"Something the matter?" John asked, peering over the top of his laptop at the staring figure of Sherlock Holmes.

Over the past few days, John had noticed that Sherlock hadn't quite seemed himself. He was still the same arrogant, rude, brilliant sociopath that he had been for as long as John – and everyone else, for that matter – had known him, but he had been acting strange when they were alone. It was almost as though he didn't know what to do with John. As though his mere presence was something distractingly fascinating.

"Not at all" Sherlock said quietly, his voice slightly lower than usual, which sent a small round of shivers down John's spine.

After a moments silence with both men staring at each other, John closed his laptop and set it on the table with a sigh.

"Right, Sherlock. What's going on?"

He tried to sound as though he had some form of dominance over the man. In some occasions, he did. But when it came to a simple 'tell me', Sherlock was always in control.
The piercing gaze of Sherlock Holmes threatened to break his confidence as another small shiver ran down his spine, causing his mind to race. He didn't look questioning, or cold, or belittling, or angry, or anything John ever remembered seeing before. He looked thoughtful, but it was a new kind of thoughtful. He stared back for what felt like a lifetime. Then he saw it, and he cast his eyes downward.

Affection. Warmth. Caring. No cold, distant deductions. Pure warmth. That completely human look that I'd almost forgotten existed. No coldness. No distance. Just love.

"Have I upset you?" Sherlock enquired after a few moments, his fingertips resting underneath his chin, his gaze hardened once more.

"Not at all"

Must have been my imagination. He noted to himself as he pushed himself up and out of the chair, grabbing his coat as he headed for the door.

"I'll be back later."

He hurried down the stairs and out the door before taking a left down Baker Street. He didn't know where he was going. He was more concentrated on the deductions going on inside his mind. He wasn't at all in Sherlock's league when it came to observing and deducing, but he had learnt his fair share over the months. He was a confident man, despite almost always being shut down by 'the great Sherlock Holmes', but this time, he wasn't so sure his mind was reaching the right conclusions.

The look was only there for a minute. But it was there, wasn't it? He looked as though he actually cared. I always know he 'cares' in his own little way. But that look was so human. That look was so normal. It wasn't him. Maybe I'm just hoping. Maybe I just want it.

John stopped dead in his tracks at that thought, surprising himself.

Why would I want it? I don't have feelings for Sherlock Holmes. I-

His train of thought was cut off as a strong pair of hands wrapped around his neck. He felt a small prick in the right side of his neck in the millisecond it took for his brain to register the need to struggle, and almost instantly his movement weakened, his vision blurred, and he could hear only muffled sound before black nothingness.

John's eyes slowly flickered open. At first he saw nothing, and a wave of panic engulfed him as he searched for the last thing he remembered. The gentle beeping of hospital equipment reached his ears and he sat up quickly, the blood rushing to his head. Almost immediately, he felt the previously unnoticed hand that had been holding his withdraw itself.

"John. You're in hospital. It's okay" The sound of Sherlock's deep, calm voice filled his ears, and he sank back into the bed. "Do you remember what happened?"

He looked at Sherlock through the darkness of the room and noticed that the man's face was filled with something he, at first, didn't recognise.

"John?"

Concern. It was concern, and now it was filling his voice, too. John looked down at the hand which he was now sure Sherlock had been holding, and swallowed hard.

"I'm fine, Sherlock."

His voice sounded scratchy and weak – something he wasn't entirely happy with.

"What do you remember?"

John rubbed his eyes, sitting himself up as he looked at Sherlock again. The concern seemed to be replaced with his usual elegant, composed look again. He closed his eyes for a moment, the concerned face of Sherlock Holmes printed on the back of his eyelids. But slowly, it was changing into a loving, warm look.

"John." Sherlock's voice broke through his thoughts, causing him to re-open his eyes to look at the man in front of him. "Why are you smiling?"

His ears grew hot with embarrassment, having not even realised the images in his mind had caused him to smile.

"Not sure" He said, clearing his throat. "I was grabbed from behind. That's the last thing I remember."

Sherlock gave a small nod of his head, leaning forward to rest his arms on John's bed, seeming satisfied. It was odd to see the man so quiet and thoughtful, when usually, after something like this, he would be rattling off details which no one else would have even thought relevant. He would have names, motives, explanations. But there was nothing. Just silence.

"Are you alright?"

"Of course" Sherlock replied a little too quickly.

"How did you-" John began to ask, but was cut off.

"I followed you. I texted Lestrade. Your captors are with him. That's all you need to know."

John tried to meet his eyes, but the usually perfectly composed, brilliant man before him had his face hidden from view. It was clear there was something Sherlock didn't want him to know, but for the life of him he couldn't work out what.

"Do you know what they wanted with me?" No answer. "Sherlock?" Still no answer. "Sherlock, for God sake, will you look at me?"

"It's obvious, isn't it?"

It was a question John was used to hearing, but this time the tone was completely different. Sherlock sounded uncertain, rather than irritated.

"What's obvious?" John asked, a small flutter of panic in his chest.

"You're the human one. You're the one with the heart. You ARE the heart, John. But you're not stupid, John. No. You're far from stupid. I had assumed…" Sherlock trailed off, lifting his head to look at John.

The look was so full of emotion that John froze, panic rising in his throat. The last time he recalled seeing that look on Sherlock's face was when he was wrapped in semtex by a pool, with Moriarty lurking in the shadows. And slowly, all those times that Sherlock had, in his own way, displayed his affection for him came flooding into his mind. Every meal they had together, every crime scene they went to, every time one or both of their lives had been in danger. Even when they fought, they fought because they cared.
Slowly, he reached out, taking Sherlock's hand in his own, his stomach doing backflips all the while.

Without even realising it, I have fallen irrevocably in love with a mad, sociopathic genius, and it just might be that he has fallen in love with me.

Authors note - Okay, okay. Sorry. This chapter is a tad boring, and kind of poorly written. I've felt stuck for quite some time, and sadly this is the best I could come up with. I think school is taking its toll. It always zaps my creativity. None the less, new chapter, and be honest. And don't be afraid to give suggestions or ideas - I will credit you.