A/N: Pre-slash!
Je t'aime
It was a balmy night in late August; Sherlock and John were walking to the Chinese at the end of Baker Street for dinner. Sherlock was walking a step ahead of John, and was stopped by a pair of French tourists who asked for directions in rather broken English. John listened as Sherlock gave them the information they asked for, in their native language. When the tourists walked off and the two men continued on, John remarked:
"I didn't know you could speak French."
"I've never spoken it around you," Sherlock replied dismissively.
"No, that's true," the veteran paused for a moment, thinking. "How many languages do you speak?"
"Twenty-two," the detective replied without hesitation. John raised his eyebrows, though he couldn't say he was terribly surprised.
"I was always rubbish at languages," he remarked, a bit regretfully. Sherlock half-smiled at him, opening the door of the restaurant.
As John stepped through the open door, he heard Sherlock murmur, so quietly it was barely inaudible, "Je t'aime."
"What?" John asked, turning.
"Nothing." Sherlock replied, almost reluctantly. As he passed his flatmate on the way to the counter, John caught sight of a momentary expression in his eyes. It spoke of deep longing and hopelessness, but was gone as soon as John had seen it. He must have imagined it, he thought to himself. It had been a trick of the light...