John isn't quite sure when it starts.
He admires Sherlock and respects him. He likes that he feels safe and that at night he hardly ever feels like he needs to lock his door. He does sometimes, when the nightmares are too much, and he feels like Reeds will burst through that door. So he locks his door and huddles under the blanket until morning where tea and sunlight will make everything better. Most nights though, he knows he's safe with Sherlock and so he leaves his door unlocked. He still has nightmares but they are less in frequency now. Perhaps it had something to do with Sherlock playing the violin when he has a bad dream.
He'll come downstairs feeling miserable and shuffle into the kitchen and Sherlock would walk over to his case and start playing a lullaby. Amazingly, John would be able to sleep again afterwards. He's never been able to do so after a night terror before. Just go back to sleep. He used to just sit up until he was exhausted and passed out or his day started. But Sherlock and his violin were a balm to John and the knowledge that this was Sherlocks way of comforting him was just as good as the violin playing. It made him feel warm and affectionate towards the lazy clot. He'd feel safe enough to sleep again with knowing Sherlock and his violin were around to keep watch.
The worst dreams were the one of Reeds. Afterwards he wakes up feeling dirty and disgusting and ashamed of himself. He's temporarily afraid of the dark, is jumping at every shadow, and needs a second sweater to hide his body. He hates being touched for hours afterwards. He resorts to some of his usual methods to feeling better. Regardless of what time it was, he'd go to the bathroom, lock the door, strip and take a shower as hot as he could stand it. Then he'd scrub every inch of himself clean. He never truly feels clean on these nights when he has a dream but it helps somewhat. Then he dresses in pants and trousers and covers up with a dressing gown before even considering unlocking the door.
Sometimes John feels poisonous. He's noxious and filthy. It isn't fair to Sherlock that John doesn't tell him but John can't tell him because if he did Sherlock would see how tainted he is, how unworthy of his time, and then he'd leave. He feels poisonous, like he should have a quarantine sign on the outside of his door and that people would be tainted by association. Then again, he's genuinely terrified of being touched by other men so maybe it would be best to have one on the inside of his door to keep them out. Keep other people out for their own good and his protection. And there are days when John wonders if he will ever feel right again but then Sherlock cracks a joke, or smiles at him, or says some sort of inside joke of theirs... And John feels like he is at least right in Sherlocks eyes and he feels warm and safe and privileged to see the parts of Sherlock no one else gets to see.
Donovan and Anderson don't know a thing about Sherlock and part of John pities them that they are too narrow minded to see Sherlock beyond what their prejudice allows them to see. The rest of John doesn't care though because it feels like they deserve it for the way they treat John's best friend. Except John starts to wonder about this. He understands that, on some level, he loves Sherlock but it's purely platonic. Right? Right. Of course it's platonic. He loves Sherlock like one of those crazy brothers you drop everything for, to run across the city and help. He and Sherlock know each other very well by now and John has even steeled himself and told Sherlock a few stories about the war. Not many, but a few.
It's platonic.
Except for when it isn't. Because sometimes he finds himself admiring Sherlock and not just for his brain. It isn't all that alarming and it doesn't have to mean anything. After that first night with Reeds, John hasn't felt even a single second or flash of sexual attraction for another man and that was well over five years ago. So this can't possibly be anything like lust or arousal. Besides, it's Sherlock and John cares a great deal for him. So obviously it must be platonic.
Objectively, Sherlock was attractive. Everyone thought so, or at least they did before Sherlock opened his mouth and said something. John figured it was like admiring certain features he himself lacked. After all, John has always been the shortest bloke and it would be nice to be that height. Those facial features would have certainly gotten John any woman he wanted; the cheekbones, the dimples, and the almond shape of those eyes. Sherlocks eyes. Sherlocks eyes were a nice shade of blue green that were quite vivid. Sherlock always dressed in those suits that made him look like a runway model. It's just body envy, he tells himself. It doesn't mean anything. Their relationship is that of close, platonic friends. Best friends. It's quite nice.
John doesn't remember when it starts... but he remembers when he becomes conscious of it.
