2/5 happy fics.

Inspiration: All the amazing Johnlock vids/fics and "Why Don't You Kiss Her" by Jesse McCartney. Also, I wanted a little Holmes brothers bonding moment.

We're best friends, John and I. I share things with him I wouldn't dare share with anyone else. He knows everything that goes on in my mind, surprisingly. I most likely wouldn't be at fault if I said he knows me better than my own brother.

But something has changed recently. Something between us is different. The way he looks at me, how he says my name. And while it's rare for me to sleep on a normal night, lately I've been lying awake thinking about him.

"Why don't you kiss him?" Mycroft suddenly says, and I jump. I offer him an incredulous look, which he simply acknowledges with a knowing smirk.

I hate him.

"Oh don't be absurd, Mycroft," I spit, and resume plucking at my violin.

I hear a scoff come from John's occupied chair, and I look back up to the body invading it. Loathing rises in my throat, but it's mild. Watered down by... no, not fear. Apprehension? But why?

Another look from my older brother. "What?" I ask, arms going limp as the instrument falls into my lap.

"You think I can't read you? Sherlock, don't underestimate me. I see how you feel about him."

I try to be angry, but I can't. Instead I scoff back at him in a very Mycroft-like manner. I hate how I do that. "Oh, do you brother dear?"

He smiles in a way I assume normal brothers smile at their younger siblings when they're being amusingly stupid. "I do Sherlock. Why don't you tell him?"

"Tell him what?"

Mycroft shifts in his chair, glances at his watch, then leans forward. "Tell him everything. Let him see what you're hiding," he says, fingers laced under his chin. He gazes up at me like he used to when I was little. "He'll never know if you never show him the way you feel inside."

I pause. It's no use trying to deny it if Mycroft already knows. He knows me better than I had originally thought. "Good," I say, though my heart sinks. Surely John can tell. Then again, hiding and suppressing emotions has been a big part of my life's work. My brother just sighs and rises to his feet.

"Just give it a try. Who knows, maybe he feels the same way."

I watch as he takes his leave. When he reaches the bottom of the stairs I hear voices. John is home. He greets Mycroft as he makes his way up. He pads softly into the room as I pick up my violin. He gives me an odd look as I meet his eyes before I look away and resume my plucking.

As much as I hope what Mycroft said is true, I have my doubts.

We've reached the end of one of our more dangerous cases. Serial killer, focused on blond males, aged between thirty and fifty, along with a range of other specifics. Of course, John quickly became a target after we took the case. The killer is unconscious and sprawled on the blood-stained asphalt of a back alley. John stands before me, slightly bent over, breathing hard.

"Thanks mate," he manages between breaths. Blood trickles down the side of his face from a gash near his temple. I begin to feel hot all over again.

"No trouble," I murmur and take off a glove. I swipe away the crimson, but my hand lingers for a moment. I want nothing more than to hold him close, but I am afraid of rejection. I don't want to make the first move. Dark brown eyes are gazing at me. I notice his breath hitch in his throat more than before, and my hand drops to my side. Almost as if he's coming out of a trance, John blinks rapidly and sucks in a deep breath.

Just a touch and I've seemed to cross some invisible line.

I'm about to mumble a small apology, but before I can his head falls to my chest.

This has only happened on a few occasions, like when Harry got back on the booze, or after a stressful day at work, or a particularly draining case, and I know what to do. It's what I (surprisingly) always want to to. I wrap my arms around him and he follows suit, warm arms snaking around my waist. I love and hate when this happens. Everytime he's close like this, I never want to let him go. I rest my cheek against his head, bury my nose in his hair. I hold him close for a while, and though I want to confess everything my heart knows, I remain silent.

Why don't you kiss him? Mycroft is asking in my head. Why don't you tell him?

I feel my heart pound against John's solid figure. His pounds right back, but I liken it to the adrenaline of almost being killed. Fight or flight reaction, that's all.

He'll never know if you never show him the way you feel inside.

Good, I think again. He doesn't need to.

What would he say if he knew? The Great Sherlock Holmes, the World's Only Consulting Detective, unattatched, married to his work, who's not looking for any sort of relationship is falling fast for ordinary Dr John Watson. One problem, John isn't ordinary by any means of the word.

But would that mean he wouldn't turn and run if he learned how I feel about him?

Would he turn away and leave, or would he promise he would stay? John, what would you do?

I would say it scares me that I feel this way at all about someone, but John has been different from the start. He's special. He's extraordinary. It hurts me almost, the sheer power these emotions have over me. I can't wait any longer, the pain is nearly unbearable. And to believe I was once above such feelings.

I look over to him now, in his chair as usual. Completely oblivious as he types away at his blog. Something about me, I presume. He smiles every now and then, and glances up to meet my eyes.

I keep asking myself Mycroft's question. Why don't you kiss him?

Mycroft chimes in, using that "big brother knows best" tone that I loathe so much. Tell him you love him.

Why don't I tell him?

Mycroft again. Tell him you need him. I can almost see that smug smile stretching across his face.

He'll never know if you never show the feelings that you hide... Why don't you let him see?

I rise to my feet suddenly and cross the short distance between us. John looks up and offers me a befuddled gaze, cocking his head to the right. He closes the laptop and sets it aside.

"Yes Sherlock?"

It must be my expression, because he stops suddenly and shifts in his seat. He sits up straighter and spreads his legs slightly, waiting. I study him for a moment, taking note of his dilated pupils and sweaty palms. I reach down slowly, still not speaking, and graze his fingers with mine. His hand instinctively turns over, exposing his wrist. I press my fingertips to the exposed flesh, taking note of his pulse. Elevated. He holds my hand.

"Sherlock?" he asks, voice barely a whisper.

I sigh and bite my bottom lip. He watches closely as I seat myself in his lap and press our foreheads together.

Why don't you kiss him? Big brother asks again. Shut up, Mycroft, I reply.

Our lips brush and John's eyes flutter closed. I smile.