-1: "Yes, but I love you, John…"
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The day after, if one could call it that, Sherlock realised that being drunk was only fun at the moment itself, and that drowning one's sorrow in even more beer did only help for a small amount of time. Breakfast was filled with grumpy grunts and embarrassed little snippets of remembering what had happened, and some awkward tense silent that told Sherlock that not everything had gone as… planned.
John didn't mention much of the night before, and seemed reluctant to answer Sherlock's groaned, complaining questions, and quietly ate his toast before announcing he had to go to work. He grabbed his bag, keys and wallet, and was off.
Sherlock was left alone with his coffee, water and painkillers, and decided that throwing himself on the sofa was a good remedy for a vicious, evil hangover.
When John returned, fearing the lethargic sight of Sherlock on the sofa, bored out of his aching mind, he was pleasantly surprised to find the man dressed, shaved and seemingly recovered from last night. There was a new case on, and soon John was whisked along, running havoc in London alongside his best friend.
The case was easily solved – something to do with three dogs, five cats, a dove and a panda – and Sherlock's resolve to make John Say The Words seemed to have lost in strength and urgency when more cases presented themselves.
Sherlock still took time for Movie Friday, and the Friday after Christmas they watched the last installment of The Hangover, something that Sherlock shouldn't have found hilarious but it was anyway, even though Sherlock knew perfectly well it was just John taking the piss at him.
The following Sunday, Greg Lestrade came to 221B to ask the detective and his blogger for help on finding a murderer of random men and women. Sherlock found out there was a link between their schools and some bullying that had been going on ten years ago. With that knowledge, it was fairly easy to tell who the killer was, and where he killed his victims – an abandoned factory. Sometimes Sherlock feared for the existence of criminals, because they were seriously lacking imagination.
They followed the clues and it was before dusk, and ere long John and Sherlock found themselves between empty crates and other stuff, crouching and waiting for the killer. They were pressed close in a small space, and Sherlock felt John's warm breath tickle the back of his neck. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply, a bit shivery.
"You okay?" John asked, pressing one of his hands to the small of Sherlock's back, the warmth seeping to Sherlock's very heart.
The detective nodded. "Yes. Fine."
John pressed his lips together tightly, his expression determined. "Good."
Sherlock hummed and looked out over the empty space. "No, actually. John…"
John inhaled sharply. "No, Sherlock, not now," he said sternly. "I don't want it."
"But…"
"Please." John turned his head and leaned away a bit so he could look at his best friend properly. "I am not an idiot, Sherlock. I noticed. I hope it was entertaining, all that… whatever it was. Don't worry, it's probably just a crush, it will pass."
Sherlock frowned, and shook his head. "Not a crush, John."
John scoffed. "Of course it is, Sherlock. What else can it be? And you are not really known as a romantically inclined man, we both know that."
Sherlock felt some odd thing happening inside his chest, something that made him want to change John's mind because otherwise he might just… scream. "Yes, but I love you, John, I really do…" His voice trailed off when he saw the look on John's face. "… Oh."
John's blue eyes were wide, his mouth hung open a bit, and it would have looked funny were it not for the look of extreme relief and happiness that came with the expression. "Sherlock, I-"
A loud clang was heard, and Sherlock sighed deeply, hanging his head. He composed himself and looked back up, shared a meaningful glance of This conversation isn't over yet with John, and slowly got up, his muscles protesting as he moved forward.
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AN: One more to go, honeys!