John woke up the next morning, a bit tired and very ashamed.
He had trouble sleeping last night, every time he would roll over, he would feel Sherlock against him and guilt would overcome.
John knew it was true, deep down, and wished he could have never had this realization.
How could the man feel the same about him? Sherlock was asexual, it was obvious.
He opened his sore eyes and took in his surroundings.
Sherlock was nowhere to be found, there was just a note lying on the table.
John didn't bother to get out of their bed and read it, he felt like the walls holding himself together were crumbling, bit by bit.
He held his face in both of his hands, and a tear dribbled down his cheek.
He knew.
It wasn't a crush, or just lust, or just sexual confusion.
If he were to murmur " I love you" to him, the statement would hold more depth than words can possibly convey.
The knowledge that tore him apart is that those word would never escape his lips.
He was so close, but completely unattainable.
And god help him, he just wanted to hold Sherlock.
To wrap his arms around him and never let him slip away.
Because he loved the way he would dash about, not a care in the world.
He loved the way his beautiful serenades drifted through the cracks in his door, at 3 am, when he was composing.
He loved him when he left test tubes and experiments lying around.
He loved the way he would find body parts in the fridge.
He loved the way he smiled and laughed.
He loved the way his eyes shined a little, when he was completely and undeniably happy.
He loved him.
A second tear dripped down his cheek, resting on his chin.
He heard a door creak open and looked to see Sherlock, the culprit of this crime, standing in the doorway, his mystic green eyes darting, analyzing.
" John?"
Sherlock looked into his dark blue eyes and saw the traces of pain, laced within the tears falling.
He quickly noticed and wiped them away, but turning his head, facing the window. Why was he crying?
John Watson doesn't cry.
" John...are you-?"
" Yes, yes. I'm fine."
There was a tension in the air, obvious to both men, but not enough for outward acknowledgement.
" John, if you'd like to talk to me about whatever is bothering you I can try to listen."
He sat up a little straighter.
" Why do you use my name so much?"
Sherlock looked shocked for a second.
He liked the way John's name rolled off his tongue. A comfort.
But of course he didn't say that.
Sherlock coughed awkwardly and closed the door.
" I hadn't noticed."
" Hmm."
John got out of the bed, shirtless, and headed towards the bathroom with a handful of clothes to change into. He had to get away. Now.
Sherlock placed a hand on his shoulder.
" Wait!"
John turned quickly, and their faces were so close.
The place where his hand rested on his back burned an imprint into his skin.
" I was experimenting out of boredom in the bathroom. One of the experiments became bubbly and toxic, so I proceeded to flush it down the toilet, but it seemed clogged."
" So are you saying you clogged the hotel toilet with toxic waste?"
" Yes."
John started laughing hysterically and Sherlock looked down at him with a concerned expression on his face.
" So I wouldn't enter the bathroom. I checked in with the resort maintenance and once we leave they will come and take care of the mess."
"Oh."
John would have to change out in the open.
" Why does god hate me?" He thought.
He nodded and cleared his throat as he slowly slipped off his pajama pants.
Sherlock looked away nervously as John slipped off his boxers and threw on a new pair as soon as he could muster.
The rest was easy. Shirt, shorts and bam! It was over.
" I was planning on stepping outside but this was clearly more efficient."
John turned a darker shade of pink.
This could have been prevented.
He ran a shaky hand through his hair.
John had no time to regret these things.
He looked up into the detectives face, but couldn't help but stare.
He was so beautiful, like an untouched marble statue, velvet curls.
" I went too far." Sherlock thought to himself.
The signs were so obvious. He thought the game would be interesting and calculating but John's emotions ran deeper than expected. It wasn't just whispers.
It was shouts.
And he was obviously suffering, he looked depressed and out of sorts. John had dark circles running under his eyes and kept looking downwards and away.
No.
Sherlock walked over and placed a hand on his shoulder, hoping to help him feel better.
John just ripped away and sped out the door and down the hallway, running.
Sherlock slid onto the bed, his hands in his hair.
What had he done?