He Meant It - Chapter 3
A BBC Sherlock fanfiction by Linda/Linables
Rated: M for a later chapter, Johnlock everywhere
The next few days passed without much incident, now that John had finally convinced Sherlock that he needed sleep. The sleeping pills he ground into his tea every now and then didn't hurt either. But in any case the detective was finally starting to recover from his illness, much to the army doctor's delight...and nervousness.
The day that Sherlock's fever broke, John squirmed in his seat as he sat with his computer, typing a new entry for the blog. He was of course relieved and glad that his friend was getting better, but once Sherlock was back to normal John feared that he would completely take back what he had uttered that one night from his bed as John was closing the door. Or, possibly even worse, he might not recall the words at all.
After John had managed to get the blood in his veins flowing again upon hearing those words, he had quickly slipped out of Sherlock's room and shut the door behind him. He then retreated to his own room, not quite knowing how to process the situation. Surely the detective was just groggy on medication and lack of sleep and therefore not in his right mind. That was the only reasonable explanation. John had been privy to many of Sherlock's most emotional situations over the time they'd known each other, and in no case had the man shown or voiced his feelings. If Sherlock even had feelings (which some did doubt), he certainly wouldn't go blurting them out while completely lucid.
The aftermath of his flatmate's statement had left John grappling with a specific inner turmoil. He couldn't easily believe the words he'd heard, but his chest pounded, his stomach twisted, his heart was in his throat and damn if he didn't want them to be true. If only, John thought. If only there could be truth in those words, he would be the happiest man in the world. But he knew that they couldn't be true, they would only linger in his brain for the rest of his life and make him feel a stab of depression every time Sherlock's mouth opened and the words that came out of it weren't "I love you, John".
And now that Sherlock was recovering, John was sure he would never hear those words again. He wasn't even sure how he could look his friend in the eyes without showing signs of nervousness. Of course he would try to hide it, but this was Sherlock Holmes we were talking about. There was no hiding anything from him. He would ask John what on earth the matter was, and John would want so much to tell him the truth, to ask whether he'd actually meant those words or not. But breaching that subject was not something John could do lightly. He imagined he'd be a blabbering, embarrassing mess before he got the first word out.
When John found Sherlock in the kitchen the morning after he'd started to really recover, he swallowed a lump in his throat. Willing himself to stay cool if at all possible, he made his way down the stairs and entered the kitchen. As he put the tea kettle on to boil, the doctor could feel his heart starting to speed up.
"Good morning," he choked out, voice sounding less steady than John would have liked but passable. "I see you're feeling better."
Sherlock looked up from his work and smiled at John innocently.
"Good morning John. Yes, I woke up and felt quite a lot better so I decided I should get back to work on this."
"Well that's great, I'm glad."
John's teacup wobbled in his hands as he carried it to the table. He stole a look at Sherlock as he busied himself with work, noting that the detective did indeed look quite a lot more healthy. He was tempted to reach out a hand and feel Sherlock's forehead to make sure that his fever had definitely broken, but stopped himself. He couldn't touch Sherlock right now, he wasn't sure he could take it while not knowing if the man wanted more the same way he did.
The silence that followed was awkward for John. He felt like he should say something but had no idea what would come out of his mouth if he opened it. So he just fiddled with his teacup, swishing the contents around and occasionally taking quiet sips, not knowing what else to do. His eyes darted around the room, trying to find something to focus on, but everything in the apartment was so connected to Sherlock that it only filled John's mind up with the detective even more. He was counting the number of books that lay piled up in the living room when his flat mate spoke.
"You're nervous, John."
It was a statement, not a question. John tensed immediately, no doubt only confirming Sherlock's analysis. When he didn't answer, the dark haired man pressed on.
"Why are you nervous?"
John's mind buzzed. Sherlock, as he feared, didn't seem to remember the words he had uttered a few days ago. Or maybe he did, and he was testing John to find out his reaction. Or maybe he didn't, and was just being annoyed by the doctor's fidgeting. Thoughts colliding, John wondered if this was what Sherlock felt like all the time, mind never stopping.
Sherlock said nothing else out loud, instead choosing to glance every now and again at John with an inquisitive look before going back to his experiment. The sharp gaze of those icy blue eyes spoke volumes, making John's head spin. He blinked, and his lips parted. Then it was as if he was outside his own body, listening to himself speak the words that his mouth formed, eyes going out of focus and voice sounding almost foreign on his lips. Once the words were spoken, John snapped back to reality, immediately wincing as he realized his thoughts were now out in the open.
"Sherlock, did you mean it? What you said?"
The tiniest flash of interest went through the detective's eyes before his expression relaxed back to its usual calm state.
"You're going to have to be a little bit more specific, John, I've said lots of things."
John swallowed, momentarily squeezing his eyes closed and wringing his hands together, knowing he had dug himself into a hole that he could not get out of. After only minutes of interaction with Sherlock, it was time to give in. The doctor opened his eyes and forced himself to look at his flat mate.
"What you said that first night when I gave you medicine. You said...you said...that you loved me. Right before you fell asleep...do...you remember?"
John prepared himself for a rebuttal. None came. He looked up, seeing that the flash of interest had returned to Sherlock's eyes, this time staying there. John squirmed. Sherlock templed his fingers beneath his chin and looked at the nervous army doctor.
"Yes, I remember."
John's breath hitched.
"...And?"
"I meant it."
John's head spun. He was positive that his brain could not even begin to process this information, it was just too impossible. There was no way that the world's only consulting detective, who functioned on pure science and no sentiment, had just confirmed that he loved him. Him.
Sherlock watched the reaction that his statement had on his best friend, and he couldn't help but smile softly. John looked absolutely gobsmacked, but the pinkness of his cheeks betrayed his feelings about the new information. While the doctor was still sitting, frozen to the spot, Sherlock got up from his chair and rounded the table with quick strides. He leaned down, hesitating for only a scant moment before placing a kiss on John's flushed cheek. Before he could pull away though, the soldier snapped out of his trance and his reflexes kicked in, slipping an arm around Sherlock and pulling him down quick as lightning.
Before the detective had time to react there was a wonderful pair of warm lips pressing against his own, kissing as if it was the only chance they ever would get. Sherlock blinked rapidly, falling in line and responding as best he could. What he lacked in experience, he made up for in desire, at least when it came to John Watson. And if he had his way, this certainly would not be the last time those lips touched his, and his experience would grow by leaps and bounds.
As they parted, John's last bits of inhibition crumbled. Words previously kept under lock and key tumbled hastily from his lips, and he meant every last one of them.
"I love you more than I have ever loved anything in this world, Sherlock Holmes."
Well now, look at that. I've gone and turned the corner towards flufftown. Is it me, or is it starting to feel slightly smutty in here? Could that just be the next chapter? Must be. Stay tuned.