It Started on a Sunny Morning (Johnlock)

by SarahJaneS

As John struggles to come to terms with his love for his friend, his fear of losing Sherlock keeps him at bay. But a new case may prove enlightening for both of them, and give both men the courage to say what has been left unsaid. This is a Johnlock love story. There is minor swearing and suggestive situations.

It Started on a Sunny Morning

By Sarah Jane

A Sherlock and John Watson Love Story

Chapter 1

John spooned a generous amount of sugar into his tea and tried to steady his breath. It was 5 am, and he hated so much sugar but his mind was miles away from the taste of his earl grey.
He glanced out the tiny kitchen window and noted the early rays of sunlight creeping over neighboring rooftops before his eyes flickered to the clock on the wall. If he was going to do it, he better do it soon. John blew out another long steady breath in what seemed a futile effort to steady his racing heart.

How long has he been doing this now? How many weeks have gone by where this foolhardy ritual determined the course of his every morning? He knew it was risky and unhealthy but the thought of stopping...
Abandoning his tea untouched, John turned towards the hall and made his way to the room of his flat mate. The man that seems to drive every waking thought John has and even slip into his dreams unannounced. John reached the familiar entrance and slowly turned the doorknob to soundlessly enter the room of his closest friend Sherlock.

He was sleeping of course. Sherlock is always sleeping at this hour and long into the afternoon as well if left unchecked. That is, of course, unless a case needed worked. He did not seem to sleep at all when justice needed serving.

John let the door ajar and edged his way into the room. He had already memorized what floor boards creak and which areas to avoid thus he moved deftly to Sherlock's bedside undetected.
He stood there for a moment, as he often does, and watched the man sleep. To see such a guarded and intensely analytical man appear so open and vulnerable in his bed left a yearning in John that both terrified him and drew him in.

John moved his hand closer to his friend and allowed the back of his fingers to gently trail along the soft cloth of Sherlock's night shirt. He lifted his hand then to the man's hair and softly traced the rich locks over his fingertips.

To watch his friend asleep and at peace from all his torment; to smell the raw scent of his skin; to hear his breath slow and rich, made the yearning swell to a level of desire that left John drunk on his emotions. He thought about leaning over and daring to kiss those unguarded lips...

A sudden knock at the front door far below brought John's mind to full alert, and he quickly retreated out of the room without notice. He took one last look at Sherlock's sleeping form, his mind a maze of longing and confusion, before quietly shutting the bedroom door.

Chapter 2

Lestrade stood before him when Watson opened the door, and a pang of irritation flooded through him.

"It's awfully early to be making house calls," John sputtered, sounding incredulous.

"Terribly sorry doctor, but being that I was in the area, I thought it would do us some good to have fresh eyes on the crime scene. I assumed you would be up." Knowing Lestrade is aware of John's work at university that often calls him to conduct surgeries in early hours of the day, he begged the inspectors pardon and offered him in for tea.

"Afraid I can't", said Lestrade as he tipped his hat," I am conducting an investigation in the vicinity pertaining to a suspicious death."

"A death you say?" Boomed a familiar baritone voice and suddenly he was there next to John tying the sash of his house jacket. John could feel a lump form in his throat.

"How long have you been awake?" He managed hoarsely, and Sherlock peered down at him with a half-smile and a sharp look in his eye. Watson understood none of it. Turning his attention back to the inspector, Sherlock inquired on the nature of the investigation and John struggled to focus on the matters at hand.

"A woman two flats down by the name of...Ms. Hedgeworth", Lestrade was saying as he consulted a small pad, "She was found with ligature marks around her neck, but appeared to be resting in her bed peacefully when death took her. No signs of struggle or forced entry, but something is apparently offset here. We did our job, and did not disturb the scene, but I thought it best you see her before we move the body."
John remembered seeing Ms. Hedgeworth out and about on occasion. She was a slight woman, mid-forties by his estimate, and widowed if his memory served him. She seemed to keep to herself with no friends that he was aware of.

