AN - I know it's been a couple of days, but things just weren't working. Got it now though. Playing with present tense and a different sort of style. I've been working on spoken word poetry a little, and sometimes elements of that come into other work I do. The second Sherlock paragraph is especially that sort of thing. I named it because the name came to me. Thanks for the prompt uwu

Could you write something where John accidentally spills his feelings to Sherlock without realizing what he did? ~anon

I Didn't Mean to Say it Out Loud

Sherlock stands by the window, gazing out onto moonlit Baker Street, listening to the sounds of the sleepless city moving around him. Taxis sweep along the road, Mrs Hudson gets a glass of water downstairs, the world hums as it spins mindlessly through space. The world is waiting for the sun to rise over the tallest buildings in London, to remind the party-goers that it's time for bed and the market-workers that it's time to get up and the insomniacs that they've made it through another night. And Sherlock continues listening, his genius mind pouring over a million thoughts as he stands.

The heat is the first thing. The white heat. Then pain exploding in his shoulder. Blood stains the sand. The sun burns the soldiers as they crawl like ants through the hazy world, fighting for God knows what. There's blood on his face. Please, God, let me live.

John stirs upstairs, and Sherlock turns from the window. The nightmares still haunt him, Sherlock knows, even when nobody else can. The sand and the sun, the pain of the bullet, and sometimes, on bad days, he still limps just a little even though he knows it's all in his head, but just because it's all in his head doesn't mean it's not there. Sometimes the memories are too close for comfort and there are times, times in the middle of the night when John sleeps and Sherlock stands and the world keeps on turning when the darkness draws closer and Sherlock becomes dust and everything else melts away until nothing remains, nothing but white hot pain ripping through his skin and the words whispering through his mind Please, God, let me live, because he had no one else to think of. In his dying moments, John Watson had no one to turn his mind to, so he prayed for the chance that, one day, he might. Sherlock walks across to his chair and picks up his violin and bow.

He's falling. He's falling fast and the world blurs at the edges. He said 'goodbye'. The ground is cold and hard. Stumbling forward. He's surrounded by people, people trying to tell if the stranger is really gone. Blood stains the ground. Too many people, too thick, to slow and too fast. There's blood on his face. He's my friend, let me through.

Sherlock brings the bow to the strings and fills the flat with the melancholy air of Partita No. 2. John prefers Bach to anything else. The music drifts around, silencing the rest of the world. The moonlight still reaches through the windows, running her long fingers through Sherlock's hair and the strings of the violin he plays. The bow slides across the strings, casting a spell over those who care to hear. The clock is silent as it strikes the hour. The world is dimmed. There is nothing but the detective and his music, and John Watson as he sleeps, his dreams disturbed by the plague of the past. The nightmares will always haunt him. There will always be times in the middle of the night when he wakes, drenched in cold sweat, blooded faces flashing across his mind's eye. But, while there will always be nightmares, there will always be Bach.

"Sherlock!" John sits bolt upright, his skin cold and clammy, blood and pain and the memories pulsing through him. He swallows thickly, his mind dripping back down to reality, to the still flat in Baker Street at three in the morning, and the music reaches his ears. A small smile ghosts his lips and lights his eyes. He leans back against the headboard, his mind settling into wakefulness, his limbs relaxing as the music crawls under his skin. The world begins to fall once more into peace.

The name echoes through his ears as the music picks up pace. The sound of his name rippling through his skin and beating in his veins, the desperation of the call, the fear Sherlock can almost see lighting his deep, sea-blue eyes. The phrase draws to a close and Sherlock lowers the bow, glancing at the stairs. His footfall is silent, his violin is still clasped, mute, in his hand, as he climbs the stairs to John's bedroom. The world begins to fall easily back into motion, the taxies once more slipping past and the people walking through their lives without listening to their own footsteps. The door creaks slightly as it opens, and the first thing that Sherlock's all-seeing eyes settle on is the body of John Watson lying, still and silent, on his bed.

