Authors Note: School. Marching Band. Life. Sorry.
Two weeks later, John Watson sat alone in the living room he shared with Sherlock Holmes. For the past few weeks, he'd been contemplating his feelings for his eccentric flatmate. He now knew that for many years, possibly since the day they met, he had loved Sherlock. That's why none of the relationships worked until the detective was dead, and why the one that did last ended shortly after Sherlock's return. John always cared more for the detective than the rest of the world, especially the woman he dated. So, unsure of the right person to tell, Dr. Watson called someone else who adored his detective, Molly Hooper.
Miss Hooper cooed over the phone line, "Hello John! How can I help you? Does Sherlock need to see any bodies? We've got some pretty interesting murder victims in recently. I thought he'd be interested . . ."
Watson replied, "No Molly, I just have something I have to tell you. Can I come into the lab at St. Bart's this morning? Just me?"
Molly replied, "Of course! I'm here until three, stop by whenever you can and we'll talk about whatever you want!"
John took a cab over to the hospital, ignoring text messages from Sherlock asking him to help out with the current case. He met up with Molly in the lab. She chirped, "That was fast!"
Watson said, "Yes, you see this is rather important . . ."
Miss Hooper gestured for him to continue speaking.
John declared, "Molly… that thing I said I wanted to talk about… Well, I think I might actually be in love with Sherlock. I think I have been for quite a while. I want to tell him tonight."
Molly gasped, not because she was shocked by John's final realization, but because he didn't know that his realization was too late. She quietly mumbled, "I'm so sorry John…"
The uninformed doctor offensively replied, "What?"
The pretty, young scientist cautiously explained, "Sherlock's been seeing someone."
John, who felt like falling down, balanced himself on the lab counter. With his face pale and stricken, he uttered, "I can't… Not Sherlock, no… He never… Why finally now? Why when I finally admitted it to myself? Why now…" His words trailed off.
Miss Hooper lightly pressed her hand against his shoulder and whispered, "He should've been the one to tell you. I'm so very sorry. I just didn't know what else to say."
Dr. Watson left the lab with tears boiling in his eyes.
That afternoon, Mrs. Hudson, who heard the whole story from Molly, brought tea up to the living room. Normally, John loved tea, but at this moment the doctor blankly glared at it, pretending to read the paper. His cane was rested against the side of the armchair. He needed it on and off, but it's presence something that had rarely occupied his life since he met Sherlock.
Mrs. Hudson had informed Mr. Holmes of the morning's events, minus the fact that John had admitted his true feelings. The detective, sprawled out on the sofa, plucked the strings of his violin anxiously. Though silence was usual between them, John still found this particular lack of conversation awkward.
The detective John had known for so many years wouldn't fall into any ridiculous relationships, so something must be wrong. That's it . . . something's terribly wrong with the workings of the world.
After it felt like hours of silence had passed, Sherlock declared, "I want you to meet him."