"Allow me a moment to dress and we will be happy to accompany you to the scene", Sherlock chimed over his shoulder, already making his way up the stairs. The way he lit up when working a case; the thrill in his voice as he deciphered a puzzle, these were the things John adored about the man. Watching him work was like glimpsing the special secrets of energy he shrouded behind a heavy cloak of indifference. John yearned to pull that cloak away entirely and lay bare the man he has grown to love.

"Something wrong, doctor?" asked Lestrade, and John startled out of his reverie. They were still in the entranceway awaiting Sherlock's return, but John realized that he was gaping open mouthed at the inspectors face. John visibly shook his head and blinked away his thoughts.

"Not at all...was I just...surprised by a thought I had. I am not quite awake, you see." John mocked wrapping his knuckle on his head and offered a weak smile until the inspectors gaze returned to the stairs. It was Sherlock he was interested in after all. Everyone was interested in Sherlock and John was no exception apparently. When did he realize he had fallen in love with the man? Was it just then in that moment where his guard was down and he wasn't pushing his longing away? Resolving to ponder this at a time he had to himself, he turned towards the stairs as well, just as eager for Sherlock's return.

Chapter 3

The distance did not warrant the need for a taxi which is just as well. It was a sunny morning and the crisp cool night air was already starting to warm. Sherlock darned his usual trench coat but John suspected he wouldn't be wearing it for long in this weather. Lestrade led them across the roadway and into a narrow alley two flats down to the back entrance of the building. A few officers lingered, the preliminary investigation now over, and waited for the word to allow the coroner entrance to the building.

The inspector led the two men up a back staircase that was probably a servant's access at one point in time, to a second level row of rooms and doors.

"I was told it was the maid that found her, the poor thing was a mess. She called us half in hysterics and hasn't stopped crying. We sent her home. "

The men were led into a room where a woman lay motionless under the throw on her bed. She was just as Lestrade had described her and John examined the scene long enough to acknowledge that Ms. Hedgeworth appeared to be resting comfortably and passed peacefully in her sleep. His focus quickly turned to Sherlock who stood poised with his eyes closed and his face upturned to the ceiling. John loved watching the way Sherlock deduced a crime scene. The flourish of his gestures and the flare of his nostrils as he recited the dire acts that must have occurred to lead to such a lowly point always made Johns head spin. He never grew tired of the vast capacity of knowledge Sherlock possessed and hoped that they could always go on this way: Sherlock with his performance, and John adoring him from the shadows.

"Do you smell that?" Sherlock said suddenly, and his eyes flew open.

"Smell what?" Lestrade said puzzled, baited into the exchange. John remained silent and watched. Sherlock strode towards the bed in a flare of coat flaps and bent over like a stork skimming water to bring his nose close to the corpse. John cringed a little at the macabre intimacy.

"Perfume..." Sherlock trained off in thought. He righted himself and turned to John. "Are you aware of Ms. Hedgeworth ever wearing perfume?" John strained to remember but only shrugged in response. While Ms. Hedgeworth was not an unattractive woman, he never gave her much notice.

Sherlock slipped on a rubber glove and probed the deceased woman's neck with his fingertips. An ugly purple bruise lined her skin around her neck and appeared hidden behind her dark hair. Sherlock touched the area where her bruise was present and drew his fingers closer to his face to examine the fine powder that collected there. He traced areas of her face as well with his fingers and examined the same substance on his hands.

"What is it?" John whispered, unable to resist.

"Make up. This scene has been staged. Lestrade, did you recover any sort of rope in your investigation? "

"Afraid not, Holmes. Although we suspected as much as what you are saying. She was killed in another location and placed here by the murderer."

"I agree this is not the location of her death, but whether or not she was killed remains to be seen," said Sherlock while he removed his glove, "I would like to speak with her maid. I would also wish to examine her study and personal effects for any additional indication of her personal affairs."

"Are you done with the body then?" Asked Lestrade.

Sherlock moved toward the door but took one last look at the body over his shoulder.
"This is not a crime scene, it's a shrine. Any secrets Ms. Hedgeworth possessed have long since been wiped clean. "And with that, he departed the room.