He becomes aware of it one Sunday afternoon when Sherlock, sulky from a lack of cases, shuffles into the living room fresh out of the shower and flops onto the couch. In nothing but a white sheet. He's facing the couch and John can tell he never dried off from the shower because the sheet is slightly see-through in some areas from water. And dear God it's sticking to that body. Tightly. John's eyes flick to that back. He tries to look away but realizes he's staring at Sherlocks arse and he can't quite look away. It's quite a nice arse too. The sheet is mostly see through and he can see the back muscles and those shoulder blades that regularly balance a violin on them. He finds himself admiring the curve of that neck. John doesn't even realize what's happening until he experiences the urge to touch Sherlock.
Then he realizes it.
He's feeling sexual arousal towards another man for the first time in eight years. It's enough to make his blood run cold. Suddenly he realizes he isn't breathing. He can't. He can't take a breath. He has to, but he can't. But he's having a small, quiet panic attack. With Sherlock in the room. It's all too small. He feels trapped and oh god, black spots are getting into his vision. It isn't until he leans forward with his head between his knees, his elbow over his mouth and nose that he manages to gasp in some small amount of air. He keeps doing that, breathing into his elbow slowly, until his heart rate calms down. The dread however, doesn't leave. Neither does the sense of shame that makes him feel like he might throw up here in the living room if he doesn't get into the shower for the second time today and scrub himself clean.
Because now he can feel it. Reeds touching the back of his neck. Reeds on his skin. Those hands around his wrist, holding him down. And now he feels dirty again. His skins crawling. He needs to get up and get out of here. The room feels like it's closing in slightly and suddenly he's frightened beyond belief. He's trembling too. His hands won't hold still. He needs to stand and leave but his legs feel weak and he can't stand despite needing to so very badly. Slowly he starts flexing his legs to get them working again. Tight. Loose. Tight. Loose. It starts working to get the blood flowing faster in his legs right away.
Air. Escape. He needs this to figure it all out. Mostly he just needs to get away from Sherlock. It's not Sherlocks fault and it isn't particularly fair of John to react to him like this. It really isn't fair but John just needs to get out. The park. It's perfect. It's quiet and a safe place to John. Even better, he knows of a low hanging tree next to a set of bushes. No one knew it was there and it was in a solitary part of the park. He could panic quietly without any witnesses. He was panicking somewhat now and it would just not do. Sherlock would catch it and start deducing everything John did. Quickly working his throat to keep his voice even, John locked up his emotions tight and spoke. John was proud of how even his voice was.
"Sherlock, I'm going for a walk. Text me if you need anything."
No response.
Perfect. The last thing he wanted to risk was Sherlock turning around and seeing how frightened he was right then. John grabs his phone and keys, and struggles numbly into his coat before stumbling out the front door. He moves quickly and it's a struggle to not break into a run or loose control and start having a panic attack on the sidewalk right there. He doesn't quite see where he's going until he reaches his destination. The park is rather empty as everything was soggy, cold and it was a Sunday. The bushes are twelve feet high and ring the tree. The tree itself hangs rather low over a park bench people seem to have forgotten. In other words, the perfect place to privately fall apart without being seen by anyone, consulting detectives included.
Once inside his hidden shelter, the first thing John does is vomit. His stomachs been roiling since he realized his sexual attraction and self control can only do so much. He holds onto the tree trunk for life as his bodies stress response makes him reject everything he had to eat earlier. Tea and toast aren't all that appetizing coming back up, as going down. Even when his gut empties, he continues to dry heave for two more minutes until the wave of nausea passes. Then, still slightly unsteady on his feet, John sits down in exhaustion. His skin steel feels like it's crawling in disgust and he only would feel slightly cleaner if he had crawled through a sewer main.
For a minute he manages to remain calm but the emotions he's been holding back starts to trickle through and wash over him. Too much. He falls off the bench onto the ground. He's fortunate he's outside because the world feels like it's being compressed and sucked inwards towards him and god if he had been inside surely he wouldn't be able to breath. His hearts thrumming too fast and there are spots in his eyes again. He hears a keening moan, realizes it's himself and closes his mouth. It isn't safe outside his hiding spot and he tries to keep his voice quiet because he might have a full blown episode if someone came in to check on him. He'd never understood how Sherlock managed to fold himself up so compactly in that armchair, like a contortionist pretending to be origami. Someone that tall shouldn't be able to manage it without bending the laws of reality.
