John is smarter than he looks. He's pretty damn smart. So when Sherlock requests to keep The Woman's phone, even after all the files have been wiped, he knows that what Mycroft told him in the cafe was a lie. Somehow, inconceivably, Irene Adler is alive. She faked her death once before, and John wouldn't put it past her to pull the same trick again.
"It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me."
A smile twitches on his lips as he watches Sherlock stand near the window. He plays a composition piece John knows he wrote specifically for Irene Adler. Mycroft might have been blind sighted by his own little brother, but John knows better. He doesn't know how but Sherlock predicted what was going to happen to her, and stopped the execution from happening.
As John watches Sherlock's bow glide gracefully over the strings, he finds that his thoughts start traveling to strange and forbidden places. He wonders what it would take for Sherlock to save his life in such a way? How would he be able to affect Sherlock Holmes like The Woman had? Did Sherlock even care about him like that?
The subject of Sherlock's heart and who it belongs to had come up a lot lately. He'd questioned Mrs Hudson about the detective's past relationships. According to her, as far as she was aware, Sherlock hadn't had anyone; no girlfriends, or boyfriends. Mycroft hadn't been much help in the matter, as he had said that he could not deduce Sherlock's heart, and that meant that the beating organ that resided in Sherlock's chest remained locked away.
Deep down in the pit of his belly John feels a stab of jealousy. Each time he allows himself to think about the obvious connection between The Woman and Sherlock, his stomach starts to churn, and he feels nauseous. The green monster that sits inside him snarls, and tries to reach out to Sherlock, longing to have such an electric spark.
But what can John possibly offer Sherlock? He's clever, and observant in ways that Sherlock is not, but sometimes he feels like a bumbling fool in comparison. How can he keep up with Sherlock's massive intellect? He is hardly a worthy match when it comes to intelligence, and he just can't see ever living up to the Holmes' standards.
He told Irene Adler that he isn't gay, and he's not. He's as much a mans man, as he is a ladies man. When he was born it was as though his heart was too big to love just one gender, and he always finds himself admiring beautiful women, as well as handsome men.
He protests at every corner when people assume he is in a relationship with Sherlock. That's only because the assumptions those people make are wrong. They assume that if he is in love with Sherlock he has to conform and be one thing, and that's not true at all, but they also make the assumption that someone like Sherlock would want a romantic entanglement with someone like himself.
Every time he has to protest, it hurts. It physically pains him. Because in all honesty John has been head over heels with Sherlock since their very first case together.
He remembers the days before Sherlock, when the world was wrong, and all of his days were tainted with a heavy darkness. It was as though when the bullet hit him, tore through his flesh, John had been left with more than a physical wound. A hole had been left inside him, and when he was sent home he had been so concerned that the hole would never be filled again.
Then he'd bumped into Mike, and out of pure coincidence and luck, he'd introduced him to Sherlock; a man that filled up the hole like cement, smoothing over the pain, and making life so much more livable again. He didn't know it then, but that was when it had started; When John Watson had begun to fall in love.
He hates it because every single inch of him betrays him. One of these days Sherlock is going to look at him, and in one sweeping deduction he's going to see it, and he's going to know just how far John has fallen for him. And what then? Where will that leave their friendship? John can't bear the thought of losing Sherlock. It stirs painful emotions inside him.
John has already been shut down once before by Sherlock, back in Angelo's on their first case together. He has to think back to that moment sometimes to remind himself that Sherlock is 'married to his work' and isn't interested in perusing anything, especially with the likes of him.
John's eyes are blurry and he has to wipe at them. He frowns, confused by this new turn of events. He doesn't know how much time has passed, seeing as he was so trapped in his thoughts about Sherlock. His jealousy, and his constant pining over Sherlock was starting to become such an obvious problem, that it is hard to ignore.
He feels as though he has been crying, though he actually can't remember shedding any tears. Once he rubs all of the remaining wetness away with the palms of his hands, he almost jumps out of his skin.
Sherlock has moved away from the window. He is no longer playing the violin; the instrument is now placed very carefully on Sherlock's chair. The musician himself is now standing so close to John that their noses very nearly brush.
John feels his breath stutter inside his chest, and his heart actually skips a beat. He realises that Sherlock is trying to speak to him, and he has to force his facial expression into a neutral mask. He's not terribly sure that he manages it, however, as Sherlock looks a mixture of perplexed and worried.
"John?"
Sherlock speaks to him very softly. John is unable to remember the last time his flatmate sounded so tender. That softness that reverberates through the deep baritone, is almost the very last straw. It takes all of John's ability and strength to not allow a fresh waterfall of emotion to break through.
"Hmm?" He feigns innocence and hopes that it is enough to convince Sherlock that he's OK, really, and there's no need to fuss like a mother hen over him.
Sherlock fidgets with the cuffs on his expensive shirt. He looks awkward, out of his comfort zone. Sherlock Holmes is hardly the most comforting human to have around. He's no good at talking about the small, seemingly unimportant stuff. He sees himself above all emotions, and is usually intolerant of other people's feelings. All of this shows in his appearance, in the way he steadily breathes and tries to think of something to say.
In the end the thing Sherlock settles on saying is so bleedin' obvious, it's odd. At least for him, it seems strange. The ordinary, mundane, every day remark is what catches John off guard,
"You're upset."