Chapter 4

John rubbed at his bleary eyes and closed the small book on his lap. It was just one of many that Ms. Hedgeworth had used to account the dreary details of her life. From her bitter childhood memories of her school to the alcohol addiction of her late husband which eventually took him. She sounded regretful of all the opportunities she missed and resound to dedicate her life to her work which was apparently in investment banking. She had a brother, but they were in no way close, and she often talked about ways he took pleasure in causing her misery.

"Perhaps we should add the brother Frederick to the list of persons of interest," John said as he rose to his feet to stretch. He turned and noticed Sherlock's eyes were on him, watching him with solemn intent. John's expression turned puzzled and Sherlock motioned toward the armchair across from him. "Come sit with me for a moment before you retire. I would like to ask you something."

A chill went through John and settled in the pit of his stomach. Does Sherlock know? John has always strived to keep his composure because he knew how smart the man was but...was he awake that very morning when John reached out and touched his hair? In a panic John worked to control his emotions. He could feel his palms grow clammy and his heart start to race. He offered to make tea and cursed himself for the way his voice waivered. Sherlock obliged him, and John fled into the kitchen.

He knew how Sherlock liked his tea, had the art of crafting it perfected, but still took his time as he worked through old military exercises to calm his nerves. This was ridiculous. He was a grown man and these flights of fancy befuddled him and made him feel like a school girl. It was intoxicating and humiliating. John returned to his arm chair with two fresh brewed cups of tea.

Sherlock took his tea between his long fingers and drew in its aroma with a hum of pleasure. John sat down and stared at his feet.

"I spent the last two hours reading the last few journals Ms. Hedgeworth had written prior to her passing and it was filled with a particular love interest she called William. Did you see any William in her address book, John?"

"No...I...I didn't" John managed to say. He was confused as to the direction of the conversation.
"I am not surprised. She spoke of William saying that she suspected the love was only one sided. She felt that while she loved William unconditionally, he did not return her affections and thus she dare not reveal to him her true nature lest she compromise whatever friendship they might possess." John swallowed hard and tried to look busy with his tea.

"Tell me John," Sherlock said, and his voice took on a softer quality that made the hair on John's arms stand on end, "are you happy here?"

"What?" John asked looking up suddenly. Sherlock's voice grew even softer.

"Are you happy here...with me?"

"Of course I am!" John said too loudly. He could hear his heart thumping in his ears and laughed nervously. "Why wouldn't I be? We're friends, aren't we?"

"Yes." Sherlock said looking down and John wondered if he imagined the hint of disappointment in the other man's eyes. He tried not to think about a hundred other ways he could have answered that question more appropriately. He searched his mind as to what to say; he wanted to try again.

"Sherlock..."

"Another time, John," Sherlock said abruptly as he rose to his feet, "Lestrade arranged for us to meet the maid in the morning and I desire the comfort of my bed. Do turn out the lights before you retire." And with that, he was gone.

John sat in his chair for a long time trying to make sense of what had occurred. He thought about Ms. Hedgeworth and the elusive William, and he thought of Sherlock and that brief look of disappointment in his eyes. His tea grew cold and still he sat with his eyes fixed on the opposite chair. His chair.

"Yes, Sherlock, I am happy here, "he said at last and barely above a whisper, "and yes, Sherlock, I am happy to be with you."

Chapter 5

Bethany was the maids name and not at all the girl John had imagined. He had to perform two routine procedures that morning and thus missed most of the interview which was just as well. John hardly could concentrate on his appendectomy let alone remain composed throughout this interview process. He came at the end as the detective was escorting her from the station and noted how she wept even now for the loss of her employer. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties with auburn hair pulled up in a coiled bun, and a plump midriff she tried to hide under oversized clothing. John examined her as she was escorted past him and towards her car. Her tears seemed genuine.

Sherlock sat stoic in the interview room and peered out the window. John rapped on the door so as not too alarm him and came inside.

"Lovely Beth denies the existence of any man named William," Sherlock stated without looking up, "considering his absence from Ashley Hedgeworth's address book I am not surprised."

