Chapter 17
Before he even realised, Sherlock had reached the top of the stairs, one hand on the door handle. Not yet had he worked out a plan, which was strange considering he usually always had a plan. Straightening himself up a bit, he entered the flat smoothly, his regular grace unaltered by his annoyance at himself. It didn't take more than two seconds to notice that Mycroft was not present. Just John.
"Sherlock?" John asked, his voice sounding out from the kitchen. Sherlock found him sitting down, leaning against the counter. There was a strained look on his face, and his eyes were red. Smiling up to his flatmate, he brought one knee up to his chest.
Sherlock walked over to his companion and kneeled down in front of him. Hundreds of small ceramic shards covered a tea-soaked patch of floor, and no attempt had been made to clean the mess. Judging by John's state, and the state of the kitchen, something had happened to make him extremely upset, causing him to drop his cup of tea.
"John, are you all right? What happened, where's Mycroft?" Sherlock queried urgently.
John nodded a few times, "I'm okay, I'll be fine. Mycroft had to leave a bit after you left. Had a meeting to go to or something. Where were you?"
Sherlock sat down cross-legged, looking his friend in the eyes. "What happened?" he asked again.
"I dozed off for a while," John started.
"It was the dream again, wasn't it?" Sherlock questioned quietly. Perhaps John really was showing signs of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.
It only took a simple nod for Sherlock to understand. With a quick motion, the detective stood and offered a hand to John, who graciously accepted. Once the two were on their feet, Sherlock led John to the living room, and returned to the kitchen to clean up the shattered mess. As soon as the cleaning was done, he joined John in the living room, walking in to find the doctor holding a folded garment.
"Found your jacket. It had a few tears in it, so I stitched them up. Gave it a wash too, hope you don't mind," John said, holding out the folded jacket for his friend.
Sherlock stepped closer to John and took the coat, his hands brushing over John's unintentionally. Both men looked at each other for a moment, before John turned to sit down. Blushing furiously, he limped over and sat on the arm of his chair, stretching his leg out. Sherlock stood unmoving, looking down at the coat. He unfolded the garment and put it on, feeling over the expertly stitched seams where the holes were. It felt good to be wearing the heavy coat after so long without it.
Without thinking, Sherlock walked over to John and took his face in his hands. Before John could say a word, Sherlock had pressed his lips to his friend's. John was wide eyed, but didn't object.
Finally, the detective pulled back, separating the two. John was blushing a shade of red that would seem like sunburn. "Well, that's uhh, that's quite a thank-you," he stammered.
Sherlock kept eye contact with John. "I harbour romantic feelings for you. Considering our states whilst in hospital, it seems only fair to give you a proper confession now".
John was taken aback. He'd just figured that Sherlock was so dosed up on painkillers that he was just being silly. "But, uhh, aren't you… aren't you married to your work?" he managed to say.
Sherlock smiled. "I thought you were part of my work? I completely understand if you object," he said coolly.
"This is an experiment, isn't it?" John asked, as if already knowing it was. He looked down at his leg, extending it and rolling his ankle.
Sherlock blinked a few times, unsure what to say. A thin vein of sadness crept through his chest. Did John really not trust his confession? Did John not trust him?
"You don't believe me. You think that I'm playing with you as an experiment. You're afraid of me hurting your feelings," the detective started.
"Stop," John said bluntly.
Sherlock looked at John. "Why don't you believe me?"
John stood up, wincing a little. He walked over to the window and turned his back to it. He started to laugh a bit. "Because we're all idiots, aren't we? It's hard to believe you'd lower yourself to loving somebody normal," he replied.
"You're right. I couldn't love somebody that is simply normal. Since when have you considered yourself normal? You're not exactly a genius yourself, but you provide a foundation to my genius. I've told you before, you are a conductor of light, and I imagine that life without you would be hatefully dull," Sherlock explained, confused at why John was acting defensive.
John smiled, "Well, there's not much point in denying that I don't have feelings for you. It feels silly, doing this whole confession thing. Bit like a chick-flick".
With a laugh, Sherlock walked over to the fireplace. "If it is more fitting, I could get some roses and champagne?" he joked.
John laughed and paced the room in a slow limp. That was when he noticed something. A syringe was sitting on the table. It was clean, with its cap still on. John walked over and picked it up.
"Sherlock, what's this?" he asked quietly.
The detective shrugged, "A syringe, obviously. You should know that".
John's eyes widened as he remembered a conversation from their first case. His hand closed tight around the needle and he looked at his flatmate. "You didn't. Tell me you didn't. Oh my god. Oh my god you did," his grip tightened on the object.
Sherlock stepped forward, "John,"
"You said you were clean, Sherlock!" John cut off loudly.
Sherlock stepped back, "Well did I think you were dead back then? I don't believe I did!" he retaliated.
"Wait, you thought I was dead?" John asked in a quiet voice.
"I didn't exactly think you were dead yet. Every lead I'd salvaged was wrong. The only stone solid lead I'd managed to find was useless. I needed something to think," Sherlock tried to explain.
John had to sit down. He grabbed the chair from beside the table and sat down. Looking to his feet, he took notice of the unusual number of letters in the dustbin. It was probably just mail that Sherlock was too lazy to open, he figured.
Sherlock walked over to kneel in front of John. Putting a hand to the Doctor's cheek, he lifted the slightly tanned face to look at him. "I'm sorry," he said, pressing a gentle kiss to John's forehead.
John looked down to his flatmate. "Promise me you will never even think about it again," he almost whispered.
Sherlock nodded slowly, not breaking eye contact. "I Promise".
A.N: Hope I got the whole confession thing right!
It's probably a good time to tell you that I'm not putting smut in this fic. I sincerely apologise for any of you who are waiting for it, and those who literally waited 17 chapters for something to happen.
The reason is, I can't actually write proper smut yet. It just reads horribly. Without sounding pretentious, I quite like this fic, and I don't want to ruin it with a terribly written sex scene.
Thank you for understanding, and for reading this far without it! 3