Chapter Text
Ah.
There’s something wrong, Sherlock realizes.
It’s a regular morning, as normal (on the surface) as all those that came before it. John is stood at the kitchen sink, washing the breakfast dishes and listening to a playlist on shuffle, and Sherlock is seated at the kitchen table. He’d originally been scrolling through a handful of case emails Mariana had forwarded him, but now… he’s just staring. At John. Because there’s something wrong, and it’s only just occurred to him.
There had, in fact, been a sneaking, unsettling sensation bugging him throughout the morning – and while he’d done his best to write it off as the effects of a restless night, it’d stayed thoroughly present up until this moment.
In which, simply, he recognizes what it was.
A tension.
There’s a tension in the morning, one that hadn’t been there before - slight, nearly imperceptible, but undeniably there. It is irksome. Where had it begun?
John had woken late, joining Sherlock for breakfast only an hour before noon. Nothing too irregular about that. They’d exchanged their regular ‘good morning’ pleasantries, talked about their current case, and Sherlock had served John breakfast.
It hadn’t been overwhelmingly present.
But there had been signs.
There was the slightest, near-imperceptible furrowing of John’s brow. There was his subtle lingering to finish his breakfast – seven and a half minutes, as opposed to his average six or so. There was his heart rate, beating steadily through Ikea pine – normal, steady, yet… not so, for slight moments, whenever Sherlock would speak. Then there was the thin tinge of difference in John’s tone and speaking patterns, one unattributable to a night of restlessness or irritation towards his latest editing challenges.
No – this was directed towards Sherlock.
And...oh.
The conclusion draws itself. Pieces of evidence fall together – all the aspects of John’s subtly irregular behavior, and Sherlock was the cause. Cause, meet effect. And the effect?
The irregularity.
The odd, lingering glances.
The tension.
Sherlock’s immediate conclusion?
John is upset with him.
..........
It, in fact, had been a restless night for John. The faint, near-constant ringing in his left ear had grown unbearable around midnight, whispered and sharp and unpleasant in it's consistency - so naturally, he'd drearily put on music, just loud enough to drown out his tinnitus, quiet enough that he could sleep. And – he’d slept. And, as it so happens, dreamt - of eyes and hands and cases and soft, lovely lyrics about holding someone in his arms and not daring to let go...
When he woke up, he remembered none of it. It was already late into the morning, yet a steady exhaustion still lingered in the back of his mind.
He’s starting to feel like Sherlock bloody Holmes.
Who, coincidentally, is already awake. And – cooking breakfast, oil sizzling in the pan around two sunny-side up eggs. A pan of beans were cooking to the side - he never did like cooking everything in one pan - something about foods mixing. There's something so domestic about the image - present enough to catch John off guard as he steps tiredly through the doorway, rubbing at an eye. Sherlock, stood at the stove, a spatula in hand and - he’s wearing John’s apron. It’d been a gift from a listener – ‘Yeah, I’m A Mom To 400+ Gay Kids’, with an exploding background.
John misfires for several moments.
Sherlock is unfazed. Sherlock doesn't notice. Sherlock is busy, wrapped up in folding over a pan of scrambled eggs, and - John sits down, and considers the image for several moments. It's - awkwardness. Yes, yes, of course, awkwardness. The oddity of seeing Sherlock in an exploding apron. Surreal. That’s…funny. That’s why he’s smiling.
He’s wiped the smile off his face by the time Sherlock places a plate of breakfast in front of him. “Good morning, Watson,” he says, and wipes his hands on the apron.
John thinks of his dream. He does not know why. He can’t recall it, never can with any of his dreams – but this. This is present, and stunning, and real. “That was a gift, you know,” he says, looking pointedly at the apron. “That was a lovely gift, and you’re wiping your hands on it.”
Sherlock loads for a beat or two, then returns to the kitchen for his own plate. “An apron is meant to be worn - to be used. To be splashed with grease and chemicals and anything otherwise not meant to contact human skin, Doctor. To leave it hanging on display would be to go against the purpose of it's gifting - and I'm sure whatever unsettled fan sent this in would be most upset at that indeed."
"Yeah alright mate, no need to wax poetic on me," he says, conceding the argument in favor of taking a bite of his breakfast. And - oh, bloody hell. “Good morning Sherlock,” he laughs, smiling wide through a bite of heavenly blueberry pancakes. “Christ, you really are just - brilliant, Sherlock.”
Sherlock stands a little taller. He’s looking away - John can’t see his face - but it’s evident in the way his cheekbones rise that he’s smiling. Ah. Oh dear- best to keep his ego in check. “Apart, from, y’know. The orchestra and gunshots at ungodly hours. And frequent consumption of drugs in shared spaces.”