"Was he married then? Her the mistress? "John took comfort in the natural banter of their investigation process. He felt that perhaps Sherlock had put the previous evening behind them.

"William might be a code name, but I doubt he is married. Her husband is not more than a year deceased and already any sign of a wedding band has faded from her hand. She also took her maiden name after his passing. I suspect her distaste for marriage would prevent her from meddling in such affairs. No... We are missing something." Sherlock at last turned and looked up at John standing behind him.

"When did you get so tall?" He asked casually and John could feel his face flush red. He turned away as Sherlock rose to his feet and tried to get control of his emotions. "Come now, let us visit this brother of hers. Do you have the address?"

John dug through his satchel and retrieved the late woman's address book knowing this would be his friend's intent. They exited the police station side by side and John smiled up at the sun as another warm day engulfed them.

Frederick worked at a machine shop and the loud clangs and clatters unnerved John. It reminded him of militant gunfire and he could feel that old sharp edge of anxiety creeping into his spine. Sherlock must have seen this, or perhaps it was for his own reasons that he asked for Frederick to speak with them outside. The brother was compliant but seemed indifferent about his sister's death.

"I don't think she had any enemies, no. I don't think she had any friends either. It was all money money money to her. Not that she left me any. She never cared about me, you see. Serves her right that she died alone." The man shrugged and scratched at his beard. He was the rugged type and while attractive in his way, he was hardly a gentlemen.

"We spoke with Bethany and she said you had visited your sister a few days before her death."

"Beth! That bitch doesn't know shit about me. Or my sister. She was just a leach. A useless slug."
Something about the way Frederick rolled his shoulders and tilted his head to the side made John uneasy.

"What did you do to her?" He asked, indignant and Sherlock glanced down at him. Frederick frowned and stepped back.

"What Beth? I didn't do anything to that bitch. What did she say I did? "

"Nothing," Sherlock assured him, but John already knew the game was lost. The man closed off and his responses to questions grew short. John shouldn't have said anything and he was angry with himself for compromising the investigation. After a few more questions, they thanks Fredrick for his time and returned to work.

John couldn't shake the unease he felt with how Frederick thought of Bethany, and how jealously bitter he was towards his sister.

Chapter 6

"Sherlock, I'm sorry," John said for the hundredth time. Sherlock had said little since they took a taxi down to his favorite cafe spot. His mind was sailing some deep ocean John couldn't begin to navigate. He said the words to make himself feel better but questioned whether or not the other man even heard them.

John sipped his tea and checked his watch. He needed to get back to the office and meet with Dr. Rhoads for a consultation.

"I'm missing something, John." John started at the sudden voice and almost dropped his cup.
"I'm sorry?"

"The brother seemed to long for his sister to love him but resented that she didn't. He wouldn't have posed her in such a manner after her death. The maid? Perhaps but her fondness ran deep for her employer so I can't imagine her killing the woman. I want to go back to the flat and think this over. Will you be joining me?"

"I can't, "said John suddenly irritated that Sherlock did not even acknowledge his bloody apology, "I have a consultation and..."

"John." Sherlock reached out and gently rested his hand on the other man's to stay his words. John's mouth gaped as his voice died away on his tongue. "I need you there. You help me to think. Your presence is...a comfort." John glanced down at Sherlock's hand and then up into the man's eyes. He half expected his friend to remove his hand but he did not.

"Can you give me an hour?" John asked softly and Sherlock sat back in his chair with a slight smile. His hand slid away but John could still feel the tingle of warmth on his wrist.

"I give you exactly one hour, "Sherlock said with feigned indifference, "lest I fear if I wait a moment longer I will grow terribly bored." He rose then and John followed suit. They parted at the cafe entrance; Sherlock to head back to their flat and ponder the dynamics of the case, John to head to his consult and ponder the dynamics of his love for his friend.

They met later back at the flat and Sherlock seemed in a much better state of mind.

