Sherlock jumped at the sound of the door slamming shut behind John. They'd just gotten home from another case, one which was particularly gruesome and therefore had a lasting effect on John. Murder was always bad, and seeing blood on a body was something the doctor was used to, but something about this one really set him off. Perhaps it had something to do with the corpse being a tall, curly-haired, brunette man, one which resembled the Fall of Sherlock quite closely. The detective wasn't blind to this little fact, and subconsciously, neither was his best friend.
"You know, Sherlock," started John, "if you'd just been a bit faster to answer Lestrade and leave the flat, then maybe the poor bloke might still be alive! For once, can't you do something right?!" He sighed and hung his jumper on the hook then skulked to the kitchen. Audibly ignoring him, Sherlock picked up his violin and began tuning it, thinking about John's words. It wouldn't be entirely untrue to assume that John had been half talking to and about himself regarding Sherlock's Fall. After all, those very words apply both now and at the time of the hat detective's "death," but why would John still be upset about that? It was so long ago, and Sherlock was sure that they were even after John brutally beat him at the hospital after getting high again a few weeks ago. Sherlock spent weeks getting abused in an underground prison right before his return to the living, and after expecting a happy welcome, John hit him. No, John abused him. Repeatedly. And he did it again about a month ago in retaliation to Mary's untimely death.
And Sherlock let him.
The detective regained focus once John began yelling again. "What the hell is this?" John turned around to face Sherlock with a bag of eyeballs that were soaking in some sort of opaque, blue liquid with toothpicks plunged halfway into each lifeless pupil.
"It's for an experiment, John," Sherlock said calmly as he eerily dragged his bow across the strings.
"A experi-" John dropped his head, shaking it, and began smiling out of pure anger. "An experiment? IN THE KITCHEN?! HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I TOLD YOU NOT TO PUT BODY PARTS IN THE BLOODY KITCHEN?!" He slammed the bag down on the table next to the newspaper which featured both himself and the detective on the front cover from last week's solved ghost mystery. He glanced down at it, picked it up, then crumpled it up and threw it in the trash.
"You know how I am with my experiments, John. Keeping them cold is part of the process," said Sherlock as if this were a normal behavior. John walked toward Sherlock, who was facing the window as he played a sad tune, and huffed to get his attention. The detective rolled his eyes and set the instrument down next to his chair, then he turned around to face the man.
"We've been over this before. Your experiments, especially ones that involve human body parts, do not belong anywhere near the food! It's bloody disgusting!" John's eyes locked onto Sherlock's like a visual sniper ready to fire off verbal bullets.
"Fine. I'll cover them up next time. I didn't realize it bothered you so much." Sherlock could see that John was visibly angry by the way his fists were clenched when he yelled and the way his eyes never moved from Sherlock's when he spoke, despite Sherlock not bothering to make eye contact with him. It was an image that was all too familiar to him. He continued to watch John's body language as it built with each word projected at him, and he became increasingly aware of what might happen next.
"You're so bloody arrogant!" John yelled. With this, he quickly brought his hands from his side up toward Sherlock's face, but he was raising them to grip his own hair out of anger. He'd done it plenty of times to show frustration, but he didn't expect what happened next.
With a quick and sharp intake of breath, Sherlock backed up in a snap, raising his hands to his face in defense. He'd flinched so hard and so fast that he stumbled on his own feet and fell back into the chair, hands still raised in a protective manner by his scrunched face. John's eyes widened at this as his own hands slowly loosened their grip on his short hair and fell back to their side.
"Sherlock, I-" John began.
"Please don't," interrupted Sherlock, looking as if he were on the verge of tears.
"What the hell was that? Why did you flinch at me?"
Not wanting to tell the truth and be vulnerable, Sherlock abruptly stood from his chair, hands trembling, and walked quickly to his bedroom. John followed, but the sound of the door being locked told him he wasn't welcome, so he went back to his own chair and waited for Sherlock to come out. He typed away on his blog about their case that day for a couple hours, waiting for the detective to emerge from his solitude until he realized he wouldn't be coming out any time soon. After deciding that waiting for him would be a waste of time, John went upstairs to his own room and fell asleep.
