Author note: This story takes place in the BBC Sherlock 'verse, after "A Scandal in Belgravia" and before "The Reichenbach Fall".

Many thanks to my beta, the wonderful PrincessNala!

Disclaimers: Sherlock belongs to Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss, Sherlock Holmes originally belonged to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I own nothing. This makes me very sad. However, if Mr. Cumberbatch feels a need for a little temporary ownership, I'd be happy to oblige. ;)

Warnings: Sherlock/John Preslash/Slash. Nothing too racy.

"The man is always the last to know when Cupid has struck him."
– Anonymous, Memoirs of a Mistress

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Chapter 3

"Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within."

James Arthur Baldwin

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Dawn lent a rosy hue to the fog on Baker Street as John finally let himself into 221B. He had to lean heavily on the banister to support his weight, as his leg threatened to give way beneath him. It did no good to try to convince himself that the limp was psychosomatic – his body was unwilling to listen to logic. Clearly the stress of the previous night's revelation combined with walking all night was too much strain.

John eased the door open, hoping against hope that Sherlock would be asleep, or out with Lestrade, or simply sunk into one of his silent trances, so that John could slip into his room without a confrontation. If Sherlock could so easily read his thoughts about trivial things, how clearly would John's inner turmoil be written on his face?

Please let him be asleep.

"Back with Sarah, John?" Damn it, Sherlock was planted squarely in his armchair, as if waiting for John's arrival. "I never pegged you as one for revisiting failed relationships. Did you spend the night on her sofa again?" Sherlock's acerbic tone felt like lemon juice on a paper cut.

John's weary eyes met the cool, silvery gaze of his flatmate. He couldn't summon a coherent explanation of his overnight absence, and certainly he wasn't ready to discuss these new feelings churning about inside of his chest. But one look into those intense, upturned orbs made his stomach flip over and twist inside. How had he kept himself in the dark about his feelings for so long?

As John struggled to try to find words to fill the silence, words that might deflect the detective from using his deductive skills, Sherlock rose slowly, approaching John much as a tiger might approach a young fawn, prowling around it in order to cut off its escape route. Sherlock's nostrils flared as he turned his laserlike scrutiny on John.

"Sorry, I spoke too soon. It definitely wasn't the sofa. You spent the night outdoors, walking in a park by the look and smell of you. What has happened, John? Something has caused you great distress. Your dilated eyes, your tremor, even your colour tell me that you are feeling extreme anxiety."

Shrugging off his jacket in the hopes of distracting Sherlock's gaze away from his face, John decided to go with a partial truth. "I had a difficult day yesterday, with a really upsetting case of a young teen with an eating disorder at the end of the day. Sarah and I went out for a couple of pints, and then I walked around the park. I needed to clear my mind a bit. Now, if you'll excuse me, Sherlock, I'm truly knackered, and I'm going to try to get some sleep."

Sherlock stood gazing at John for a long moment, that searchlamp gaze sweeping over his face, taking in every detail. Then he stepped back, nodded his head coolly at John, and said only, "Sleep well."

Right.

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John lay in his bed, gazing sleeplessly at the ceiling, unsure of what his next step should be. Yes, he had come to terms with the fact that he had feelings for his flatmate. Hell, if he was totally honest with himself, he was in love with the brilliant detective.

Now what?

Just because John had discovered his feelings toward Sherlock didn't mean Sherlock felt anything other than friendship for him. Remembered snippets of conversations did nothing to reassure him.

You don't have a girlfriend then?

Girlfriend…no. Not really my area.

Oh, right...do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way.

I know it's fine.

Great – John felt fairly certain that Sherlock's tendencies included attraction to the male form. However…

So you've got a boyfriend.

No.

Right, okay. You're unattached. Just like me. Fine, good.

... John, erm... I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest I'm really not looking for any-

No, no, that's not what I... no! I'm just saying... it's all fine.

... Good. Thank you.

In retrospect, John realised that he had practically been throwing himself at the younger man, and in reliving that particular conversation in his mind, he realised that he had been pretty firmly shot down.

Of course, John wasn't sure if Sherlock had ever allowed himself to have an emotional relationship. John thought he had seen something between Sherlock and Irene Adler, yet Sherlock had beaten her and sent her on her way without a backward glance.

I've always been able to keep myself distant…divorce myself from feelings…Interesting, yes? Emotions…the grease on the lens, the fly in the ointment…

Sherlock didn't do feelings.

So not only was he dealing with years of conditioning against being sexually involved with another man, but he was in love with his emotionally unavailable best friend.

There's no way this amazing, magnificent man would ever look at a scruffy, limping army doctor as anything but a friend and sidekick. John knew Sherlock was way out of his league.

John groaned and covered his head with a pillow. Slowly, sleep finally claimed him.