A/N: Sorry I was a bit longer getting this one together. The time of the year and a number of other commitments interfered with writing as well as having difficulty finding the right 'A' word:P. I do have the words and ideas for the next three chapters so hopefully they will be up a little quicker.

As always I thank my two muses EE & JAL. Bless you both!

9. Aware

aware – adjective – 1. (often followed by of or that + clause) conscious; not ignorant; having knowledge. 2. well-informed. Also found in attrib. use in sense 2. As in very a very aware person; this is disputed.

John felt he could not hold back on the compliments. He was compelled and nothing his brain would say could possibly still his tongue. Usually a thoughtful and often contemplative man, his mouth betrayed him time and again.

Sherlock was, by far, the most devastatingly intelligent man he had ever met. And John had met a few, both in the army and in the medical profession. But Sherlock's dazzling, firework genius, surpassed them all.

The words 'brilliant,' 'amazing', 'fantastic' and 'incredible' fell from his lips in a way that would normally make him cringe at the effusiveness of it all and writhe with embarrassment, but he couldn't seem to help himself.

Fortunately Sherlock didn't seem to mind. In fact he said he it was fine. A tiny, almost unnoticeable smile touched the taller man's lips and then he continued with the deductions in rapid-fire sequence, faster than the bullet that turned John's life around.

Watching Sherlock was like listening to music. John would immerse himself in the performance and the sound of Sherlock's thoughts. He became one with the piece the same way he perceived the undertones in a musical composition. With music John would close his eyes and let the sound flow over him in a stream of tranquility. Sherlock's thoughts forced his eyes open and the water was more turbulent. He was awakened and energized by them. They were not calming, certainly dangerous.

Dangerous in more ways than John was aware of when he first met the man.

He was becoming increasingly conscious of the fact that he was becoming attracted to the man in a way he had never been attracted to anyone before. And it wasn't just his looks, which were certainly striking in their extraordinary uniqueness. For the first and probably the last time, John found himself thinking things about a male partner that he never imagined would flit across his mind.

He pushed the thoughts aside, continued to date women and generally behaved like best mates with a dramatic, highly intelligent arse. He told himself it was a crush and an attraction to the intelligence of the man in question.

And then came the day that Sherlock played for him. Played properly. Not in a strident fit of piqué or as a counter point to his brother's taunts, nor as flavouring to the festive season.

No. He really and truly played a brilliant and lovely piece of music. And the music cleared away the cobwebs of doubts and denials, opened up doors, windows and swept in like spring after a hard winter.

It was one of those nights, rarer since moving into the flat with this impossible man. The case they had solved had hit too close to John's remembrances. The killer had targeted soldiers on leave in some weird retribution for his own son's death. John had been unable to save the young solider who had been brutally assaulted. They had found him after tracking down the lair of the serial killer, but had been too late, by minutes. Despite John's best efforts and the arrival of the paramedics, the young man had died.

John had left before Sherlock, needing some time to himself and wanting to come to terms with the loss.

Sherlock had watched him go and had seemed cognizant of the fact that this had been difficult for John. He uncharacteristically stayed silent and upon returning to the flat had even provided tea without uttering a word.

John had slipped off to bed early, with minimal fuse nor drawing attention to himself. Sherlock stayed awake, waited, listened, expectant. The cycle of restless movement coming from the floor above was the signal he had been anticipating. As he heard John's tread on the stairs, he picked up the Stradivarius and launched into a composition of his own creation. One he subconsciously referred to as John's Theme.

John was of course completely ignorant of this thought, but he was all to mindful of how moving the piece was and how it seemed to offer some much needed release. The death of the young solider had pulled out the memories of the war and paraded them on the bedroom ceiling. The song seemed to be telling the ghosts of John's memories to rest and liberate the world-weary doctor.

John watched the other man play and became certain that he had never seen anything more beautiful in his life. The stance of the man, the way his fingers moved and the look of concentration and pure abandonment on the incredibly striking face. He knew that was the instant he fell totally head over heels, madly in love with the eccentric man. The knowledge vibrated through his small frame and rocketed straight to his core. He could no longer reject the evidence of his eyes and heart. He told his brain to shut up. There was no room for logic in this, no rationalizations as to how or why. It was simply and purely, because.

He kept the knowledge buried in his heart, to be treasured with wonder and regret, understanding there was no possibility of the other sharing his feelings.

Little did he realize.

Because as he watched Sherlock and was attuned to his every movement and to every nuance, Sherlock watched John. He watched a soundless tear course down John's cheek and a tingle of warmth entered the detective's heart and a crack appeared in the barriers he had carefully constructed to keep others out. The clarion call broke down his walls and could not have been louder or more piercing. Dust remained of anything he had put up between the two of them and he was seriously considering becoming an adulterer.

Three weeks later, lying on his bed, looking at the man who had destroyed his reserved and defined his heart, Sherlock declared "I think I'm in love with you."