The following morning, John awoke before Sherlock per usual and made tea for both of them. As he stirred the sugar in Sherlock's cup, he absentmindedly gazed across the room at the frosty windows. The pale winter scenery illuminated the busying streets below them, and sunshine was poking in at every gloomy window like a burglar. The grey slush coated the curb sides as the skeletal branches of trees blanketed with snow twisted and reached up toward the dull sky.
After realizing he over stirred the tea, he regained focus and set the teaspoon down, sighing heavily. With two cups in hand, he made his way to Sherlock's room and gently knocked on the door with his elbow.
"Sherlock? You awake? I brought you some tea, and I, well... I wanted to talk to you, about, uh, last night." He awaited a response but was unfortunate in receiving one, so he continued. "Sherlock? Are you even awake yet?" He leaned in closer to the door to listen for sounds that would tell him the man was stirring, but he heard nothing and decided he must've been asleep. He walked back to the kitchen and set the mugs on the table, sitting down himself. Suddenly, the sound of the bedroom door swinging open drew John's eyes to the detective, fully clothed and surprisingly chipper, as he strode through the hallway and grabbed his Belstaff.
"Morning, John. Lestrade's got a case for us and says it's urgent," he said as he tied his scarf around his neck. "Coming?"
"Uh, yeah, yeah, sure," answered John as he stood up and moved to get his jacket, completely aware that Sherlock was ignoring last night's little incident. "What's the case?"
"Two children. Missing. Lestrade says they're sisters and never came home from football practice last night, but someone left a note at their address with a series of clues to help locate them."
"Children?" John frowned as they made their way for the stairs and out the door. It was bad enough when there were victims of any sort, but children especially made his heart hurt. "How old are they?"
"Nine and twelve. Mum says they're never late coming home, and now there's a trail of clues that could lead us to an exciting case," he replied as he scanned the street for a cab. Once he'd hailed one, they both climbed inside, and Sherlock continued filling John in with the rest of the details. After he finished, they sat in silence for a while in the long ride to their destination until John broke it with his voice.
"Sherlock, can I ask you something?"
"Yes, I think you should stop dating women," he said plainly.
"Wh- what?"
"Oh, sorry," he turned his head to face John, "I've just been waiting for the day you- oh never mind. What is it?"
"Okay? Uh, anyway. Can we talk about, well, what happened last night?"
"What's there to talk about?"
"Well, just the way you... flinched at me when I rose my hands to my hair. I mean, I've never seen you act that way before." He stared at Sherlock who was only too busy staring out the window and ignoring him now. "Sherlock?"
"It was nothing, John. A normal human response when something comes close to making contact with your face."
"Yeah, but there was something about the way you flinched that wasn't exactly normal. I've come near your face like that plenty of times over the years, as have other people and things. You didn't flinch then. Last night, it was as if, well... as if you were expecting me to hit you or something." Sherlock remained silent at this for a while, and John didn't want to further push him in case it was painful for him to remember something he didn't want to, so he let it go. No sooner did they arrive at their destination with Lestrade eagerly awaiting their assistance outside.
Another case solved, another life saved. Or in this case, another two lives saved. The red and blue flashing lights raced across Sherlock's pale skin as he stared blankly into the night air. Officers from Scotland Yard paced back and forth between scenes as the paramedics made quick motions around the two girls being lifted into the ambulance for a psychological evaluation. No one seemed to notice Sherlock's presence, so he stood there, unnoticed and ignored, until Donovan approached him.
"Nice job tonight, freak," she commented degradingly.
John looked up from his conversation with Lestrade at hearing this and excused himself, approaching Sherlock quietly without his knowledge. Sherlock slowly turned his head to Donovan and glared at her but said nothing.
"What you did tonight," she continued, "it was really something, wasn't it? The way you found them so quickly? Only a freak would find that sort of thing enjoyable. You like it. I can see it on your face when you find more clues that you get off on it."
"I don't find clues, Donovan, I simply observe. The clues are already there, and it's not my fault the Yard is oblivious to plain sight," Sherlock said coolly. John listened in on their conversation after hearing Donovan call his friend a "freak," because despite what Sherlock says, John can tell it bothers him a bit. He started walking slowly toward the detective in case he needed someone to back him up, and once he was at the man's side, Sherlock made no effort to acknowledge John's presence. Instead, he began walking away toward the main road with the assumption that John would tail him, which he did. They began walking in silence for a while until, from behind them, Donovan spat:
"Wake up! Is this a game?"
Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks and inhaled a sharp breath, shutting his eyes tightly and trembling slightly. John noticed this and looked at him, concerned.
"Sherlock?" John started.
"What did you say?" Sherlock snapped back at her, ignoring the man completely.
"Is this just a bloody game?" She repeated.
Sherlock ignored her and turned back around, his eyes remaining fixed on some invisible object before him, and continued walking toward the main road.
"Sherlock, you okay?" John asked him.
"What? I'm fine."
"You sure? You don't-"
"I said I'm fine, John!"
John was used to being ignored by Sherlock, but that didn't mean he liked it. "Sherlock," he tried again, this time reaching out and grabbing the man's arm in an attempt to stop him. "What's going on with you lately?"
Ignoring the question once more, Sherlock stopped abruptly, turned his body slowly to face John, and kept his eyes steady on the foreign hand placed upon him. John could feel the arm beneath him starting to tremble, and he felt the muscles tense up as Sherlock clenched his fist in an attempt to stop it.
"John. Your hand. Please remove it." Sherlock's voice was quivering with every word, but he refused to make eye contact.
"Are you alr-"
"Please." Sherlock finally looked up at John's eyes, and now John could understand why he didn't look up before. Sherlock Holmes was crying, or rather, there were tears residing in his eyes. Trying to register this new experience, John completely forgot about his friend's request, and his hand remained grasped around Sherlock's arm. "Please, John. Let go."
"I-" John let go immediately, simply opening his hand all the way, and watched as Sherlock retracted his arm with a sudden jerk, rubbing it tenderly with his other hand. The doctor's mouth was slightly agape, eyes full of confusion, and he watched as the detective turned up his coat collar and walked away with a determination to hail a cab and go home.
John stayed silent for the entirety of the trip back to the flat. While they were seated in the car, though, he glanced over at Sherlock, who had his head pressed against the cold window with his hand rested on his forehead, elbow pressed to his knee, eyes closed, and breathing slowed.
When they arrived at their flat, Sherlock sat in his chair, picked up his violin, and began playing it. Surprised that his friend didn't immediately retreat to his bedroom, John walked to the kitchen to fix himself a proper meal. He looked disappointingly at the two untouched teacups from earlier that morning, sighed, and disposed of their contents in the sink. It was almost eight in the evening, and he hadn't eaten since the night before. Their cases often left him going a whole day without a meal, but he'd grown accustomed to it after a while.
"Sherlock?" He awaited some sort of signal that would tell him to piss off, but he never got one. "Did you want me to make you something to eat?" John asked.
"Not hungry," he responded simply.
"How can you not be hungry? You haven't eaten anything all day. You must eat something." John paused, awaiting a response he knew he wouldn't get. "Aren't you going to eat?"
"What day is it?"
"It's Wednesday."
"I'm okay for a bit."
"You haven't eaten today- for God's sake, you need to eat!"
"No, you need to eat. I need to think. The brain's what counts. Everything else is transport."
"You might consider refueling."
"Hmm," Sherlock hummed in response. He continued playing his violin throughout their conversation, and once it was over, John absentmindedly listened to it, recognizing the sadness of it. Sherlock was composing, something he did when he needed to think, and he'd just said he needed to think. He just solved a case and didn't have any new ones, so what could he possibly be on about?
"You're composing," commented John as he sat down in his chair with a bowl of soup planted next to him on the table. Sherlock ignored this and continued playing, eyes closed as the tempo of the music started to increase. He was facing the tall window as he played, not daring to glance back at the doctor. "It's a sad piece. The same one you were playing last night." He grabbed his soup and stared at Sherlock, stupidly expecting him to respond, and the music increased in tempo further, to which John picked up on. "Sherlock." The tempo increased even more, something John learned that Sherlock does when he's incredibly tense about something, but he'd never heard him play at this pace before. "Sherlock, please! Why are you playing so fast? You're starting to freak me out." At the word freak, the playing stopped at once and Sherlock's eyes sprung open immediately, alerting John.
