The next couple of days were almost exactly the same. They fell into a routine of sorts...John would go to work in the morning, Sherlock would text him through the day. He'd come home and then Sherlock would play for him.

They would talk, have dinner, work on whatever new piece Sherlock was obsessed with...and just be together. Neither of them knew when and how they became a part of each other's lives...

And then on Friday evening...John was just finishing up at work when his phone beeped as usual.

Are you ready to leave yet? SH

Yes. Ten minutes. JW

Good. We're going out tonight. SH

Where? JW

The Barbican. SH

The London Symphony Orchestra? What are they performing? JW

Sibelius and Rachmaninoff. SH

Didn't you play with them at one time? JW

Yes. And then I had a falling out with the conductor. He's an idiot. SH

And you are an arrogant git. JW

Do you know that you say that fondly? SH

Do I now? JW

Well, are you leaving or not. SH

I am. Stop texting me and I will get done sooner. JW

You could always ignore me. SH

And risk having you break something? JW

John! SH

Yes, yes. I did say ten minutes. Now shut up. JW

...

Sitting in the theatre, John marvelled again at how much his life had changed in the last few days. He used to dread weekends. All that time, watching idiotic shows on the telly, feeling useless and desperately alone. The only alternative being the pub and getting drunk with guys he used to be friends with.

He was listening to the music and watching his friend. Sherlock sat there, all elegance and long legs, fingers tapping unconsciously, totally at peace with himself. And John was overcome by a wave of fondness. It was so intense that it was painful, almost. He had never ever felt this way about anyone before...

He remembered the conversation that he'd had with Harry a few days ago and he realised that the interesting person that he had been looking for, the meaningful relationship that he'd said he wanted was sitting right next to him. He'd been talking of a woman when he'd said that, but looking at the undeniably attractive man next to him, he knew that gender was the least important thing in this equation.

Sherlock had his eyes closed but he knew that John was watching him. He really liked having John's attention. And why is that? He wondered. I like that we're friends and that we share a lot of interests, but I love it when he looks at me. It makes me feel warm and happy...and wanted?

He turned to look at John...he took in the sandy blonde hair, the blue eyes, the frown lines and the laughter lines...and that smile which made his eyes light up and made him look so boyish...and realised with sudden clarity that he was in love.

They went to dinner after that and had a very long, very interesting conversation. They talked about everything other than the one thing they were both thinking about. Being men and being British, they were less than great at dealing with feelings. Neither of them had any idea what to say. Besides, they were both watching each other, wondering if their feelings were returned and coming up unsure.

John knew that Sherlock liked him a lot, but he didn't think it was possible that he could love him. He's an incredibly talented man. He's a genius and as if all that was not enough, he's bloody gorgeous. He could have anyone he wanted. I'm just a broken down ex army doctor. Why would he possibly want me?

Sherlock knew that John considered him a very good friend, that he admired him and found him interesting. But he knew that he was a difficult man to like, let alone love. John is a good man. He's nice and friendly and easy to love. Anyone would want him. He could have anyone he wanted. I'm selfish and arrogant...I'm moody and bad tempered. Why would he want to put up with me?

Also Sherlock knew that John had only ever dated women...he was gay, of course and everyone knew it, but John might just be straight straight...

So they both shoved all those feelings and desires to the back of their minds and pretended that everything was normal...If John had a sudden desire to hold Sherlock's hand as they walked out of the restaurant, he quashed it firmly. If Sherlock wanted to kiss John goodnight, he bit his tongue and turned away.

They both claimed that they wanted to go to bed rather quickly after they got home. John spent hours tossing and turning, trying to sleep. But he couldn't. His head was full of the man next door who it seemed was intent on torturing him. Sherlock was playing the violin...

He started with Estrellita and took it from there...one soulful piece of music after another. Sherlock always played brilliantly, but just now he seemed to be putting everything he had into it. John hadn't heard him play with this much feeling before...it was as if he was laying his soul bare, giving it everything he had.

It was taking all of John's self control to stay put when all he wanted was to go over and snog the man senseless...The music was achingly beautiful, just like Sherlock, he thought. He saw all of Sherlock's faults, of course, but he also saw beyond them. He knew that underneath all those moods and all that arrogance was a man with the heart of a little boy.

Sherlock was trying to lose himself in music. It was either that or cigarettes. He was a man used to getting what he wanted. And what he very much wanted just now was to wrap himself around a certain John Watson and never let go. But that was not possible so would just have to play until he passed out.