“I am hardly eating opioids, Doctor,” Sherlock says, crossing the room and slumping into his seat at the table. “Additionally, you should just as soon recall that all complaints listed were discussed prior to our arrangement even beginning." A pause, a look as John stuffs another pancake into his mouth whole. "The complimentary breakfast, however, was not.”
John rolls his eyes, swallows, scoffs, and opens his mouth to return a phrase of playful irritation - but the words catch.
Sherlock hands fall on the fork by his plate, the sleeve of his robe dragging up his arm as the hem catches on the edge of the table. He flicks it, frees it, and - it rides up further.
Loose strands of hair fall from his bun as he bends over to take a bite of his breakfast, and John...
John feels - on edge. Unsettled. Aware. He coughs, shrugs the feeling off, and continues the conversation. “Yeah, mate, neither were the frequent life-threatening cases – and yet.”
“A bit more invigorating than a sit-in veteran podcast, wouldn’t you say?” Sherlock says. He’s looking at John, really looking, as if something’s not quite right and he’ll deduct what it is if he looks close enough. Then he’s taking another bite of his breakfast.
John thinks of his dream, again. And again, it’s unsettling.
Sherlock's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. He places his hands on the table and sits back. “Your life hasn’t been at risk, John.”
John’s heart thrums steadily in his chest. Jesus Christ. He is alive. “I was nearly drowned in a basement two weeks ago.”
“I pulled you out of five feet of water. You were hardly drowning. ”
John splutters. “It was more than five feet.”
“Mmm - five foot nine,” Sherlock gauges.
A choke. “I’m not short.”
“You’re not short, no,” Sherlock concedes. “But you can’t swim.”
John remembers summers at his local pool. He remembers a steady, reassuring hold on his shoulders as he was taught to float. He remembers his dad’s congratulatory smile... and he remembers losing it before he’d ever learned how much it meant to him. He remembers losing it before he’d ever learned how to swim.
“No, I can’t,” he breathes.
Sherlock’s face. Sherlock breathes, and his face shifts, taking in the shuddering change in the air of the conversation. Sherlock’s expression holds the understanding and complexity and compassion that he cannot describe in words, and John’s heart thrums, still, in his chest – in his arms, in his neck. In his leg, as he restlessly bounces it under the table.
Sherlock watches like the whole scene such an odd, profound intensity - as if it would fall apart the moment he looks away. Then he’s sitting back again, his hair falling back against his face. “I wouldn’t have let you drown.”
The way he says it almost feels – like a secret. An admission.
John’s breath hitches in his throat. “I know, Sherlock.”
He stands to collect the breakfast dishes.
..........
“Hardly a case,” an officer says. “Double homicide? Daughter caught holding the knife? I mean, it’s practically ripped straight from some stereotypical BBC true crime rom-com.”
“Not the best for content,” John says.
“Mmm. You’re right, officer,” Sherlock concurs. “This is hardly worth my time.”
They are shot more than a few glares.
“It was not the daughter,” Sherlock says. “The knife was a prop – surely someone here has seen Knives Out. It was staged. A double homicide, yes – though the killer, you’ll find, lies dead by her husband...a murder and a suicide, a woman with a vengeance, and the daughter, caught up in it all. Really, you ought to have called Inspector Lestrade before you called me, officer. Even a fool could’ve noted the pattern of that blood spill - there, and…there. No interruptions. No good. ” A beat of silence, and then he’s turning on his heel and marching out the door. “Come now, Watson, we are leaving.”
John follows. He is more than eager to leave the bloodstained bedroom behind – though it would’ve made for a lovely case title - as he had not, in fact, noticed the uninterrupted splatters of blood until Sherlock had mentioned them. Hm.
“No, Watson, you do not fall into the category of fool. That is lovingly reserved for the police force,” Sherlock says, with a thin smile.
John feels his heart, and, as glad as he is for its continued use, he wishes he wouldn’t. It was an increasingly annoying sensation.
Sherlock watches him as he hails a cab to the train station. “You didn’t bring your microphone,” he says, as they step inside.
John, after giving the driver instructions, raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t seem all that interested in this one, mate.”
“You always bring your microphone. It’s part of the routine,” Sherlock insists. “It was decidedly distracting that you weren’t fiddling with it throughout my investigation.”
“It was distracting - that I wasn’t being a distraction?”
“Precisely.”
There’s a lapse of silence as John considers this for several moments. Then, “Oh.”
