John was resting in the sitting room when Sherlock returned to 221B. His back was turned to the door, but the consulting detective suddenly felt his nerves react at full force. He roughly shook his head. It was his conversation with Lestrade that was making him react this way at the sight of his friend; it had to be. Sherlock was still feeling a little unnerved by what he had been told. He was not in love with John, and he refused believe otherwise. But he knew the doctor was affecting him in a way no one ever had. Even so, Lestrade's theory was still the most ridiculous thing Sherlock had ever heard.

"Oh. Hello, Sherlock. Have you been standing there long?"

The consulting detective pulled himself away from his thoughts and found John, who had turned around in his chair, watching him curiously. Sherlock felt self-conscious under his friend's gaze and he hastily busied himself with removing his coat and scarf.

"No, I've only just arrived," Sherlock replied, a little unevenly, as he threw his outdoor clothing over a nearby chair.

"You took your time," John commented.

"I had to talk with Lestrade," Sherlock said, verifying his text messages. There was one from Lestrade, received not long ago, that said 'Remember my last.' The consultant detective tensed a little before deleting the message.

"For three hours?" John raised his eyebrows. "I didn't know you were capable of holding up a conversation for that long."

"Very amusing. I admit I walked around London for a bit before spending fifty pounds on a taxi by making the driver take the long way back to Baker Street."

"Jesus, Sherlock. Why?"

"I had to clear my head. Didn't work."

"What did you and Lestrade talk about?"

There is was, the question Sherlock had been hoping John wouldn't ask. The question that, if answered honestly, would reveal what shouldn't be shared. The consulting detective was not about to share that particular piece of information so he gave the answer that usually discouraged John from pursuing any subject.

"That's none of your business," Sherlock said, heading for his room.

His strategy didn't work. As he walked by John grabbed his wrist. An intense electric current passed through Sherlock, sending his heart pounding against his chest, and he froze in his tracks. He slowly looked at his friend, who was staring back with more determination than Sherlock had ever seen in him.

"Sherlock," John said sternly. "Answer my question. Properly."

"Why?" was all Sherlock could say.

"I know that I promised that I wouldn't badger you anymore but you've been acting strange all week. Even Lestrade had reported to me that you weren't completely yourself at the academy the other day. For God's sake, Sherlock! Just please tell me what's wrong," John said vehemently.

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but he soon discovered that his vocals had promptly failed him. He closed his mouth and shook his head instead. John gave him an exasperated expression before suddenly glancing down at the consulting detective's wrist. Sherlock felt him gently press two fingers on his wrist and immediately knew what the doctor was doing.

"Your pulse is incredibly high," John said, furrowing his brow. He looked at Sherlock. "You're either nervous or scared."

For a second time Sherlock shook his head. Without releasing the consulting detective's wrist, John stood on his feet. He took a step closer and it took all of Sherlock's self-control to not take a step back. John raised himself onto the tip of his toes and whispered in the consulting detective's ear.

"Please," John said softly. "Please tell me what's wrong."

His breath tickled Sherlock and he shivered in response. John was standing far too close: their chests were barely touching and the consulting detective could feel the heat radiating off his friend. Sherlock's mind was beginning to spin as his heart began to race so fast it became difficult to breathe. He couldn't think, he couldn't speak, he was feeling butterflies in his stomach. He couldn't look away from the eyes that were deeply looking into his own, nor could he easily resist the temptation to close the small gap between them. Sherlock's heart was saying one thing while his mind was screaming another, but his current state was preventing him from deciphering either message.

"I was down at the bakery shop and I thought I'd buy you boys a treat. How does a batch of chocolate chip cookies sound?"

If Sherlock had seen John move swiftly before, it was nothing compared to this: the doctor dropped his wrist like it had burned him and at an alarming speed he sat back down in his chair. Mrs Hudson appeared at the doorway, carrying a white box tied with some string.

"Did I interrupt something? Were you two having a little domestic?" she asked, alternating her inquisitive gaze between the both of them.

"No, Mrs Hudson. Nothing of the sort," John replied with an impatient sigh. "Thanks for the cookies, by the way. I'm sure they'll be delicious."

"You're welcome, dear. I'll just put these in the kitchen," Mrs Hudson said, smiling. She paused to look at Sherlock. "You look a little more pale than usual, Sherlock. Is everything all right?"

The consulting detective felt John's eyes shift towards him at that question. His voice still not found, Sherlock simply shook his head before rushing off to his bedroom, leaving behind a both startled and confused landlady and flatmate. He slammed the door and let himself collapse on his bed, covering his face with his hands. It couldn't be; it just couldn't! Sherlock knew he wasn't the best at reading emotions but how could he not see something as monumental as this? His deduction skills usually helped him see everything, but they had failed him in this case.