Except now John has managed the same. It isn't comfortable but he's managed to curl up on the ground next to the tree with his arms around his legs and his face pressed into his thighs. It hurts to sit like this. His damaged shoulder shrieks in protest and his back hurts but he has to sit like this. He just has too. John would fly apart if he didn't. It isn't logical to believe this and there's no medical basis for a person exploding that doesn't involve some sort of bomb. John believes it anyways. He can't let go. He has to hold himself together. Slowly though, the feelings of fear and anxiety drain away, leaving him feeling shaken but able to uncurl. Slowly, he stands, stumbles, and makes it back to the bench.
His hands are still shaking and he feels shivers running up his back. It's like his entire body is having some petit mal seizure. John leans forward again to put his head between his knees and manages to gasp in air. He resorts to soldier breaths in order to keep breathing. Through the nose slowly. In, in, hold, out. In, in, hold, out. How could this happen? It's been so long since he has felt anything like this for a man. He's feeling it now though and it fills him with anxiety. Oh god! He can't! He can't do this again! Not after Reeds. He's straight now. He loves women. He's never felt sexually threatened when with a woman. Women were wonderful.
How had he not seen this?! All those times he looked at Sherlock for a half second too long. Noticing, and even admiring all those physical features. The way he stood closer to Sherlock than was necessary. Wanting to hold his hand once or twice for no good reason; even if it never happened, he had still wanted too. These were not the things a platonic friend did! John moaned quietly. This had been happening for a while and he hadn't even realized. He was an idiot. Was this why everyone thought they were a couple? Did John have some sort of scarlet letter hanging over him where Sherlock was concerned? Surely he wasn't that obvious about it?
Even worse was that Sherlock had probably noticed these things and hadn't thought anything wrong with it because it wasn't his area. He probably thought it was how normal friends behaved, having not had any before. What the hell was he going to do?! If he distanced himself Sherlock was sure to notice the change and start deducing, but not distancing himself wasn't an option either because he's still shaking at the very idea of being sexually attracted to a man, let alone Sherlock. John pauses and realized he's been pacing for the last few minutes but he doesn't quite remember standing up. He runs a shaky hand through his hair and tries to think his way around this.
Moving out isn't an option either.
Sherlock means too much to him to move out. The idea makes him think of the cold, dank army flats and the depression he suffered before meeting Sherlock. Sherlock who gave him purpose, who laughed with him despite claiming to be a sociopath. Sherlock, who smiled so broadly when he succeeded in curing John's limp, and showed he cared in small, awkward ways that he didn't always get right but made an effort to try anyways. The life he had now was good. If this lust problem didn't exist then it would be very nearly perfect even. If he were to find himself a woman who could tolerate Sherlock being his best friend, or didn't mind that John was just a 'little closed off' and it would be perfection personified.
He couldn't distance himself. Sherlock would investigate, find out about Reeds and leave John in disgust. He couldn't move out, it would hurt their friendship and John liked life the way it was. Then it hits John like a lightning bolt. This must be what it's like when Sherlock realizes something.
Sherlock was asexual!
How could he forget?! John sighs in relief as the tension starts draining away the more he thinks on it. John doesn't have to do anything because Sherlock will never want anything of that nature from anyone! John had never once see him eye anyone with desire except a corpse, and that had nothing to do with necrophilia and everything to do with the Work. Sherlock never seemed to catch on when people flirted with him. Aside from understanding the mechanics of sex, Sherlock seemed to understand it about as well as a potted plant. John isn't even certain that Sherlock has ever had sex! It doesn't look likely to change either.
Warming to the idea, John gets more cheered up as he thinks about it. All he has to do is maintain the status quo by doing what he has already been doing: squabbling with Sherlock when Sherlock does something annoying, spending time with him, doing his routine of showers, helping on cases, going to work, and shopping. He's rationalizing this but it's working. As long as Sherlock wouldn't return any sort of sexual interest then John can continue to feel safe and not lock his door at night. They can be friends and John's sexual interest wouldn't be a problem. It might even go away when ignored. If he isn't nursing these feelings, they will eventually go away. Even better, Sherlock can't be suspicious of changed behavior if there wasn't any. No deductions.
