Two days passed since that conversation with Mrs Hudson. Both she and Sherlock had remained silent about their exchange (save for Mrs Hudson every now and then trying to convince Sherlock to admit his feelings) but the consulting detective was able to see that John had sensed something had transpired between the two of them. The doctor would glance at them from time to time with a curious expression without saying a word. If Mrs Hudson caught him she would simply give him a mysterious smile before continuing with her chores. If Sherlock caught John's eye he would hastily look away. He knew he was probably giving further cause for his friend to be suspicious but he didn't care. It was best to having John question what was going on rather than have him know.

Sherlock was gazing through his microscope when John came in with the shopping. The consulting detective barely spared the doctor a glance as he struggled to get all the bags into the kitchen. Sherlock was able to hear his friend utter a few choicely curse words under his breath but it did nothing to motivate him to help.

"It's okay. I've got it," John said sarcastically, causing a commotion as he bumped into the walls.

"I have faith in you," Sherlock said absently as he compared bloodstains.

"Of course you do. That's why you never help," John replied irritably.

"What I'm doing is for science. I can't just stop whenever you like."

"You don't want to hear the answer I have to that."

"Have you learned nothing of me? I always know what you're thinking."

Sherlock heard John let out an exasperated groan before rummaging in the bags he had placed on the floor. The consulting detective surreptitiously watched the doctor as he took items out and put them away. John's presence was a calming force; Sherlock noticed that he now hated it whenever he was left alone in the flat, and he strongly suspected that his newly-found feelings for his friend were responsible for that. Being in love was doing all sorts of things: some good, some bad (in Sherlock's opinion) and some strange. He didn't understand half of those things but he had soon learned it was best not to question anything.

"Sherlock, if I find another severed head in that fridge I might scream," John said, pausing in front of the fridge with his hand on the handle.

"You might find a pair of feet," Sherlock answered casually. John hastily opened the door and closed it just as fast. "Hands," he said. "It's a pair of hands."

"Ah, yes. I wanted to research why there is not one fingerprint alike."

"So those hands aren't from the same body?"

"Correct."

John shook his head. "I've never seen a kitchen quite like ours," he commented.

Sherlock turned his head towards him. "Is it supposed to be a certain way?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, kind of. I mean, everyone else uses a kitchen to prepare food, not as a science lab," John replied. "I'm aware the concept of eating is foreign to you, Sherlock, but even you should know that."

"Just because I don't eat when you want me to eat doesn't mean that nourishment is a foreign concept to me."

"Pretty sure is it."

They glared at each other until John sighed heavily and continued to put away the shopping. Satisfied, Sherlock returned to his microscope only to realize that the bloodstains had somehow smudged. He looked at his fingers and noticed that the tips were red. When and how did he graze his slide? Sherlock huffed impatiently before standing up and heading for the sink. That was something else he noticed about his being in love: he became distracted easily whenever John was around. The consulting detective would spend more time focusing on his friend than on the task at hand. It had irritated him at first but now it had quelled to a mild annoyance. Being in love did not mean that any carelessness on his part was accepted.

"Oh, before I forget to tell you, I have a date tonight," John suddenly said as Sherlock washed his hands.

The consulting detective froze. "R-Really?" he stammered, staring at the wall before him.

"Yeah, so don't wait up for me or anything," John replied, putting the milk in the fridge.

"I won't. Where did you meet her this time?" Sherlock asked, keeping his gaze averted.

"I went to a pub with Mike last week and she happened to be there. Her name's Sally," John said cheerfully.

Sherlock was giving John such a look of extreme incredulity that the doctor hastily added, "Not Sally Donovan! Another Sally. I would never even dream of going for Donovan."

"Don't do that to me!"

"Sorry! I almost sent you into cardiac arrest, didn't I?"

"You're a doctor. I thought you took an oath to not kill your patients?"

"You're not my patient so I think I'm safe."

"Gee, thanks."