"I am quite sure I have this case solved," he declared and John blinked in surprise.
"Already? I thought you were sincerely stumped. "

"Everything comes into clarity with time, my friend, it is simply elementary. I was struck with inspiration as I was walking home. I was thinking of you and..." Sherlock stopped and turned. Their eyes met and that familiar heart-pounding desire crept along the edge of John's awareness.

"I invited Lestrade to meet us at Ms. Hedgeworth's flat tomorrow. I asked him to bring Bethany and Fredrick along with him. There I shall reveal my findings and with luck, bring this case to an end."
John laughed, genuinely delighted at the way Sherlock was able to bring together clues to a puzzle so quickly and make sense of it all.

"Holmes, you astound me," he said clapping the other man's back, and then they both laughed together.

Chapter 7

It was 4:52 AM, and John sat on a chair next to Sherlock's bed. He had trouble sleeping the previous night and took great comfort in the other man's company. He closed his eyes and listened to Sherlock's rhythmic breathing and imagined himself getting out of his chair and sliding into the narrow bed behind the tall slender man. He imagined kissing his friend's neck and smelling the scent of the soap he liked to use in his hair. John imagined the way Sherlock's arms would feel; his back; his hips. Forcing his eyes open, John pushed the thoughts away. He accepted now that he was in love with his friend. What terrified him was letting that love show and having his friend reject him.

Every time he imagined saying the words, he thought about Sherlock's inherent fear of attachments and dreaded the words would tip him over the edge. John imagined a life without him and only those few moments were too unbearable to contemplate. It wasn't worth the risk.

Knowing Sherlock would be rising earlier today, John decided to make his leave before he risked detection. He quietly returned the chair to its rightful place and crept over to the door. He paused there for a moment and turned back to his sleeping friend. He thought on how lucky he was that he and only he was able to see this side of the man he so desired.

Before he knew what he was doing, he was saying the words:
"I love you, Sherlock," John whispered. Then he turned and softly closed the door behind him.

A few hours later, Sherlock was tucking his arms into his light jacket and John offered him toast. A game was about to be played and Sherlock didn't like his wits dulled with excessive amounts of food. They intended to be the last ones to arrive, which was Sherlock's plan, and already the hour was chiming 8 o'clock.
"While your involvement disclosed an important clue during Fredericks questioning, I ask that you please refrain from interfering this time, John." John nodded sheepishly and followed Sherlock out the door. He will bite his tongue if he had to but he would not interrupt his friend again.

Baker Street was still silent as it was the weekend and most residents tried to enjoy an extra bit of sleep. A fog was only now lifting off the streets and the hushed silence led to an eerie feeling of being the only two humans left in the world. John wouldn't mind it so much. Where would Sherlock run from him then?
They crossed the street and made their way to the familiar back entrance opening to the Hedgeworth flat.
At the doorway, Lestrade stood stoic with both the maid and the brother by his side. As soon as they caught sight of Sherlock, Frederick bristled.

"This better be worth it," the man snarled, "I've been up half the night with me mates and I'd like to get a little sleep if you don't mind."

"Please, can we not go in there again?" Bethany whimpered.

"Sorry my dear, but I fear we must," said Sherlock taking her arm, "but first, I would like to pay a visit to your automobile if you don't mind." Everyone looked at Sherlock confused, but after a moment Bethany obliged him and they all made their way back to Baker Street to inspect Bethany's car.

The more Sherlock sifted through her car, the more nervous Bethany grew, and the more John was convinced she had something to hide.

"She only mentioned it in passing during my time questioning her you see," Sherlock said to no one and to everyone, "how she never married, stays at home with her parents and practically lives out of her car. Ahh..." Reaching under her passenger seat, Sherlock pulled at an item tucked up into the construction of the seats undercarriage and pulled out a long length of nylon rope. Upon revealing it to the small group of spectators, Bethany broke into tears.

"Shut up you fat cunt," Frederick spat, "should have known it was you behind all this what with her leaving you all her worldly possessions and all." Bethany shrank away from the deceased's brother and hugged herself tightly as she continued to cry.