"You called?" The words vibrate in John's bones.

"Sorry… I… umm…" John begins, looking down at the bed.

"Should I go?"

"No, don't." He says it before he can stop himself, but he knows better than to take it back.

Sherlock swallows thickly, gazing at John, the moonlight casting perfect shadows across his ghost-white face as he steps further into the bedroom. "You want me to stay?" he checks, his eyes fixed on John's face.

"If you like."

Silence descends once more, save the cars outside and the breathing of the two men and the general hum of the world in motion.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asks as he steps a little closer to the bed.

"Yes. I just… I'm okay now," John replies, offering Sherlock a small smile.

Sherlock returns the smile. "Right."

John swallows thickly, glancing at the violin in Sherlock's hand. "Thank you. For playing."

Sherlock raises the violin and turns his gaze to it. "Oh… Yes. Well, Partita No. 2."

"It's one of my favourites," John smiles.

"I know."

"Thank you."

Sherlock swallows thickly, shifting where he stands. "Should I leave you to sleep?" he asks, stepping back a little.

"I'm awake now," John protests.

"I know, but you might want to sleep more."

"I'm not tired."

"But you want me to stay?"

"As long as you're okay staying."

"I can stay."

"Come sit down."

"On the bed?"

"Yes."

Sherlock walks obligingly to the bed where John lies and sits on the edge of it, casting his eyes to the wooden floorboards beneath his feet.

"Lie back, if you like," John suggests, a soft chuckle at the back of his throat.

"Do you want me to?" Sherlock clarifies, a little uncomfortable. He's only ever been in John's room, since he's been living here, to tell him to get up for a case or to get something. And never in the middle of the night.

"I want you to relax," John says, smiling at Sherlock.

There's another pause. Sherlock looks around the room, before shrugging, deciding to simply let the situation play out how it might. He lays the violin down at the end of the bed and sits against the headboard by John's side. Silence falls once more. "Why am I here?" Sherlock asks after a moment.

"I don't know," John admits, shrugging slightly.

"Because you called," Sherlock says, answering his own question.

"I always call for you," John remarks. "Normally you don't hear me."

Sherlock's brow furrows. "Do you normally call with the intention of my hearing?"

"No," John replies. "I just say your name."

"Why?"

John considers for a moment. The darkness creeps around him, settling in the corners of the room and the shadows he casts from the moonlight. He'd never really thought about it before. "I don't know," he answers. "Because that's the word that normally comes to me. You've changed my life in so many ways, I end up yelling for you."

"I've changed your life?" Sherlock echoes.

"You bloody saved me, Sherlock," John replies, gazing up at the man by his side.

"From what?"

"I don't know. And I don't care to find out."

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"Doing the same for me."

"I'm glad I was able to."

Sherlock looks over to John, his brow furrowed. "Why are we talking like this? This doesn't normally happen."

"It's the middle of the night, Sherlock," John smiles, gazing into Sherlock's incredible eyes. "It's what people do at night. Something happens and they start talking about things that can't seem to stand the light of day."

"Do people do this a lot?" Sherlock asks, still a little confused.

"It's reasonably normal," John answers.

"We don't normally do this."

"We're not normal."

"Oh."

They each look away briefly, the world moving serenely around them, before their eyes meet. Both dissolve into senseless giggles, breaking the serious stillness that had descended.

"Is this normal as well?" Sherlock chuckles, turning his gaze back to John.

"What?" John laughs. "Feeling light-headed and giggly pretty much spontaneously?"

"Yes," Sherlock replies, his laughter subsiding. "Is that another normal middle of the night event?"

"I think that's normal for us at any given moment," John remarks.

Sherlock laughs again. "Yes, it does appear to be." After a short while, doctor and detective regain their composure, the laughter settling back into the serenity of the night.

"What are other middle of the night occurrences?" Sherlock asks, gazing over at John.

