Upon arriving home, John had found 221B dark. Flicking on the kitchen lights, he could make out the prone figure of his flatmate on the sofa, hands steepled beneath his chin. Mind palace then. After putting away the shopping (avoiding a particularly disgusting pancreas on the bottom shelf), he set about making two cups of tea. Even if it went cold before Sherlock "returned," he would surely hear about his lack of consideration. As if the git knew anything about being considerate. John let out a small, somewhat exasperated chuckle as he walked quietly into the living room and deposited the hot tea next to the…
Wait. Those breaths were much too even, and his eyelids were fluttering slightly. Was he? Could he be? Sleeping?! An afternoon nap wouldn't be a strange occurrence for anyone else, but with no recent cases above a 6 to wear the detective out, John was in shock. He stood watching his younger friend for a moment. Not so young as when they had first met, but certainly no worse for wear. The raven curls falling against his porcelain skin, a slight flush on those ridiculous cheekbones, his lithe yet surprisingly powerful body.
"Hmm." John startled himself with an audible sigh of appreciation for the man laid out before him. For a second he began justifying these thoughts to himself, then mentally threw up his hands. Who was he kidding. He had been growing increasingly more attracted to his flatmate for months. If we're finally going to be honest, Watson, let's just be honest. Fine. He had been growing less able to ignore his attraction to his flatmate for months. He supposed it didn't much matter. Eventually, Sherlock would deduce his true feelings, and hopefully his distaste for sentiment (John knew it was bollocks, but he allowed Sherlock to keep up the charade) would enable them to continue on as they were. Maybe he would even get over it soon, though one more glance at that gorgeous face, softened by the vulnerability of sleep, made him seriously doubt it.
While the marshmallow man attacked the city and Sherlock blathered on about the implausibility of ghost-capturing rays, the good doctor absently ate his popcorn and contemplated the development of an hour previous.
After attempting to wake the consulting couch jockey and changing into pajamas, John had returned downstairs intent on watching a mindless comedy and forgetting his troubles. (Boy troubles, his mind unhelpfully supplied.) As he imparted the former part of his plans to his groggy best friend, he saw it. Had he blinked, he would have missed it, but for that millisecond, plainly visible on Sherlock's face, was an expression he had never seen there before. Desire. Unmistakable, undisguised want. Try as he had to shake it off and focus on the film, that look – that look! – returned relentlessly to his mind's eye.
Sure, there had been times when John thought Sherlock might return his interest. Unnecessary brushes of fingertips, prolonged leaning against his thigh as they shared dinner in front of the television, fleeting glances over the microscope. But he had dismissed all these as being colored by his own wish to have his affections reflected back at him in those green-grey-blue eyes. This time, though. This time it was undeniable. And Sherlock didn't seem to have a clue he had noticed, didn't seem know why John had chosen that particular shirt that so clearly defined the body he had worked hard to keep.
It seemed the roles of seeing vs. observing were reversed for the evening. The question was what to do about it.