"Ah but Fredrick, I do believe only half this story is told. Come, let's go inside and hear the rest." Sherlock, still holding the rope, led the way and the others followed but none so reluctantly as the defeated Bethany.

They entered the downstairs through the kitchen but instead of heading up the servant's entrance, Sherlock moved deeper into the living quarters to where a modest living room was decorated in velvet and Victorian fluff. Sherlock reached the middle of this room, and turned to face the four of them.

"Was this where you visited your sister, Fredrick?" He asked steadily.

"Yea, what of it?" Frederick looked irritated and confused. Certainly not the expression of a murderer with a secret.

"Tell me why you visited your sister Fredrick." Frederick let out a cynical laugh and looked up at the ceiling which was lined with exposed trusses and had a lovely array of hanging plants.

"Aren't I allowed to just come see my sister?"

"Not when you think so little of her, no. Tell me what your reason was."

"He needed money," Bethany chimed in, regaining some composure.

"Shut up you murdering bitch," snapped Frederick and he turned back to the other men.

"Answer the question now," urged Lestrade and Frederick let out a long sigh.

"I was adopted, you see. Not blood related. So when mom and pops died, she got all the inheritance. Well I came into some dire straits and drank myself a little too silly. I thought it a good idea to come see if my sweet sister might bail me out of my financial hardships. She wouldn't hear it."

"I see," Sherlock's voice was low; challenging, "then what did you do?"

"No!" Bethany shouted before Frederick could consider a response. She lunged forward and grabbed onto Sherlock's jacket with white knuckle fists. "Please don't do this," She sobbed, "please!"

"I'm sorry, my dear," Sherlock's hands enveloped hers and he pulled them free, "but justice must be served in all its different ways." Bethany's legs gave out and she crumpled to the floor before them. John moved to help her but Sherlock motioned him away. With her resolved to see this through, Sherlock focused his attention back to the brother standing before him.

"Tell us, Fredrick, what happened next." Frederick looked quite uncomfortable at this point. He glanced at the inspector and at Bethany before returning his focus to Sherlock.

"I did nothing wrong," he said.

"Then tell us," Sherlock's voice was calm; inviting.

"Well my sister she said no, you see, and it got me a bit angry. I had a bit too much of the drink and I wasn't thinking in my right mind. I hit her. Just a slap mind you, but she got all up tight and told me never to come back." Frederick turned away from then and moved to examine some of the antique trinkets sitting on the mantle.

"All my life my parents always put her on this special pedestal, and so did I, but I was always there left in the dirt. I was the adopted kid and she was the miracle baby. I was the bastard they no longer wanted the moment she was born. I wanted her to know what it felt like. I wanted her to know how horrible all the dirt really is." Frederick turned back to them then with anguish on his face.
"She had to see exactly what it felt like to feel like nothing."

Chapter 9

"What did you do?" Lestrade asked and John was grateful he did. He kept his word and kept his silence but his skin crawled with the premonition of things unspoken. Frederick chuckled dryly and looked down at his hands somewhat ashamed.

"I loved my sister once, but not anymore. I was so angry and I reached out to grab her shirt. Well it tore when she pulled away you see, and before I knew what I was doing, I was ripping at all her clothes. I kept saying 'now you know what it feels like to be nothing' and she cried for me to stop but then... well she wrapped her arms around me cause I was smacking her a bit, and feeling her all naked and against me... I didn't expect it to get me excited but it was the drink you see. I was a bit past crazy at that point. Then I laid her down and I took her. She let me take her. She said 'no, no' but all the while just laid there and we all know how women can get. She's not my sister, not really. So we..." he trailed off and looked down at Bethany who was still kneeling on the ground silent. She did not look at him but he must have felt accusations in her face.

"She didn't stop me!" He shouted, "She wanted this to happen! But then Bethany walked in. What kind of maid shows up in the middle of the night? And then she was all 'don't look at me! Don't touch me!' ...so I left." Frederick shrugged with an air of finality and plopped down on the couch behind him. Sherlock studied the man for a moment then turned his attention to Bethany.

