"You've been very quiet," Sherlock said when 221B was in view.

John was a ball of nerves, actually. He had been absently thinking about what might happen between he and Sherlock if they got intimate again all week, but now it might actually happen.

Might being because John didn't want to initiate it this time. Sherlock was obviously uncomfortable with the entire situation and John hated seeing him that way. Sherlock wasn't one to be nervous or confused the way he had been the whole night. John didn't want to rush anything, even if his blood was burning with excitement in his veins at the very thought of touching—

But he wouldn't do anything about it unless Sherlock did. He had already decided that and he was going to stick to it.

They walked into the flat and John sat in the chair and turned on the telly.

"Porn costs money on that," Sherlock said.

"Who said anything about porn?"

"Your dilated pupils."

"I'm going to watch the news, actually."

Sherlock sat down and immediately started telling the news caster that she was wrong about some case and John just smiled.

"I want a sandwich. It's Wednesday, so it's probably about time to eat something," Sherlock eventually said.

John got up and started to make him one, even though Sherlock didn't ask that time. Or command. Whatever you wanted to call it. He brought it to Sherlock and he took it and ate it, no thank you or anything. That's just how he was.

"This woman doesn't know anything, honestly. Look at the lacerations on that man's head. He's obviously been…" Sherlock was saying about the news. John found himself reviewing the night, thinking that even if nothing at all happened, it had been successful. Sherlock was trying to open up. John couldn't ask for any more than that. A kiss would be nice, of course, since John had been resisting doing it for days, but he would live.

John thought back on the week in general. Was Sherlock acting different at all? He was doing odd experiments and anonymously solving cases for people online. That was normal. He didn't bother to get dressed, and though usually he would have worn his blue robe and some pyjamas instead of a sheet, that was normal too. But also, John thought he caught Sherlock staring at him once or twice. Sherlock stared at people often, but it seemed different than the way he usually did.

And there was the one moment when John left to go to his room and Sherlock was on his computer, reading. Then John was about to walk back in and he found Sherlock was staring at the ground with the most peculiar look on his face… he almost looked sad. For once he wasn't talking like he thought John was still in the room. And then he touched his own face… almost as if remembering.

John figured it was just Sherlock being Sherlock and he was interpreting it entirely wrong, but he liked to think that he wasn't.

John glanced up at Sherlock out of habit and noticed that he was looking at John instead of the television.

"This is very frustrating," Sherlock said.

"What is?"

"Not knowing."

"Not knowing what?"

Sherlock scanned John for three seconds before saying, "You're wearing one of your nicer sweaters, probably one that Harry gave you, which means that tonight is important to you. I can smell just the slightest bit of cologne, hinting the same thing. I can hear your pulse from over here and you keep twitching and shifting your legs, meaning you have been thinking about something sexual, whether it was subconscious or not. You keep glancing at me, obviously meaning you're expecting something of me."

"Alright… what's your point?"

"Even with all of that, you're just sitting there."

"Yes."

"So why?"

"I thought you knew everything." John was kind of entertained about the fact that Sherlock was clueless for once.

"I know things that make sense. Human sexuality doesn't make any sense at all."

"Probably right. Well, I'm going to bed."

Sherlock glared. "You are?"

"Yes. Goodnight," John said, going to his room.


Sherlock was left sitting in his chair, staring at John's receding back.

How on earth had all of this happened? Sherlock had divorced himself from feelings for a reason, a good one. They were just a distraction from what was really important, a way to get blackmailed. Moriarty only succeeded as much as he did because Sherlock had been weak enough to grow affectionate towards people. How human of him, to let himself care so much. On one thing he and Mycroft could agree: Caring was a not an advantage.

And now, here he was, an uncomfortable longing dully thudding in his brain, his entire being trying to pull him towards John's shut door.

While Sherlock was gone, he missed John terribly. More than he was willing to admit. He never thought he could feel so strongly towards someone else. It was nearly dizzying. Then seeing John again a week before had thrilled him much more than he expected. The thought that John had been in pain because of Sherlock's deception actually bothered him slightly.

And when John had kissed him… it was indescribable. And for Sherlock, things weren't "indescribable" very often. It was like some part of his being that he hadn't known existed was suddenly ignited… except even that description didn't quite explain how Sherlock had felt. Somehow, for the first time in his life, the idea of sharing himself with another person was attractive.

John was sitting in his room. There was no way he had fallen asleep, not with how tense his body had been. It would take at least thirty minutes for his body to relax enough to even think of sleep, and even after that it was likely his mind would be too active to sleep for another hour or so. So Sherlock had a choice. He could sit out in this front room and watch the news reporter make a complete fool of herself as she described a murder that Sherlock knew was obviously a suicide… or he could go into John's room. John had gone away in the first place because he figured that Sherlock had no clue whatsoever what he had been implying. He wouldn't expect Sherlock to walk in, that much was certain. Sherlock knew he was not mistaken in his assumption that John would be pleased to see him.

And Sherlock Holmes was surprised to find that he was scared. Being startled and afraid at the same time… yes, Sherlock would have to get used to all these unfamiliar feelings.