It isn't entirely perfect as small parts of John still feels anxious and slightly nauseous. It's the best solution he can come up with though. He won't feel quite right until he's had his shower and perhaps he will lock his door just for tonight.
John's coat, trousers and hair are a mess from laying in the dirt and grasping his own hair. He makes sure to take his time cleaning himself up, cleaning off his hands, the jacket, straightening his hair. He lived with a human lie detector who could deduce everything you'd done that day based on the state of your clothing. There was no way he was going home with all of this on him. He'd made it this long without Sherlock realizing there was something wrong with him and he intended to keep it that way.
It's just as John is combing his hair with his fingers to return some semblance of order to them that something else occurs to John and he pauses. His stomach tightens in anxiety as he examines the thought and a sort of resigned dread moves through him.
He'd known for a while, in a vague sort of way, that he loved Sherlock but had assumed that it was that of close friends or brothers. Add in the sexual attraction though... Oh. Oh! Oh... John turned the though around and examined it and then had to sit down suddenly. Apparently John had been ignoring this for a while but when put in this light, it seemed obvious. He swallows and can't believe his piss poor luck as he finally admits it, if even only to himself.
I'm in love with him...
He didn't just love Sherlock. He was in love with Sherlock. Not platonic. Not like brothers. Not like friends. Not like 'you're my best mate and I'd help you hide from the police, dye your hair and call you John smith'. Well, to be honest it was like that but also more. The realization makes John think more as he understands why his ability to maintain his relationships with any girlfriend since meeting Sherlock has taken a sharp nose dive. It also brought John back to that prickling anxiety in his chest because his main solution for both problems is to ignore it and continue on. It feels more like avoidance than handling it. The only thing that really solved it for John was that Sherlock was asexual and that John could avoid it forever. He'd find a tolerant woman who could withstand Sherlocks antics, settle down, have some children, and go on a case or two in his off time.
The thing was that John felt safe around Sherlock, but, he reflects with a stab of anxiety, he felt safe around Reeds before that first night. That was his commanding officer, the one person every soldier is supposed to be able to rely on. It felt like Reeds had destroyed him and he had cobbled together some semblance of sanity, of him. If someone else did that to him again, even once, John doesn't think he could do it again. He wouldn't be able to take it. There wouldn't even be enough of him left to pull together to form a wall with, let alone a pile. He's certain Sherlock is safe, that he won't have to be worried.
Thinking it through John begins to calm down. Sherlock was safe to be around. The number of times John had fallen asleep in his armchair after staying up late with Sherlock in the other room is all the reassurance John needs. The ridiculous hiding places where they'd been squeezed in against each other's bodies hadn't alarmed John either at the time and it doesn't worry John now. He was fine, and Sherlock was safe, uninterested in sex, and they were best friends. Thinking all these things works because that last vein of anxiety he'd felt about his 'do nothing' solution dissolves and he feels very relaxed. He won't even need to lock his door tonight, he thinks. A shower will be necessary but that has more to do with him rolling in the dirt, rather than feeling dirty.
John neatens up his hair, then tries to smooth the crinkles out of his trousers and jacket. It's not perfect, he'll have to change if he wants to keep Sherlock off the scent but he looks well enough. John shivers despite his jacket and realizes he's been out for a while. The Suns moved quite a ways and it's gone four in the afternoon. John walks home somewhat tired from his afternoon of revelations. He's never been so glad to see Baker Street in his life and he feels warm climbing those steps upstairs. Sherlock evidently came out of his mind palace while he was out and John knows because he can hear Beethoven's fifth. He paused a moment to admire the sound. Sherlock really was quite good. It eased any remaining tension from his shoulders and he breathed out with a sigh.
This was home, with Sherlock, and violins and tea.
Xxxx
So this is an extension of 'the value of sleep' but if anyone's wondering this really is the last chapter of it. If I continue the storyline it would be from sherlocks perspective In a separate story but this was sort of the ground work chapters.
-HWKFT