Six: 6 AM (Fitz and the Tantrums)

It's 6 in the morning, I'm still awake

My sleepless heart is torn up, babe

A love song's on the radio

But these words I hear, they're not for me, no.

The thunder started at dawn.

Sherlock glanced at his mobile in the grey morning light of the living room. 6:00 AM. John would be waking at any moment to get ready for work. Sherlock would be left alone with his thoughts for the entire day. Normally, this would not be an issue for him. He had a number of experiments that needed working and his mind-palace was in desperate need of reorganization. A quiet day in 221 B would be just the thing to get his to-do list done.

But Sherlock was not in the mood for any of this. He'd been up all night—not particularly a hardship for him, but it had been the first night in several weeks that he hadn't been lying in bed with John. Even if he didn't sleep, Sherlock was always there…thinking, processing, or just watching his companion sleep. And somehow, John's presence was both a stimulant and sedative to Sherlock's persistent mind. John had the singular ability to both provide his brain with the influx of new data that he craved and the soothing tranquility that allowed him to rest and relax. It was perplexing and amazing.

But the last 12 hours had been incredibly taxing on Sherlock's mind and his…dare he say, his heart. He almost snarled as that thought passed through his consciousness. This is why dealing with emotions was a lower order of thinking. They served as nothing more than a distraction from the higher-order intellectualism in which he found solace. Besides, it's not like the heart muscle itself was doing any actual thinking or feeling. No, those things were happening inside him brain, running on a track that was completely perpendicular from the other lines in his head. These dreaded emotions were crossing wires with his rational self and the results were…well, this. He was curled on the couch in the fetal position and his body ached with a tension that was purely mental.

Sherlock listened to the rain. The pitter-patter of fat English raindrops eased him into the dusty corners of his mind-palace. He forced himself to track his emotional state, trying to catalog the thoughts and the feelings. Maybe, just maybe if he could make some order out of this chaos, he could start to release himself from the constrictive grip of his emotions. He dove head-first into the chattering stream of inner dialogue, trying to find something to wrestle with. He alighted first upon the feeling of fear.

Fear. Sherlock managed to get the feeling in a chokehold and began to interrogate it. Why fear? Who did he have to fear? Moriarty was dead and his band of criminal sidekicks had all been destroyed. The everyday thugs and crooks that he dealt with were nothing compared to the man who had once crowned himself king of London's felonistic domain. Mycroft? Please. Lestrade? There was always the chance that Lestrade would someday have to give in to pressures from elsewhere and release Sherlock from his work with Scotland Yard. That would be discouraging, but he hardly saw the need to fear it. Mrs. Hudson? The woman loved him like a son. John? John. His insides wriggled painfully. Okay, John then. But why was he fearful of John?

Another feeling slid past him and he lassoed it and dragged it in. Jealousy. Jealousy? Really? Sherlock was intelligent beyond comparison. He had been told by a reliable source that he possessed a unique set of genetics that rendered him quite attractive to both men and women. He had a career as a consulting detective that allowed him to chase puzzles all over England and the Continent and exercise his intellect. He had...friends, if that was what he wanted to say…Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and Molly. He had an elder brother for whom he felt an inkling of respect, even if he was a pretentious git with an affinity for umbrellas and cake. He had a brilliant, generous, and loving partner in the form of John Watson. His insides wriggled again. Okay, so…he was jealous and it involved John in some way. How was that possible? Sherlock admired the man's courage and his unwavering loyalty, but he wasn't jealous.

A third feeling reared up and almost knocked him over. He stunned it and laid it out for examination. It was a curious emotion…it made him feel…almost giddy despite his obvious emotional distress. As he isolated this particular emotion, he felt a pool of warmth in the middle of his chest and followed it as it pooled in every nook of his being from head to toe. He felt…warm and safe and happy. He'd even venture as far to say that he felt delight and joy and peace. What in the… oh. Oh…wait. This couldn't be…

Sherlock swallowed. He felt…love. Pure, sheer love in its natural form was radiating from every molecule of his being. Suddenly, it all made sense and the events of the past evening slammed into his brain and replayed. John had come home from a particularly trying day at the surgery. He'd had a young man die on him…pulmonary embolism, nothing anyone could do. John had been quite upset because the young man had left behind a new family—wife and twin children. Sherlock knew that even though John's guilt was irrational, the man would need time to process the event and get over it. So, Sherlock had done his best to be a nurturing partner. He'd made John a hot cup of tea and cradled him on the couch as they sat together and watched John's favorite movie. He'd then stretched the man out on their bed and given him a long, full-body massage to ease away all the tension. He'd pushed him into a hot shower and then sat with him as he nursed another cup of hot tea on the couch.

John had apparently been very overwhelmed by all the things Sherlock had done. He'd finished his tea and was lying in Sherlock's arms when he'd whispered the words that had caused Sherlock's brain to explode. I love you. Who knew that three tiny words could be so utterly disarming? Sherlock had been so stunned that he hadn't responded…and it's not like he would have been able to say anything anyway. The uncomfortable silence had settled over them for a few minutes before John had cleared his throat and gone to bed without another word.

Sherlock had been jealous of the man's ability to say these words. Upon examination, it would appear that Sherlock was indeed in love with John Watson, as ridiculous as those words might seem. But it didn't stop the fact that he was. And John had been able to tell him that he loved him and by extension that he cared about him and was happy with him. Sherlock had sat there, the proverbial cat holding his tongue in a full nelson.

He'd also become very fearful in the night that his inability to say the words (especially right after) would somehow lead to John's disillusionment with him. Perhaps…one day soon he might get fed up with his sociopathic tendencies and just leave, seeking what Sherlock could not give in others. The fact that Sherlock was fearful of this and of his inability to express his true feeling for John…well, frankly he was terrified.

He knew he had to tell him. He had to tell John that he loved him or risk losing him forever. His heart gave an anxious flutter and he bit back a groan. He tried to chase the anxiety out of his mind by locking it in a closet in his mind-palace. There was no time for that. John would be up soon.

No sooner had he thought these words than the man himself made a quiet entrance into the living room of the flat. Sherlock scooted around so that he was sitting up and had his arms thrown casually over his knees. He listened to John making his tea and toast and reveled in the feeling of the man's presence through the walls. Somehow, the click of the oven knob and the rattle of the toaster gave him the courage to stand and walk into the kitchen.

The circles around John's eyes were dark and his face looked somehow paler and more lined than usual. He was sitting at the table, staring at the opposite wall, his mind clearly a thousand miles away. He jumped a little as Sherlock eased his way into his personal space. John gave him a quick glance before turning his head to the side, avoiding Sherlock's gaze entirely. Sherlock read the embarrassment, the guilt, and the fear in his body language. Clearly the man had been up all night agonizing about the same thing that Sherlock had. Sherlock chuckled a little and placed his hand under the man's chin, turning it up and over so John's startlingly blue eyes were looking into his.

"I love you too," Sherlock said, leaning over and pressing his lips against John's with a gentle insistence. Sherlock felt the man still at the touch and then relax, letting his shoulder slump. John threaded his hands into Sherlock's curls and stroked the back of his head. They both pulled away for air a moment later.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes," John whispered, batting at the annoying tears that had slipped unconsciously from his eyes. He smiled at his partner.

"And I love you, John Watson," Sherlock replied. Their lips met again and that kiss held all of the things they never talked about…all the emotions they'd never discuss and all the thoughts they possessed. That kiss was not merely a passionate meeting of lips, but a joining of souls and a dive down into the rabbit hole, the promise of a journey that would take the rest of their lives.

As their kiss grew more fervent, the toast was quite forgotten.