for the better. But this he had not in him. He knew that he would never muster up the courage to tell his friend how he really felt. There was just too much at stake. He had wondered countless times during the last months whether it would have been better if he had never met John Watson. If he had never known how alone he had been before and how alone he would be again. Every time that thought came to him, he would think back to the moment that felt so long ago when they were standing in the hallway, giddy from the chase, out of breath and laughing. And he knew with certainty that he was better off for getting to experience this, that it was worth all of it. If given the chance to relive that day, he would do nothing different, not a second of it. He would meet John Watson again and fall in love with him again and be a better man for it.
He let his eyes stray over the sleeping man in front of him once more and locked the memory of it away with the others. What happened next took Sherlock by surprise. He could not remember a moment when he made the decision to speak, the words just tumbled out of him and he was unable to contain them. The first sentence was barely above a whisper, but with each sentence his voice became stronger and filled with more certainty.
"I love you, John Hamish Watson. I loved you since I looked at you standing calmly amidst a sea of police cars and realized you had shot a man to protect me. Or maybe I loved you from the moment I laid out your life story to you and instead of telling me to go away you called me brilliant. Or maybe I loved you from the moment I met you, when I read the facts of your life like a book, but could never have come close to seeing the depth of your heart." Tears were streaming down his face now, but he paid them no mind. "And I am so, so sorry that I didn't have the courage to tell you any of this when it would have mattered. I am so, so sorry that I will never tell you any of this when you can hear it. Because you deserve to know. You deserve to know that you are amazing and kind and perfect. And I wish I could be the kind of man to deserve you. Forgive me, John." When he said that last sentence, John stirred and Sherlock's heart stopped. Then, very slowly, John opened his eyes.