John smirked before returning his attention to the shopping bags. The shock caused by the idea of John dating Donovan now fading, Sherlock felt a pang at the thought of John going on a date in general. It hurt, it truly did. What did those women have that Sherlock didn't? The answer came to him quickly: warmth, compassion, emotions. Sherlock was capable of those things, but he had difficulty manifesting them; probably because he didn't know how. John obviously craved someone who did. How could Sherlock compete with that?

"What are you going to do while I'm out?" John asked lightly.

"Uh, I don't know," Sherlock replied, returning to his seat.

"You don't know? Since when?"

"Since now."

"That's not like you. Are you feeling okay?"

No, I'm not, Sherlock thought miserably. But he tried to fake an exasperated smile all the same. "I'm fine, John. Stop worrying so much."

"You give me cause to worry. Well, if you say you're fine then I guess you are." John looked at his watch. "It's getting late. I'd better go prepare for my date."

"Right. You go do that."

John raised an eyebrow before making his way out of the kitchen. Sherlock cursed himself for behaving so compliantly; that was not how he usually did things. The last thing he needed was for John to be suspicious and start digging around again. But Sherlock couldn't help it: he hated this feeling, this feeling of being crushed emotionally. Why couldn't John just stay home with him? He would be better off here than with girlfriend number five hundred. Unable to concentrate on his experiment anymore, the consulting detective made his way towards the sitting room.

He was about to grab his violin when John appeared. The doctor looked very handsome in his suit, which made Sherlock feel no less unhappy. His friend paused before him and extended his arms, looking at him expectantly.

"Well? How do I look?" John asked.

Sherlock tried to come up with a cynical comment but could only manage to say, "Nice. You look nice."

John's eyebrows soared upwards. "Now I know something's off. Are you feeling ill?" he said.

"No," Sherlock replied.

Still looking very skeptical, the doctor approached him and pressed a hand to the consulting detective's forehead. Sherlock's heart skipped a beat at his friend's touch and butterflies erupted in his stomach. He hastily pulled his head back, trying to look irritated in the process.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock said, a little unevenly.

"You don't feel hot," John said, frowning. "I'm trying to see if you have a fever. That might explain the slightly abnormal behavior."

"John, I repeat: you need to stop worrying so much."

"How can I when you're always giving me something to worry about? Anyway, I have to get going or I'll be late. I'll see you later, Sherlock."

The consulting detective didn't reply as his friend dashed out of the flat. As the door closed, Sherlock picked up his violin and positioned himself to play but he soon realized that he was in no mood to play at all. He set it back on a table, sat down in a chair, bent over and buried his face in his arms and knees. This was not his ideal evening: alone in the flat while John was out on a date who was not him. Didn't people say that being in love with someone was a wonderful thing? It did not appear to him that way at the moment.

A hand suddenly gently brushed his curls and Sherlock abruptly looked up. Mrs Hudson was standing before him, gazing at him with a sympathetic smile. Sherlock didn't even hear her come in but he was glad to be in her company.

"How are you feeling, dear?" Mrs Hudson asked softly.

The consulting detective shook his head, unable to speak. His landlady sat on the chair's arm and carefully pulled him towards her in an embrace. Sherlock permitted her hold him, letting her comfort wash over him.

"The second I saw John walk out that door all dressed up I knew I had to come find you. Everything will be all right, Sherlock. You'll see," Mrs Hudson said consolingly, rubbing his back.

"I told you, Mrs Hudson. John likes women. This is an unrequited love; even I can see it," Sherlock replied, relaxing against her touch.

"Don't let the hurt put a blindfold over your eyes. I still think you are missing something crucial in John."

"Mrs Hudson, I'm the most observant person around here. How can I miss anything?"

"Emotions never were your forte. Remember that little incident with Molly at our Christmas party a few years back?"

"Please don't bring that up. I felt bad then and I still do. John's not a complex person, Mrs Hudson."

"But he has many layers just waiting to be uncovered."