Sherlock's breathing became rapid and heavy through only his nose, as if stifling the beginning stages of hyperventilation, but he plopped down in his chair and tried to steady it. He placed his instrument down on its stand and pressed his hands together, bringing them to his lips in a thinking position and closed his eyes once more. John could tell he was incredibly tense and tried to comfort him in any way he could.
"Sherlock-"
"Please don't speak. I need to think."
"Think about what? We've only just come off a case, and Lestrade doesn't have anything new for you," John started, waiting for the inevitable comment from Sherlock that never came. "What's gotten into you? You've been tense and on edge ever since last night. What's going on?" He leaned forward and hesitantly placed a hand on Sherlock's knee. "You can tell me anything." At this, Sherlock opened his eyes and looked down at the foreign limb on his body, then leaned forward, bringing his face a mere two inches from John's. He expected John to back away, but he remained still.
"I can't," he breathed, hanging his head. "I- I'm sorry." Sherlock began to stand up, but John pushed his knee back down and made him sit.
"Sherlock, please. For me. Just tell me what's going on. You haven't been acting yourself lately, and I'm concerned."
"Why would you be concerned?"
"Because I care about you."
"Why?"
"Because you're my friend."
"Why?"
John scoffed at this. "Because I like you. I'm concerned because you're my friend and I care about you and your well-being. Stop deflecting and just tell me what's going on. Please."
"I don't want you to think of me any differently, John."
"I promise I won't, just tell me why you've been so tense. Tell me why you flinched at me last night and this evening and why you looked so hurt when Donovan said, 'Is this a game?'" Sherlock closed his eyes at this and jerked away after hearing these words once more. John just stared at him, mouth slightly open, and leaned back a bit. He is a doctor, after all, and he could recognize signs of PTSD now that the symptoms were being presented to him in a clearer manner. After coming to that conclusion, he mentally berated himself for saying Sherlock's trigger words aloud again. Why did it take him so long? "Sherlock..." he said gently, "are you experiencing symptoms of PTSD?"
Sherlock said nothing and instead sank back fully into his chair, placing his elbows on the armrests and resting his face in his palms. He let out what John recognized as a sob, though he'd never actually heard him cry before. He didn't believe that Sherlock was a sociopath, but he'd never actually seen him display raw human emotion before, either. Not like this. John knew this might be something new for Sherlock, so he leaned across and grabbed his hands from his face and held them. Sherlock stopped crying immediately, and instead looked up at his friend. John looked into his eyes, and his heart broke for him. Those beautiful blue eyes were like an ocean. Its waters had always been so calm and cool, but now it was like a tidal wave, and he wasn't sure when a storm would break loose and cause a tsunami of hurt that had been slowly building up behind those eyes. He slowly reached across and touched Sherlock's cheek with his palm, watching carefully to see his response. The detective's eyes watched the hand carefully, steadily, until he realized it meant him no harm. Accepting this, John stretched his thumb up to gently wipe the tears from his face. Sherlock immediately turned his cheek into the doctor's hand, accepting his affection, and John could've sworn he felt Sherlock kiss his finger, but he decided he probably just imagined it. He removed his hands from the detective's face and placed them gently on his knees.
"Sherlock? What's going on with you? You can tell me anything."
"I've read about this, you know. About sharing feelings between friends, and I don't want to burden you with them. It isn't fair to you to have to deal with my problems, and you shouldn't have to be expected to help me cope with whatever it is that I'm... feeling." Sherlock said this last word as if he were disgusted with it.
"Sherlock, I asked for you to tell me what you're feeling. It's not a burden. I actually want you to confide in me, if you're comfortable." Sherlock sighed and swallowed hard.
"It's just that- well, a few weeks ago, when you- when you stopped me from attacking Culverton Smith, you did so rather, well, violently." John's eyes widened in saddened disbelief as he realized where this was going. "And while I get you were justified since I was high off my tits on drugs and allegedly obtained a weapon, it had a lasting effect on me. Last night, when you moved your hands near my face, you were already pissed, and you moved them rather quickly. I- I thought you were going to-"
"Hit you," John said slowly. He furrowed his brows and thought about that night in the hospital. He'd been so angry with Sherlock over Mary's death (and blamed him for it) that he took it out on him after disarming the scalpel from his hands. He punched him, hard, kicked him in the stomach repeatedly... he beat the living shit out of him. He left his best friend lying almost motionless on the floor in a pool of his own mixed blood and saliva, and he didn't even care. He was so blinded by rage that he didn't even realize how abusive he had become that night, and he never once considered what kind of effect that would have on Sherlock afterward. After he accepted that Mary's death wasn't Sherlock's fault, he'd cried in his arms, and that was that. He never once thought about the repercussions his actions would have on his best friend... until now.