"This happened two days before Ashley Hedgeworth's body was discovered. I think there is something we all have been overlooking in this case. Could you please tell us what your name is?"

Bethany scrubbed at her eyes then tilted her head back to peer at the man towering over her. "My name is Bethany."

"Your full name." Sherlock smiled slightly in encouragement.

"Bethany Williams" the maid said with an air of resolve. John heard a gasp and realized it had come from him.

"Then tell me Bethany Williams," Sherlock declared as he took the rope in his hand and slung it over one of the trusses, "is this where you found her? Hanging from her own noose?" Bethany looked at the rope in horror, her mouth agape in a soundless wail.

"Sherlock!" I sputtered. Frederick was on his feet pointing at the maid and shouting how her interference killed his sister.

"Did you drive her to this? The guilt of her actions too high a price to bear?"

"I didn't know what she was feeling. I know that she hated what she had done but I didn't know she would go to this!" Bethany's sobs threatened to drown out the words she was trying to convey.

"And you took her down, and dressed her up pretty so the world wouldn't know that her guilt led her to take her own life! What purpose did all this serve?" Sherlock sneered at the maid with his teeth bared and leaned in close to her cowering frame.

"I...l-loved her!" Bethany sobbed.

"If you loved her so much, how could you possibly let her do this? How could you not tell her how you feel?" Sherlock shouted and Bethany crumpled as if struck.

"Sherlock, please!" John's voice broke through the cacophony and Sherlock stepped away from Bethany blinking in surprise.

"I'm sorry," he said in a small voice that made John's heart ache.

"You are all crazy. I am out of here," Frederick stammered as he walked towards the kitchen door.

"We'll be in touch," Lestrade called after him but made no move to keep him from leaving.

Bethany sat hunched over and stared at her hands. Her breath was shaky and panting. Her hair, hanging loose today, all but concealed the red rims of her eyes. The silence stretched on for a while as Sherlock and Bethany both struggled to find composure.

"I didn't know," Bethany said at last, "I didn't know how she felt about me. She was my friend and I was so afraid to tell her how I felt. I didn't want to lose her forever, so I just went along with the charade. I was her maid, and she would invite me over Friday nights to share tea with her as a way of thanking me for my services. It was foolish I know, but to be beside her made me so happy, I couldn't bear the thought of that ever ending." John felt a chill listening to his own thoughts being relayed through this woman. His eyes darted towards Sherlock and he realized that Sherlock was not watching Bethany but instead was staring at him.
"When I saw her with Freddie on Friday, I was hurt. I didn't know why she did it and she looked so ashamed...I ran out of the house. I didn't speak to her at all the next day and then decided I needed to talk to her at least to understand why she did what she did. I came by and...She left me a note, you see. She told me that she always loved me and was too afraid to tell me. I can only imagine how much of our lives were wasted in longing for each other but not knowing how the other person felt."

"If her journals can be relied upon, I would estimate it to be roughly nine months that she thought of you in this way," Sherlock said softly. The grief on Bethany's face spoke volumes.

"Lestrade I suspect we are done here," Sherlock concluded, "It seems as though Ms. Hedgeworth took her own life and Bethany concealed the fact as best she could to hide the woman's disgrace." Sherlock leaned over and used his hands to lift Bethany's head so that her eyes met with his.

"She did this because she loved her," he said in conclusion and he smiled at the girl sitting before him. After a moment, she slowly smiled back.

Chapter 10

"I cannot thank you enough," Bethany said when John returned to the entrance of his flat. He handed over the bundle of journals he carried with him.

"I'm sure the authorities won't miss these last few but...are you sure you want to read these? Won't they be too painful for you?"

"I want to know our story through her eyes. I want to know what could have been so I can work on letting go what I have lost." John nodded at this. He understood how Bethany felt and supposed he would have wanted the same in her circumstance.

"Are you sure you don't want to come up for tea?" He asked and was relieved when she declined. Sherlock has been...unusual these past few hours and John suspected he wouldn't want the company. He would wager it had to do with the police work involved in wrapping up the case and his involvement in it. Hours spent going over the events are not nearly as thrilling as revealing them.