Sherlock shook his head and Mrs Hudson sighed heavily. There was nothing about John he had overlooked. He knew everything about the man: the alcoholic and divorced sister, ex-army doctor who had served in Afghanistan, once had a psychosomatic limp, used to visit a therapist, his undying love for those jumpers. Everything that made John Watson the person he was. The consulting detective did not understand what his landlady was on about.

"If you are so certain that I'm missing something," Sherlock said, "why don't you just tell me what it is?"

"It's something you need to discover on your own. Trust me, Sherlock, this is important," Mrs Hudson said. "You are always saying that we see but do not observe. The tables have turned."

Sherlock was getting annoyed. If this one detail about his friend was so important then why didn't she just tell him what it was instead of making his life complicated? If there was something different about John, he would have noticed it by now. Why was that so difficult for Mrs Hudson to understand?

"If you're not going to tell me then I won't be bothered," Sherlock said stubbornly.

"Suit yourself. I think you're making quite a mistake that way," Mrs Hudson said, shrugging. "Oh, and Sherlock?"

"What?"

"Tell him how you feel."

"For the last time, no. Quit badgering me!"

"I badger you for your own good. You need to believe me when I say that this would have a great impact on your relationship with John."

"Yeah, I'll lose him as a friend!"

"I wouldn't be so sure. If you want this situation to change, you need to tell him. I'll leave you with that to think about."

The consulting detective sulked silently as his landlady returned downstairs. He was not making a mistake, nor was he telling John how he felt. Sherlock strongly doubted that Mrs Hudson knew any more than he did where John was concerned. The man was no enigma: he was the epitome of normalcy, which occasionally made Sherlock wonder why the doctor chose to remain with him. There was nothing to be missed. And to tell John that he was in love with him was probably the most ridiculous suggestion Mrs Hudson had made. How many times did he need to remind her about the risks? People called him stubborn.

Sherlock sighed and picked up his violin again. Maybe some music would help keep his mind off of John. But as he glided his bow across the strings, Sherlock found himself pretending to be playing for his friend.

The sound of the door opening and closing was what roused Sherlock from his slumber. He looked around blearily and discovered that he had fallen asleep in his chair. His violin was sitting in his lap and the bow had fallen to the floor from his slacked grip. The consulting detective put the violin next to his chair and was about to get up when he saw John standing in front of him.

"Hey, Sherlock," John said. "What are you still doing up at this hour?"

"I fell asleep," Sherlock replied, rubbing an eye. "Why aren't you up in your room?"

"I was going to get a glass of water before bed," John said happily.

Sherlock noticed a lip-shaped mark on his friend's cheek and he instantly felt another pang. That was not a welcoming sight.

"I take it your date when well?" Sherlock said, keeping his expression unreadable.

"Hmm? Oh, yeah," John replied. "She's very nice, that Sally."

"Are you planning on seeing her again?"

"Maybe. Tonight was fun."

"So there's a chance that you could end up really liking her?"

"I don't know that for sure but I guess so."

That was all Sherlock could take. He abruptly got to his feet and told his friend goodnight before hurrying to his room. He managed to keep himself from slamming the door shut and slowly sunk onto the floor. John couldn't possibly already like this woman, could he? There was no chance of things working out between them, was there? Sherlock didn't want this; he didn't want it to the point it hurt. But there was no way to stop it. He couldn't keep John from dating no matter how much he wanted to.

If you want this situation to change, you need to tell him.

Mrs Hudson's words rang like a bell in Sherlock's mind. How could telling John that he was in love with him make any difference? The doctor had been adamantly stating he was heterosexual for as long as the consulting detective had known him. But, hypothetically, what if it did make a difference? Was Sherlock willing to risk losing the one best friend he ever had? The consulting detective often took a chance, would gamble for the thrill of a challenge, but this was something else entirely. Sherlock's mind was spinning as he even considered following his landlady's advice and just throw everything out in the open.

He shook his head. He was exhausted, and this situation required a lot of thinking, something he wasn't sure his brain couldn't handle at the moment. He changed into his pyjamas and went to bed, wondering what course of action would attract the best results.