The worse part of it was that it meant admitting that Lestrade was right. That one moment in the sitting room had carried all the proof the detective inspector would have had needed to support his claim: Sherlock was in love with John, and there was no possible way of claiming otherwise. What other explanation could there be? But the idea of being in love scared Sherlock a little. He was not interested in having his heart broken, which was the reason why he divorced himself from his emotions in the first place. He was very well aware that John would never hurt him on purpose but that didn't mean that he wouldn't, even if it was done inadvertently. Besides, John was known to be a lover of women; the chances that he returned Sherlock's affections were next to zero. And that, Sherlock discovered, was what pained the consulting detective the most.

Sherlock rolled onto his side. What was he to do? He didn't know how to handle this: it was too new, too unfamiliar. He supposed he would have to cope with it in whatever way he could. Now he only had to find out what that way was.

Sherlock could not sleep that night no matter how hard he tried. He tossed and turned but rest would not come to him. His mind was still whirling with his recent discovery, causing him to be alert and uneasy. Memories of his dinner with John earlier that evening kept coming back as well: Sherlock had been very quiet and subdued during their meal and John had made another attempt to get him to reveal what was bothering him. The consulting detective had been unable to pronounce a single syllable in his friend's presence, which frustrated the both of them in two very different ways. John eventually gave up, and sulked as he finished his dinner. Sherlock would surreptitiously glance at him occasionally, reading the annoyance written on the doctor's face. The consulting detective kept his peace as he tried to eat despite the knot in his stomach.

He sighed and got out of bed, slipping his robe on. A cup of tea might be what he needed to help him get at least some sleep. He would have to go down to Mrs Hudson's kitchen, however: she had his favorite kind of tea stored there. Besides, he wasn't in the mood to have John find him alone in their sitting room. Sherlock noiselessly exited his room and crossed the flat, making his way downstairs.

There was a small light coming from the kitchen and Sherlock saw Mrs Hudson sitting at the dining table with a cup of tea of her own. She greeted the consulting detective with a warm smile and she pointed at the kettle sitting on the stove.

"The water's still very hot, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson said cheerfully. "Help yourself and come sit with me. I had a feeling you would be up as well."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock replied, eyeing her warily as he took a mug out of the cupboard and prepared his beverage. His landlady was up to something: it was written in her composure.

"Now, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson said as the consulting detective sat with her, "are you going to tell me how long it's been since you've finally known that you're in love with John or will I be forced to drag it out of you?"

Sherlock choked on his tea as he was taking his first sip. Fighting off a brutal coughing fit, he stared at his landlady through streaming eyes.

"W-What?" Sherlock said breathlessly.

"My dear boy, did you honestly think that I wouldn't notice? You've been giving off small signs here and there over the years and this week alone has confirmed my suspicions."

"Have you been talking to Lestrade?"

"No, why?"

"Never mind."

"Sherlock, there's no use in trying to hide something I already know. I've been watching you all week and I can tell that you don't know how to handle this. You're both confused and scared, and that's perfectly all right. It's a normal reaction, especially for someone who usually prefers to keep his feelings locked up." She placed a hand on top of his in a reassuring manner.

His landlady was more observant than he had given her credit for, Sherlock thought. She reminded him of his mother, who could dig out any secret no matter how hard he tried to hide them. At least this time he was in no danger of being punished for trying to conceal the results of an experiment gone wrong.

"I've only found out a few hours ago," Sherlock reluctantly admitted, knowing full well there was no point in lying. "The rest of the week was just me trying to figure out what was happening to me. I don't get surprised easily but that was probably the biggest shock of my life. I didn't ask for this, Mrs Hudson! I didn't want to be in love with anyone! How did love managed to find its way inside me?"

"Love works in mysterious ways, Sherlock. It likes to sneak upon us when we're least expecting it," Mrs Hudson said calmly, sipping her tea.

"I expect everything! How did I get so easily blindsided by this?"

"You expect everything that contains cold, hard logic. Love holds no logic; it's all about emotions, something that you never were adept with. Since you are always determined to detach yourself from your emotions, you were unable to see love make itself a home in your heart. It's not as bad as you think it is, Sherlock."

"But this goes against everything that I've ever believed in."

"Surely that's not the case? You couldn't possibly have always thought that love is a nuisance?"

"Since a young age, yes."

"Why?"

Sherlock suddenly found his tea fascinating and he stared at the rising vapor with hard eyes. That answer required telling about his past and the consulting detective had no interest in sharing that piece of information with his landlady. He hated revisiting old memories; they were better off left untouched.

Unfortunately for Sherlock, Mrs Hudson appeared to gather all the data she needed from his silence.

"You've been hurt before," she stated. It wasn't even a question.

The consulting detective spared her a fleeting glance before whispering a very soft, nearly inaudible: "Yes."

