Compensating by more chapters this time. :)
He's a sociopath. I can't feel like this about him. He's not good with emotions. So aren't I when it comes to controlling them. He may be a good man, a great friend and greater detective but the way I'm thinking about this may never work out. Maybe he'll just play along without even knowing the consequences and when he's done he'll be done. John shuddered at his own thought. If such a thing happens the damage caused by it would be too much for John to handle. John was sitting in his dark bedroom hands on his face, deep in thoughts. Now that the secret is out nothing's going to stop him from acting on it. Would I be able to resist the temptation of this man? Even if I'm aware that this may be just an experiment for him? Just collecting data about his flatmate? There were other considerations too. Since he met Sherlock he was a category onto himself, when the tingling sensations of the realisation of the feeling begun John never gave sexuality a thought. He never thought that after spending almost forty years being heterosexual he was taking a turn. It never felt like that, because Sherlock exceeded anything and everything regular or normal. He was extraordinary, he was Sherlock. But now that John had begun to understand things more profoundly this part struck him with enormity. He didn't care. But what if Sherlock did? Sherlock's sexuality was a mystery like many other things about him, but there were women in his life, who were attracted to him and he was attached to them also. To what extent only Sherlock himself knew. There was so much more, Sherlock was no young girl who John could impress by just being an army doctor, with his war stories. John had nothing to impress Sherlock with, he saw him the day they met, saw through him, saw everything. He had John unarmed and naked at the very first glance. What was there for John to offer more? Except for his friendship and care? Nothing, John had nothing. Even these special emotions of his were laid bare in front of Sherlock before John could even confront them himself. John's self-pity grew; he was engulfed in a sense of being inadequate. John was facing a new dawn of realisation sitting in the dark room. He had killed for Sherlock and would do so again, he could die for that man. He wanted Sherlock to take care of himself so badly, he would feed Sherlock every now and then, coax him to sleep. Cook him food, wash his clothes, put up with him being rude, his experiments Oh why would anyone do so much for someone if that someone was not a special one? A loved one? Who would do these for you John Watson? And how would you feel just being a friend to this person and stand and watch him with someone else? John's head throbbed; he could find no solution to this situation, no solace. Silent tears started falling from his closed eyes. This was something he never expected would happen to him. In war he expected to get shot, even to die, being invalided home was too not unforeseen; a psychosomatic pain in the leg, Harry's drinking problem, issues with family. He took everything nonchalantly. But Sherlock threw him off balance. He was above and beyond. And now these feelings for him, this new realisation, this added to the pain already existing and surpassed them. John silently sobbed for what felt like eternity. It was getting lighter outside the window. John sank in his bed, expecting sleep to bring oblivion for at least some time. His last thought before embracing sleep was okay, if he starts experimenting with my feelings I'll let him, I'll show him what I feel and maybe I'll able to turn the experiment into his experience of such emotions, maybe I'll be able to turn the tables with my love.