"Yes."
"Sherlock... I-" Tears pooled in John's eyes and threatened to spill without his permission, and he was too ashamed to look the man across from him in the eye, despite the fact that that man had already been looking John in the eyes since he finished his sentence. "I'm so sorry," he continued as he tried to stifle a sob. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock." He failed. Soon, the sobs were coming as tears tricked down his cheeks. "I'm so sorry for what I did to you. I'm so sorry." He buried his face in his hands.
"It's... okay."
"No, no it's not okay!" He looked up again. "What I did to you... that can never be forgiven. Never."
"Forgiveness is not up to the person who needs it, but rather the person upon whom the action needing forgiveness affects. That would be me. You don't get to decide whether or not you deserve forgiveness, John. I do. And I decide that you do deserve it. Now whether or not you forgive yourself is up to you, but I want you to know that I do forgive you."
"Why?" His face was contrite.
"Well... because you're my friend, and I care about you."
John couldn't help but smile at this, but the tears steadily streamed down his face nonetheless. Sherlock, in an attempt to mimic what had previously happened, reached his own hand out and placed it on John's cheek. John froze but didn't move away, so Sherlock gently glided his thumb across John's face and removed the tears that littered it. After a while, the two sat in silence, taking comfort in each other's presence. Once John stopped crying, he thought more about what Sherlock had said.
"You looked troubled by what Sergeant Donovan told you," John started. "It's because that's what I told you, isn't it? When I was... beating you. I said, 'Wake up. Is this a game? Is this just a bloody game?' That's why you looked so upset when she said it, isn't it?" He looked up to see Sherlock's eyes had closed at this and grabbed his hand with his own. How could he be stupid enough to repeat those words again in front of the person it takes a toll on? "I'm- I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"
"Yes, that's why," he sighed. "When... after that night, that scene played itself on repeat in my mind every time I closed my eyes. Every word, every hit, every punch, every kick, every feeling, every thought... everything. It was all so vivid in my mind, and when Donovan said the same words to me tonight that you said in that hospital room... it all came flooding back to me." John looked at him in the eyes, not daring to break contact.
"And the music?"
"You were right," Sherlock replied, staring at him in turn. "I compose when I need to think, and the genre often reflects my current mood. My latest piece has been rather solemn, because that is what I have been feeling." John started absentmindedly rubbing circles with his thumb into Sherlock's hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"And... what are you feeling now?"
"I- I don't know what I'm feeling, John. It's all too much."
"Hm. Maybe I could help you with that?"
"How do you mean?"
John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He needed immense courage to do what came next.
"Do you trust me?" John knew he was taking a leap of faith with this one, but he went for it anyway.
"What?"
"Do you, Sherlock Holmes, trust me, your doctor? Do you trust me?"
"I- yes. Yes, of course I trust you." John sighed in relief at hearing these words. "Why does that matter?"
"Let me know what you feel after this."
"After wha-"
John closed his eyes and leaned in toward Sherlock, who followed promptly. When their lips touched, John half expected the detective to pull away, but he remained exactly where he was. John placed a single hand on Sherlock's cheek and kissed him gently, to which he kissed softly in return. When John leaned back, he stared at his best friend softly and smiled. "Did you feel anything from that?" John whispered.
"Wha- uh, yes."
"What was it?"
"I'm not sure, I- I've never experienced that emotion before. It's not logged into any place within my Mind Palace."
"Well, try describing it in words that are in your Mind Palace."
"Erm- fireworks. Felicitous. Fain. Flowers. Faultless. F-"
"Lots of f-words," John teased with a smile.
"That's because it was fucking fantastic," said Sherlock to John's surprise.
"I didn't know that was in your vocabulary."
"Oh, please. Vulgar language is for children. Your irascibility over my ostentatiously prodigious vocabulary leaves me to cerebrate whether or not you should go ahead and consign me to my sepulcher," Sherlock said with a huge grin.
