Thank you so much for reading! xxoo
John woke up once again to Sherlock practically on top of him. John couldn't help but feel a longing to stay in this position, but he knew that Sherlock would need breakfast. Once John disentangled his limbs from Sherlock's he realized that there was no way he could avoid sickness now. For some reason, he felt abnormally calm about becoming ill since it was coming from Sherlock. Normally John would be disgusted by a droplet from a cough hitting his skin and now he was basically begging to catch the flu. He could not fathom what change could have possibly occurred within him but since he already knew he would get sick, he would be able to care for Sherlock without holding his breath every time he walked in the room. Then, when John got sick, Sherlock would be able to watch over him, although after second thought, John realized that was never happening.
John slipped out of bed and headed into the kitchen to fetch tea and leftover biscuits for Sherlock. He knew that Sherlock was in need of food and while he might refuse it, it was vital to give him some nutrition. John munched on one of the biscuits while waiting for Sherlock to wake up. He realized that Sherlock would wake up to John's watching eyes once again, but this time he didn't care much.
"John… water please," Sherlock croaked, his eyes only open a smidge. John set the tea and biscuits down and quickly filled up a cup in the kitchen for Sherlock. Sherlock accepted it gratefully, gulping down the liquid.
"Woah, slow down Sherlock. Here, have a bit of biscuit." Sherlock reluctantly took the biscuit and they both ate breakfast with their tea.
"John, that was very irresponsible and out of character of you to sleep with me last night. It's obvious that I'm contagious. What were you thinking?" Sherlock's voice was still hoarse, so when he talked it was merely a whisper. John could see Sherlock trying to understand John's logic and motivation. But as far as he knew, he had none.
"I was tired, I guess. And your bed is quite comfortable."
"No, it's not. I've complained about it multiple times to Mrs. Hudson." John shook his head, frustrated and wanting to drop the subject.
"Well, I thought it was fine."
"Okay, but why didn't you move to the couch?"
"Christ Sherlock, do I really need a reason for everything I do? Can't you just accept the fact that I'm going to catch the flu but I wanted to sleep next to you for some silly reason that even my own brain can't comprehend and move on?" John realized the gravity of what he had said and looked down. It may have not seemed like much, but he felt the heaviness in the air. If he made eye contact with Sherlock, he knew everything he had felt over the past few days, weeks, months, would be clear as day. After a long pause, which felt like an eternity to John, Sherlock spoke.
"John…" John locked eyes with Sherlock, but looked away almost immediately. It took everything he had to walk out of that room. He was afraid; he didn't know what his feelings were, and he didn't like not knowing. As soon as John walked out of the room, he saw Mrs. Hudson near to the door, pretending to dust some old painting with a crack in the frame from one of Sherlock's fits of anger. They exchanged a glance in which Mrs. Hudson looked disappointed in John's lack of action. John just shook his head and headed out the door, forgetting a coat.
As he walked, John realized that now his feelings were out in the open, there was no use in denying them. He only needed to understand them. He began by figuring out what about Sherlock made him feel the way he did. He thought about his lazy, tangled curls and the way they fell over his face if he went too long without a haircut. He thought about the way he touched his fingers to his chin when he was solving a case. His near perfect eyes and his flawless facial structure. His unspoken passion for the violin and the way his long fingers moved across the strings. But then memories of Sherlock shaking from the amount of drugs flowing through his system entered John's thoughts. The subtle fear in Sherlock's eyes some nights and the disappointment John felt when he saw the amount of nicotine patches sending toxins into his body. The body that John loved. He loved Sherlock, he always knew that. He had never thought about his love surpassing friendship.
John felt that Sherlock would never reciprocate. But he was starting to wonder if maybe it was possible. He thought back to a few nights ago when Sherlock expressed his concern for his emotions. Was he referring to feelings for John? John's mouth gaped as he strolled past Baker Street and he wondered if each brush of the hand and each newly composed romantic overture were signs of Sherlock's feelings. John did not doubt that Sherlock was gay; he had seen him secretly check out men multiple times when he thought John wasn't looking. The question was, were Sherlock's feelings directed towards him?
John kicked a rock down the sidewalk, bursting with emotions. Every person that passed him gave him a strange look as he had quite the expression on his face, showing joy, confusion, anger, and curiosity all at once. Most of all, love. John knew that he loved Sherlock so much that he would not be able to handle his drug addiction. Every time he saw Sherlock high, he felt so out of control and deeply sad. If John were to care for Sherlock as a significant other, he would not be able to look at Sherlock when he was so broken inside. It tore John apart every time.
"Good day," John tipped his head in greeting, regarding a man he often saw at the market.
"Evening, doctor." John smiled and something suddenly clicked. He realized he had to say what was on his mind. If he was rejected, Sherlock would most likely ignore the situation and things would return to normal. In fact, Sherlock was most likely the best person to be rejected by. John braced himself, turned around and found himself breaking into a run. The situation felt suddenly urgent, and as each foot slapped the pavement, it grew of importance in his mind. He didn't realize how far he had strolled with his thoughts and was beginning to realize how out of shape he was. That did not stop him from running faster, ready to go straight through the door of 221B and hopefully straight into the arms of Sherlock.