If he went in there, he was putting himself in a situation that he had never been in before. Not only that, but it was a compromising situation, one where he was vulnerable. One where John would be the one calling the shots because Sherlock had no clue at all what he was doing.

The most astounding thing about that was he didn't mind. Usually, he wouldn't trust anyone with his own body. He wouldn't even trust a dentist to clean his teeth properly. But John… Sherlock trusted John with his life. He always had.

He jumped up from his chair and began to pace because his mind was too active to keep still. He had never been so aware that John wasn't in the room. Even when he had been gone, pretending to be dead, he would mutter to John. Now, every time John left the room, he absolutely knew he was gone. It felt empty. He would sometimes talk to him anyway, just because he felt better pretending he was there than feeling the void when he knew that he was gone.

That had to mean something. He'd never wanted a person never to leave him, but he felt that way now about John.

He didn't know exactly what he was feeling, but he knew he was incapable of ignoring it and that if he did ignore it, John would be upset, and he didn't want that.

And so he slowly removed his jacket, scarf, and shoes, draping them on his chair, and started towards John's room. He was uncomfortable with how fast and hard his heart was beating on the way there. He was uncomfortable with all of it.

But part of him just needed to know. All of this was so hard for him to understand and he hated not understanding.

Think of it as an experiment, Sherlock told himself. And he opened the door to John's room.


John was having trouble falling asleep.

He and Sherlock had all the time in the world to get closer. He didn't mind taking it slow.

But what scared him was that maybe Sherlock had officially decided that it wasn't worth the trouble. And if he decided that, would they just be friends like they used to be, or would Sherlock decide he didn't want John around at all? He didn't know what he would do if that happened.

He was still trying to understand his feelings, because they seemed to get stronger every day. He knew that Sherlock wasn't really any different than before. He was still the high-functioning sociopath he always has been. But John somehow loved even the bad things about him. Sherlock made him think, brought excitement to his life and made him look at the world in a completely different way. And John liked to think he brought Sherlock off his pedestal a little bit, humanised him. But did Sherlock want to be humanised? He liked to be separate from other people, to be like an alien in a crowd of ordinary Joes.

John tried to stop thinking so much, but he couldn't. He was just trying to shuffle around and find a comfortable spot when the door opened. Sherlock was standing there in his dark purple shirt and black trousers, a completely unreadable expression on his face as usual. John sat up and looked at Sherlock inquisitively, but he just shut the door and came and sat on the bed, looking at John. He looked conflicted, maybe even a little upset, John realised.

"What is it?" John asked, subconsciously reaching for Sherlock's hand. He realised what he was going and was going to pull his arm back, but Sherlock took it in his and turned it over, looking at it like he was some sort of palm reader, tracing the lines.

"I've been thinking," he said.

"You do that quite often," John said.

Sherlock smirked. "Yes, I suppose I do. I just meant, I was thinking about this. Us."

John suddenly felt nervous. "Alright…" he prompted.

"I never wanted to care about people. It makes it hard to concentrate on important details when you are busy worrying about other people."

John's heart sank. "Right, of course, I understand."

"Why don't you let me finish, John?"

"Sorry. Go on."

"What I was going to say was that I never wanted that before… but I care about you a lot, John. So what I decided was that even if love is a disadvantage, I don't think I care." Sherlock looked up from John's hand and looked at John as if he were a very complex message he was trying to decode. "What on earth have you done to me?"

John smiled and was trying to think of an answer to that question when Sherlock scooted closer, a determined look in his eyes. He slowly reached both hands up, putting them on John's cheeks. John found himself unable to do anything but try to breathe evenly. And when Sherlock's lips collided with his own, it was with much more force than John expected. They fell back on the bed and Sherlock was on top of him—this surprised John at first, but Sherlock did like to be in control of situations.

It didn't take long before they'd lost their clothes to the floor all over again, but this time they weren't hidden under a sheet. John was kind of in a daze. He had fully convinced himself that Sherlock was not interested in a relationship when Sherlock came in, all fiery eyed again. The things he'd imagined all week, kissing him again, not just on his lips but all over, being able to feel every inch of him… it was happening. And Sherlock seemed to be enjoying it, judging by his enthusiasm and occasional moans.

After a very long time, they both separated just the slightest bit to look at each other. John found that he was quite satisfied seeing Sherlock so disheveled and wild eyed, breathing like he'd been running for an hour or two.

John was completely consumed with a joy that he couldn't really understand. He'd done things like this before—granted, it was with women—and it never made him feel so alive. The only conclusion he could come to was that it was because of Sherlock.

He had already decided he had strong feelings for Sherlock. He knew that and would be an idiot to deny it. But he had strong feelings before, for other people, and still it was never like this.

Looking into Sherlock's eyes, which were swimming between blue and green in that moment, John knew.

"I think I love you," he said.

Sherlock froze. It was almost as if he had stopped breathing entirely. He shot up, sitting with his back board straight.

"I… Sorry—" John began to say before Sherlock gathered up is clothes and strode from the room.