"You were always one for a touch of the dramatic, weren't you?" John said, laughing. "And I'm sorry," he sighed.
"You already apologized, and I said I forgive you. I meant it, and so did you."
"No, no, not for that. I mean, yes, I'm truly, deeply sorry about what I did to you and will do anything and everything to make it right, and I am more than beyond grateful for your forgiveness and friendship... but that's not what this owed apology is for."
"Then what?" Sherlock looked genuinely confused at this.
"When you confided in me about your traumas just now, I should've been the one to comfort you. I'm a bloody doctor, and I've seen enough therapists to know that when a patient is struggling with something and comes forward about their experiences, you should never react in a way that makes them have to comfort you. You told me about something that made you feel vulnerable, and instead of having a professional response, one in which I should have comforted you, I made you feel like you had to comfort me, and it really should've been the other way around. I'm sorry for doing that to you just now. It isn't right. Can- can you ever forgive me?" John was crying again.
"John..." Sherlock was surprised at this confession. "You- of course I forgive you, not that you really need it. You didn't do anything wrong. Your actions were purely an emotional response to hearing something that made you ridden with guilt, so crying was simply a way for you to express said emotion. It's completely natural."
"Yes, but I should've been comforting you. You're the one who needed it, so I'll say it again. I'm sorry." John leaned over and hugged the detective, fully and with genuine affection. Albeit it was an awkward angle, given they were both sitting, but it felt natural nonetheless.
"Well, I suppose a proper apology deserves a proper response then? Of course I forgive you, John. Although I still don't think you had anything to apologize for." The doctor smiled kindly at this, amazed by this man's willingness to forgive others even when they felt they didn't deserve it themselves.
"And one other thing," began John.
"Hm?"
"I'm sorry for kissing you." Sherlock felt his heart sink at this. Had John regretted his decision to kiss him?
"The timing... it was all off. Don't get me wrong, I'd happily do it again, but I shouldn't have done it while we were both full of emotion like that."
"You'll just find any excuse to apologize for something, won't you, Doctor Watson?" John smiled at this. "Don't be sorry. The timing was fine, especially considering I've been waiting years," Sherlock said with a sly grin. John looked surprised at this confession and was about to say something but decided against it. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, taking in everything that had gone down tonight.
"John... can I ask you something?" Sherlock gently placed his hands on the doctor's knees.
"Yeah, of course. What is it?" he responded, leaning upright in his chair again.
"You know more about love than I do."
"Erm- I suppose so?"
"That kiss just now. What was it?"
"Oh, uh... I'm not sure. I mean, I've always sort of felt that way about you, and-"
"What do you mean, 'that way?' "
"Well, just that I, uh," John laughed, "that I love you."
"What about Mary?" John stiffened at this.
"What about her?"
"You love her, too."
"Yes, but she's gone, Sherlock. She's not coming back, and there's no point in holding onto the past... that's something I learned the hard way."
"But you love me? How can you love both of us?"
"Mary's... dead, Sherlock," John said as a single tear traveled down his cheek. He felt as if he'd cried more times tonight than any other day of his life - including the day Mary died. He wiped it immediately. "She'll always have a special place in my heart, but... I don't know. You will too. You always have, actually. I loved her, past tense, but I love you, here and now. There's always been something about you that I've loved, even if I never dared to admit it before. I think I was so afraid of loving a man after what happened to Harry."
"What happened to your sister?"
"You mean to say you can't deduce that for yourself? Can't you look at my phone or haircut or something and figure it out?" John teased.
"You're using humor to deflect your pain again. You do that sometimes, you know," Sherlock said gently as John looked away. "What happened to Harry that you're so afraid of?"
"Well, Harry, she's lesbian, as you know. I always supported her and never had any issues with her for it, but my father... he did. He's part of the reason she's an alcoholic. She didn't want to be gay, and she tried to hide her feelings away out of fear of what he might do to her because of it. Eventually she turned to drinking and became addicted. I guess I was afraid of doing the same thing to myself. I fell for you during our first case together, Sherlock. That night at Angelo's? After you thought I was flirting with you, I was so embarrassed and couldn't get that thought out of my head, so I played around with it for a bit. I imagined what life could be like if I'd opened myself up to you, but you didn't seem like much of the dating type, so I shoved those feelings back down."