Mrs Hudson's chair scraped the floor as she stood up. She approached Sherlock and took the top part of him in her arms. Sherlock did not return the embrace but he let her hold him, his head resting against her chest. The slow rhythm of her breathing was soothing.

"You poor dear," Mrs Hudson said consolingly, stroking his curls. "So you've been in love before and it ended badly?"

"No," Sherlock replied, feeling her comfort break through his defenses. "I've never been in love prior to this."

"Then what happened?" Mrs Hudson asked gently.

His defenses suddenly returned; Sherlock slowly extracted himself from his landlady's loving arms and stared at the wall opposite.

"I don't want to talk about it," Sherlock said brusquely.

Tender fingers took his chin and they carefully turned his head so that his eyes were locked with Mrs Hudson's caring ones.

"Hiding it will only make it worse," she said firmly yet kindly.

Maybe it was her kindness; maybe it was his being in love; maybe it was the whole damn situation altogether. Whatever it was, Sherlock heard the words come out of his mouth before he could stop them.

"It's nothing monumental, really. People whom I thought were my friends – or at least respected me for who I was – turned out to be the exact opposite. They pretended to like me when in reality they hated me," Sherlock said unhappily.

"Oh dear. They were like a closeted Anderson or Donovan, weren't they?" Mrs Hudson said sympathetically. The consulting detective nodded.

"At least Anderson and Donovan are honest about hating me; those people did it behind my back. It had hurt terribly when I discovered their secret; I felt alone. It was then that I made the decision to never fall in love. If it had pained me that much when those people were just my friends, imagine how much it would have hurt if it had been someone I loved," Sherlock explained. "That was my reasoning then and it still is right at this moment. That's why I don't want to be in love, Mrs Hudson. Feeling that kind of pain once was more than enough."

"Sherlock, you can't let one sour experience affect the rest of your life. You are now surrounded by people who never dream of hurting you. We love you for who you are, especially John. In fact, wasn't he the one who was impressed when you first applied your deduction skills on him?"

"Yes…"

"And didn't he immediately agree to move in with you despite your singular qualities?"

"Y-Yes…"

"And hasn't he stayed with you through thick and thin during the last five years? Isn't he still your flatmate and friend despite all the times you've angered and frustrated him? Doesn't he still come running whenever you call?"

"Yes!"

"See, Sherlock? Not everyone is as bad as those people were. John is the perfect example of that. There's also me, but I'm not the one you're in love with now, am I?" Mrs Hudson winked at Sherlock, who felt his cheeks burn a little. "We'll keep our focus on John. You know perfectly well he would never hurt you."

She was more than right; Sherlock knew that all too well. However, there was something else that kept nagging the consulting detective in the back of his mind.

'I know," Sherlock said meekly. "But that's not the problem. John loves women. You should know: he's had several girlfriends."

"I understand that. But looks can be deceiving, Sherlock. You out of all people should be aware of that," Mrs Hudson replied.

"He's always moaning about how the public gets the wrong idea about me and him," Sherlock argued.

"Again, looks can be deceiving," Mrs Hudson countered. "Take a good look at your friend; you might find things that you have missed previously."

"I'm quite certain that I've deduced everything about John, Mrs Hudson."

"I'm not so sure, and I believe you never will at this rate. Why not tell him how you feel? That might get you to understand what I'm talking about."

Sherlock nearly dropped his mug at her suggestion. Tell John about how he felt? Had she gone mad? If there was any way to ruin his friendship with John, it was that one.

"I can't tell him how I feel! Do you have any idea what that could do?" Sherlock exclaimed loudly.

"Shh, John's still sleeping upstairs. The last thing we want is him walking in on us," Mrs Hudson said quietly. Sherlock nodded. "I do know the risks, Sherlock, but I don't think they'll occur. I think you should tell him but the choice is yours. Do what you believe feels right."

"Fine, whatever."

"Good. Now finish what's left of your tea and go off to bed. You'll need to sleep on this."

"Yes, Mrs Hudson."

She smiled and kissed the top of Sherlock's head before washing her tea cup and exiting the kitchen. The consulting detective watched her go as he drained the remnants of his lukewarm tea. That talk with his landlady had been the most helpful thing he had done, even if he hadn't been attempting to have a heart to heart with her. The only thing that he was on the fence about was her idea of admitting to John that he was in love with him. If, hypothetically, John did return his feelings then Sherlock supposed he would be very happy. But if John didn't feel the same way (and Sherlock was absolutely certain that this was the reality of things), their friendship could fall to pieces, and the consulting detective wasn't sure if he could survive that. No, he definitely couldn't.

Sherlock stood up and cleaned his mug. He decided it was best to keep his secret from John. The last thing he needed was to lose the one person whom he could not live without.