"I'm not upset. I'm…"
He purses his lips together tight, till they form a thin line. Then he begins to root through his brain for a lie, but this immediately makes Sherlock shake his head.
"Don't bother denying it. Your eyes are red and puffy. You have spent the past five minutes silently crying, and still have the tear tracks to prove it. When you're upset sometimes the tremor in your hand starts up again, and from where I am standing, it has."
Sherlock reaches down to inspect John's hand. Unlike when Mycroft had tried it, John didn't even flinch when Sherlock's skin made contact with his own, because ultimately it feels so right. His hand is, as Sherlock said, trembling like mad.
He has the urge to ball it into a tight fist, just to get it to stop shaking, but Sherlock's soft touch doesn't allow this. As his trembling hand lies flat and open, he feels exposed, and feels the urge to run away. But his legs are like led beneath him, and he doesn't think he could move now, no matter how many of his instincts are telling him to.
The man's hands are huge in comparison to John's own, and soon both of the large appendages are exploring everywhere. Slender fingers slide into the gaps between each of John's shorter, stubbier ones.
John is taken aback by the vast array of textures Sherlock's hands have to offer. The palms are soft and smooth without any lesions. He feels the little dip that connects the hand to its wrist, the rough callouses from years of playing the violin, the occasional rough scarring from the chemicals Sherlock uses in his line of work. It's such a broad range of geography on one small space, that John is barely able to absorb all the information.
Sherlock moves slowly so that both of his hands are supporting John's one shaking one. They radiate more warmth than John ever thought possible. It fills his belly with a strange sort of fluttering, and a lump of an unnamed emotions rise in his throat.
"Sherlock," the name comes out as a choked whisper. John isn't sure what he's trying to say. He just can't come up with the words.
"What happened, John?" Sherlock murmurs gently. "Was it something I did?"
The man looks genuinely scared that he might have done something wrong, that John feels the urgent need to reassure him. He somehow finds the strength to squeeze the man's giant hands, and he shakes his head.
"I was just overthinking some stuff, Sherlock. You haven't done anything wrong. It's not you…it's me."
A violent snort erupts from Sherlock. "You may think that love is a mystery to me, John Watson, but I am fairly sure that is a line from a bad chick flick."
John smiles. He just can't help it. He's so in love with Sherlock, and the man has no idea. Even the littlest things that Sherlock says never fail to make John's heart lift with an unspoken happiness.
"You delete the Solar System, but you keep cheesy lines from chick flicks?"
"You would be surprised on what has proved useful on cases in the past." Sherlock starts to stroke circular patterns against John's knuckles. "Now, enough skirting around the subject. I want to know what you are thinking."
"Aren't you able to deduce it?"
"I'm a detective, John. Unfortunately my powers do not stretch as far as mind reading."
John nods. "I know."
"You know what?"
"I know about The Woman, and what you did for her."
"Oh." Sherlock's cupid lips form a perfect 'O'. "John, I ought to explain-"
"Are you going to see her again?" John interrupts before Sherlock can even reach the end of his sentence.
It takes a fraction of a second for it to click with Sherlock. When it does, his eyes go wide, and he wets his lips thoughtfully. "I do believe you are exhibiting physical and emotional attributes usually associated with jealousy."
John clears his throat, feeling annoyed. "Answer the question, would you."
Sherlock's eyes roll so far around that they look like they are doing a backflip in his skull. "Honestly, John. Isn't it obvious?"
"Not to me, it isn't." He huffs loudly. "You're doing that bloody face again. The one where you know what's going on, and you assume I do too, but I don't."
The long sigh that leaves Sherlock sounds exasperated, but there is an undertone of fondness that belies this action. "I don't like women, I like men. Well, one man in particular."
A myriad of facial expressions must cross John's face, because the next thing he knows, he can hear Sherlock's deep chuckle vibrating next to his ear, the sound floating on a hot puff of breath.
"You mean…you…like…"
"Mmm. The penny is in the air."
"Me?" John's voice is high pitched, the one word pinched with disbelief.
"And the penny drops." Sherlock grins wickedly, lips pulling over his pearly whites. His eyes trail over John, scouring him from head to toe. It's like he's eating him up with a look alone.
"I don't understand. Why me?"
"It's you, John Watson. It's always you. You keep me right." He leans in so close now that John can feel their breath beginning to mingle, and then he says something that makes every muscle in John's body melt like butter. "I'm not hungry. Dinner?"
Sherlock Holmes is flirting with him. It seems improbable. Impossible. But there was no denying what Sherlock is really asking of him. And god John just wants to give in and scream YES at the top of his lungs, but something is holding him back still.
"You said once you were married to your work."
"Don't you know? You are part of my work. You have been since our first case together."
Sherlock's eyes float down to his lips, thick lashes fluttering. The hands now gravitate towards John's face, cupping either side. He strokes the pad of his thumb against John's cheek, as though asking permission.
One tiny, minuscule nod is all it takes. Their lips touch very lightly at first, the kiss soft and feathery. Whatever was previously holding John back, the tight resolve he had been determined to keep, crumbles. He kisses Sherlock back as gently and loving as possible.
Sherlock is like the tide, gradually approaching John, and before he knows it he washes over him. John allows himself to drown in the waves of pleasure and love, and he falls into the tingling sensation of their lips melding together.
The green flame of jealousy he felt before is extinguished. It needn't have ever been there in the first place. It is replaced by a roaring red fire as their love for each other sparks and ignites between them.