"So what does this have to do with Harry?"
"I'm sure you know."
"I'm sure I do too, as I tend to know most things, yes. But," he grabbed John's hands and held them in his own, "I want to hear you say it. Not for me, but for yourself." John sighed deeply.
"Harry became an alcoholic after she tried to repress her feelings out of fear of my father's retaliation. She became addicted. I was afraid that-" his voice cracked, so he took a deep breath and tried again. "I was afraid that I would be treated the same way she was if I ever came out as gay. And I'm not saying I am, I like women too, so maybe I'm bisexual, who knows? I don't like labels. Anyway, that's why I always get so defensive any time Mrs. Hudson or anyone just assumes we're a couple or that I'm gay. I didn't want people to think that because I was afraid of what my father might do or say. It's part of why I joined the military, actually. I thought it could either straighten me out or teach me how to defend myself, but only the latter worked out. My father was in the army too, so I don't know, maybe I thought we would have something in common and he wouldn't hate me as much," John closed his eyes and slowed his breathing, continuing his thought process as Sherlock waited. "So to put things simply, Harry became addicted to alcohol after trying to repress her sexuality, and I became addicted to danger, as you so brilliantly deduced, after trying to repress mine. That's why I never came forward about it until now... even at your grave."
"John, I-"
"I know, I know. It's ridiculous."
"No, not at all. It's perfectly sound logic, and that's coming from me. Just don't invalidate your own experiences, John. Can I ask you something, though?"
"What is it?"
"Why now? What made you comfortable sharing this information with me today, here and now? What changed your mind?"
"Well I don't think anything really changed my mind. I think it's more of that I've accepted my father's blatant homophobia and abuse, and I am a grown man. If I want to cut him out of my life, I am certainly more than capable of doing so. I let my father's fear mongering control my life for too long, so today starts a new chapter, Sherlock. Us. If you'll have me, of course?"
"I wouldn't want it any other way. After all, I consider myself married to my work, and that includes you. I didn't say it before, but... I love you too, John."
The two of them smiled at each other, both in a relative state of disbelief and shock, and sat in a comfortable silence for a bit.
"John?"
"Hm?"
"I have another question."
"What is it?"
"You said you love me, right?"
"Of course, why?"
"Hm. Do you mean to say that you love me or that you're in love with me?"
"Uh, both, I suppose."
"No, it cannot be both, John."
"Why's that?"
"There's a difference between the two. The difference between loving someone versus being in love with someone is caring about someone being happy versus wanting them to be happy with you. Wanting them to get a good night's sleep versus wanting them to sleep next to you. The 'with' is all the difference because to love is to give out love. To be in love with is to give out love with the intention of getting love back. When you're in love with someone, you actually care if they love you back, whereas if you simply love someone, you love them regardless of if you're together or not. So I ask you again, John. Do you love me, or are you in love with me?" Sherlock sat there and stared at him blankly as if this information were common, but he quickly became confused after seeing the look of shock on John's face. His mouth was half open, eyes wide, and he looked as if he'd just seen a ghost. "John?"
"Erm- in love, I suppose, then. Hang on, sorry, where in the bloody hell did you come up with that??!"
"What do you mean?"
"You're Sherlock Holmes! Since when do you care about human emotion?!"
"I say I'm a high-functioning sociopath because that's what people have said my whole life, and it's easier to just agree rather than argue, but I know that's not entirely true... I did my research," Sherlock said with a sly smile. John laughed at this and shook his head in disbelief.
"You never cease to amaze me. Never," John whispered as he grabbed Sherlock by the neck and leaned in for a kiss. Unfortunately, the sudden motion of the hand toward his face caused him to flinch, saddening John. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean for-"
Sherlock grabbed the doctor and kissed him.
"Old habits die hard, Doctor Watson."
"That they do, Mr. Holmes. That they do."
A/N: Thank you for reading! I'd been wanting to write this one for a while, and I ended up writing it in the middle of the night (that's when I do my best writing) in one go. I know it's not perfect, but please feel free to leave a review! I'd appreciate any and all feedback. :) Have a lovely day!