"Thank you again," Bethany said with a slight nod and John waved her off before closing the door behind him.

Sherlock was in his chair, studying his fingertips and John thought it better to retire to his quarters and think over everything that had occurred. He past the sitting area and made his way down the hall to his room when his friend spoke.

"John," Sherlock's voice carried down the hall and John stopped in his tracks. He thought about continuing forward and just escaping into his room, but his heart compelled him as it does all foolish men, and he turned to return to the room his friend shared.

"Will you sit with me, Sherlock asked, "I have something to ask you." John studied Sherlock for a moment but the man's face gave little away. He did not seem angry or upset; nothing like the man who shouted at Bethany just a few hours earlier, but John could not tell if the dark cloak just hid these feelings until Sherlock was ready to unleash them. With caution, John found his seat a watched the other man intently.

"John," Sherlock said again. He seemed to be examining the word as he spoke it. "Are you happy here with me?"

John blinked in surprise. "Sherlock, I already answered this..."

"And I am giving you a chance to answer again," Sherlock retorted. John felt a growing unease at the man's tone. He shook his head, confused.

"Sherlock, I..."

"Tell me, John," Sherlock said speaking over him again, "how many mornings will you sit in my room and watch me without doing something more?" The words were like a blow to his stomach and John's eyes dropped to study his hands as he could feel the red flame of shame color his entire face.

"I didn't think you..." John whispered and then trailed off. Sherlock was silent for a moment but when he spoke again his voice was softer and almost pleading.

"How many more months will we be like Bethany and Ashley until there are no months left? Will we mourn what we could have had all the way to deaths door?" John looked up to meet Sherlock's eyes and the pained expression on the other man's face tore at his heart. Suddenly John felt like he wanted to cry. For the loss of all the time they had together and all that could have been for both of them but never was.

"John," Sherlock whispered, "I cannot sit idle anymore waiting for you to come to terms with how you feel. With how we both feel. John... I love you too." John was out of his chair before he knew that he was moving and he fell upon Sherlock in a fervent embrace. They held each other and John soaked in the smell of his friend. The way he felt and the sensation of his slender fingers gripping John as well. He was consumed for so long by wanting just this much that he was overwhelmed in the flood of sensation.

He pulled away to study the other man for a moment, and Sherlock leaned in to kiss John's forehead. The act made him sigh and his hands sought out the taller man's hair the way he always imagined he would. He pulled Sherlock closer to him, his lips seeking the others until they swirled together; melting into a mass of yearning and heat and desire.

John felt warmth from Sherlock he never knew the other man had and felt his own heart blazing within his chest like a candle flame. This was what felt right. His kisses, his touch, the longing in them both quenched by the desire that neither knew the other had. John desired for more and more from the other man but thought he might combust if given the chance.

They fought desperately to bring each other closer and consume the others passion to quench this ache that seemed never ending. John wanted to shred at his friends clothes and find the wanton skin underneath. He wanted to taste and explore every inch that he had only allowed himself to imagine in his most private of night's desires. He wanted their bodies to melt together the way their passion did and feel the intensity of love from this man he never thought he could have.

But he thought of Frederick then, and the way he desired his sister Ashley in his own way. He thought about what it cost all of them. So instead he invited Sherlock to his room so that they might lay together, intertwined and content. While time seemed so suddenly short, they still had a lifetime together to discover all that the other secretly desired. It did not need to be rushed into an afternoon.

Sherlock joined him in his room, smiling more brightly than John had ever seen him before.

"It's not at all odd to be lying in bed together in the middle of the day?" John asked as he moved to undo his pants.

"Not at all", Sherlock replied still smiling. They undressed to their shirts and shorts, and Sherlock joined John on his slim bunk. He pulled the smaller man into his arms, and the heat of him enveloped John in warmth.

"Are you sure? Because I could always make us lunch instead," John asked, smiling himself now. Sherlock laughed as he turned the other man to face him.

"My dear sweet John, we have a lot of catching up to do. Now shut up and kiss me before I dump you off this bed."

End.