"Well," John sighs, considering. "I suppose important decisions that really shouldn't be made until daylight. I've heard authors get their best ideas in the middle of the night and then lose them because they haven't got writing equipment on hand or they're too tired to write."

"That's a bit stupid," Sherlock remarks, smirking a little.

"Yes," John agrees, sharing the smirk. "But then, the ones who do have writing equipment on hand or who do end up writing the entire thing in the middle of the night are often brilliant."

"Who'd write a book in the middle of the night?"

"Well, Saul Bellow did say 'You never have to change anything you got up in the night to write.'"

"Did he?"

"Yes. I suppose the same could be said for you. You never go wrong in your midnight deductions. Or violin playing."

"Thank you?"

"Yes, it was a compliment."

Sherlock sighs, turning the fresh information over in his mind. "What else?"

"Well, I suppose big, dramatic declarations or revelations that are either immediately withdrawn or completely disregarded, and which are followed by either regret and self-hatred or infinite joy," John suggests.

"Like what?"

"Like 'Sherlock Holmes, I love you.'"

"Right."

Quiet swallows up the last words, thoughts buzzing round the stillness of the room like flies.

"Do you?" Sherlock asks.

"Do I what?" John replies, fighting back a yawn.

"Love me?"

John considers again, apparently only just realising what he'd said. "Umm… yes. Yes, I guess I do."

"You guess?" Sherlock echoes.

"Hmm. I hadn't really considered it properly."

"But you had considered it?"

"That's another thing that happens in the middle of the night."

"What?"

"Overthinking."

"But you've never thought of it during the day?"

"I have. Once or twice. When you're being especially brilliant."

"With my deductions?"

"Sometimes. But times when you make me coffee for no reason or when you wake up in the morning and your hair's all messy and I just think you look so incredibly normal and I realise that as much as I love your brilliant mind, I love you when you're just being alive."

The world continues moving for a moment.

"I don't expect you to love me," John says, looking down at the bed sheets. "I mean, you're married to your work and all."

"I wouldn't know," Sherlock remarks quietly, his gaze turning to the window. "I've never loved anyone before."

"Neither have I," John shrugs. "Not really."

"How can you tell you love me, then?"

"I don't know. It's just… a feeling. Sometimes you just sort of know." He swallows thickly, his eyes roaming over Sherlock's face. "I guess it's kind of when the other person's safety and happiness is more important to you than your own."

Sherlock looks down at John's face. "Anything else?"

"When you say it and it doesn't feel like a lie in your mouth."

"John?"

"Yes?"

"I love you."

"Oh?"

Sherlock considers, moistening his lips. "Yes. Yes, I believe I do."

John's eyes light up brighter than the moon as it dances through the gap between his curtains. Sherlock meets his gaze, and finds himself drowning in those sea-blue eyes.

"Is this one of those important decisions that are actually better made in the light of day?" he asks hesitantly.

"No," John replies, his voice just about reaching Sherlock's sensitive ears. "No, I believe this is one of those big, dramatic revelations that can either end in regret and self-hatred, or-"

"Infinite joy," Sherlock breathes. John nods minutely, gazing into Sherlock's incredible eyes, those eyes that he's sure contain hidden galaxies and long-lost stars. Sherlock moves forward and presses a kiss to John's lips, just for a moment, before pulling away and focusing on his eyes again.

"Tired?" he whispers.

"A little."

"How do you know this isn't one of those occasions when you realise what a huge mistake you made the next day and wish you could take it all back?"

"I love you, Sherlock, that isn't going to change because of a little daylight," John chuckles.

"Good."

"Yes."

"I love you, too, by the way."

John smiles at Sherlock, the light dancing in his eyes.

"You should sleep," Sherlock breathes.

"Okay."

Sherlock slips off the bed and stands up, taking the violin in his hands, his eyes still on John as he lies down. He leaves the room and wanders back into the living room, casting his eye over the crime scene pictures for a moment without interest. He raises the violin to his shoulder again, and continues to play Partita No. 2.