They touch more often.
Casual little touches that pass under the attention of those around them, but which mean the world to both of them. Pats on the shoulder, hands covering hands, and once, John recalls a rather memorable morning when Sherlock, in the heat and excitement of having taken up a new case, kissed him on the cheek before dashing off.
The touches are escalading. They sit side-by-side on the couch, their thighs pressed together from the side. John brushes dust and other debris from Sherlock's curls. Sherlock touches the small of John's back to move him along. Their hearts race and their eyes meet and they exchange silent messages.
This evening, they are to be found on the couch again. The telly is not on. Sherlock rests with his feet in John's lap and tells him how much he had needed him today.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock," John says, his thumbs massaging the sole of Sherlock's left foot. "I was needed down at the surgery, too."
"Yes, yes, I know." Sherlock sighs, closing his eyes, his head tips back against the armrest. He is stiff as a pole, but John knows that this is not a bad thing. He switches to the other foot.
"Why didn't you aspire to become a masseuse?"
"A masseur, you mean."
Sherlock opens one eye with one raised eyebrow. A corner of his mouth lifts. "Yes," he says slowly. John chuckles.
"I dunno."
"Hm."
They stay in comfortable silence. Sherlock flexes his toes and sits up, drawing his legs underneath his body. John bites his tongue, holding out one arm in welcome, and wraps it around him as soon as soft curls brush his cheek. Sherlock has had a bad day.
"Don't forget, you're fantastic," he says softly.
"Thank you, John," Sherlock replies, his voice thick. "I am incomprehendibly grateful for all those things you think of me, though a few of them are undoubtably false."
"Like what, for instance?" John asks, patiently threading his fingers through Sherlock's hair, pushing it back, away from his forehead. Sherlock presses into the contact.
"I am not, for one, as caring as you seem to think I am."
"I have never thought you were caring, per se. But don't try to pretend to me that you don't care. I saw that distressed look in your eye throughout the interrogation of the little boy who'd been beaten. And I know for a fact that when you were thirteen, you rescued a bird from your family's cat."
"Mycroft," Sherlock growls and John laughs. "Nevertheless, John, I'm not - "
"If I say you are, then you are. Case closed."
"Cold case, then."
John kisses his temple. "You don't have to pretend with me, Sherlock. I know you feel things. Perhaps not in the way everyone else feels things, granted, but you do feel them intensely. And it scares you, so you try to lock them away. You've been hurt by these feelings before. They have betrayed you. But listen to me," John says, speaking now into his ear, "you know what I think of you. I am never going to use your feelings against you, or insist that you can't feel them, they make you weak. Instead, what I'm going to do, is tell you how wonderful and beautiful you are, for everything that you are. Because you are...the most amazing person I've ever known. And that is undoubtably not false."
Sherlock was trembling. "I know that, John. I know where I stand with you."
"So that means if you want to cry after I make you watch Titanic with me - " Sherlock snorts, " - I'll cry with you. No questions asked."
Sherlock is really trembling hard. John wraps his other arm around him securely, shushing him.
"John - I - I - I - I know I - oh, for God sakes." He says this last phrase through clenched teeth. He is embarrassed at himself for stuttering. John does not blame him for it in the slightest, of course. He waits, because he knows how difficult this is. Sherlock swallows and tries again. "I-I know what I'm feeling now," he gets out. "Would you - would you like to hear it?"
"Yes." John rubs his arm vigorously. "I would very much like to hear it."
"I - " Sherlock releases a shaky breath. "My heart is pounding, a-and my throat seems to be closing up over a lump. My p-palms are damp. My stomach is t-twisting i-in a pleasant, yet very frightening way, and I feel as if I h-have no control over my nerves. Please help," he finishes.
"Oh, Sherlock," John says, stroking his hair. "I don't think I can help you with that." His own throat is closing.
"Why? Why not?"
"Well, because it's - I mean, how often do you feel this way?"
"Whenever I am near you, I feel this way. It is unbearable."
John loves this man so much it is painful. "No, Sherlock, it's good."
"Good?"
"Good, yes."
"Why is it?"
"Because now I can do this." John leans back and grips Sherlock's face with two hands before pressing a chaste kiss to his pink lips.