And Sherlock’s watching him again. John wants to shrivel and flourish and wither and die under that look. He doesn’t know why. It had never bothered him quite so much before, after all. Oh god, he hopes he’s not becoming sensitive to Sherlock’s habits – he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he suddenly stopped enjoying Sherlock’s company. But then Sherlock’s looking out the window without a word, and the car is utterly silent the rest of the ride to the train station.
..........
Sherlock falls onto his bed in frustration. It’s late, and he’s irritated. He hates being irritated late at night – his sleeplessness will only feed into it, and more often than not, it tends to ruin his entire day.
A three day investigative period, and any results he had yielded had been useless, utterly useless.
John is in the shower. He had been for an hour, letting the bathroom steam and using up all of their hot water. Sherlock is not upset at him for this. He is upset at him for not merely saying what is bothering him, as, for once, Sherlock cannot deduce it. He can’t understand the intricacies of this newfound tension between them, and it is driving him positively mad. He cares for John, deeply and irrevocably. He cannot deny it, and he cannot push it away. It has become as large a fact of life as his inability to ignore the world around him. But something is wrong with it all.
John is upset with him, and Sherlock cannot for the life of him discern why. It’s infuriating. The tension is there and it’s growing and it’s driving him up the bloody wall and John refuses to even acknowledge it.
Sherlock rolls over and glares at the ceiling.
...still, he cannot deny his investigative period had yielded results, even if they hadn’t been any help in deducing the underlying issue. To list a few: John is unable to maintain consistent eye contact with him. John’s blood pressure increases when he is in close proximity to him.
And, simply – John has not been sleeping well, lately.
..........
Eyes and hands and cases and soft, lovely lyrics. Holding someone, someone close to him, someone important and right. Someone who he could learn to understand. Someone that would learn to understand him. Someone that would care for him. Someone he cared for. Someone he could never lose without feeling the ache in his heart, in his arms, in his neck and back and hands and legs.
Thin strands of hair that fall loose around large, monogrammed ear defenders. Eyes that search and deduct and intrinsically know. Hands that can feel his heartbeat through a dining room table, even as he unconsciously notices and allows it. Cases that let him see into an incredible mind.
And soft, lovely lyrics that lull him to sleep…
..........
John wakes up, and he does so alone. He wakes up alone. It’s not right, and John doesn’t need to recall the events of his dream to know it. He knows it and he feels it, deep in his chest and in the emptiness of the space beside him - an utter, overwhelming, aching loneliness.
He can’t help but imagine what he’d been dreaming about. It was comforting - that he can feel from the way the corners of his memory exude a warmth he would not have felt otherwise. Distantly, he wishes he could fall back asleep, wishes he could return to that moment, even if he wouldn’t remember it afterwards.
A dream of companionship. He wonders who he’d dreamt of.
…
“Terrible news today, er – podpals? Listeners? Children – y’know what, it doesn’t matter. Sherlock broke his arm.”
“I did not break my arm. My arm was broken by a serial con artist who thought he could get away with embezzling over two million pounds from – looser, Watson, I can’t feel my fingers – bloody Scotland Yard, which is just so terribly unoriginal.”
“Of course it was. Who could’ve possibly thought the desk secretary bloke was secretly a genius thief?”
“Hardly a genius.” A beat. Then, “Doctor, would this be a reasonable excuse to engage in my - habits?”
"No it would not."
"Bugger."
..........
Sherlock’s arm has been broken on a case.
Despite being a particularly gruesome sort of breaking - though it was hardly more than a hairline fracture - the turn of events that immediately followed it had been incredibly enlightening, so Sherlock couldn’t complain.
Even if it had been excruciating in the moment.
..........
They are, naturally, on a roof.
And, naturally, Sherlock is kneeing a man in the crotch.
John is not there. John is still climbing the stairs to the fire escape two roofs over – he’s not going to like those jumps. And of course, the man Sherlock had just kneed is, in fact, taller than him. And - broader. Really, generally - a very large man, not one you’d expect was a secretary behind closed doors. Working for Scotland Yard? Yes, absolutely. Purely an office position? Erm, less so.
The man is also very, very angry. Half at being caught, and half – at the fact he’d just been kneed in the crotch. There’s a hand reaching for Sherlock’s throat, and he ducks, slipping under the man’s arm.
“You’re a slipperly little blugger, aren’t you?”
“Mmm, actually, I believe you’ll find the correct adjective is ‘slippery’,” Sherlock replies, and kicks the man in the back of his knee.
The whole engagement ends – well, as poorly as you’d expect - (the man begins bludgeoning him with an iron pipe.)
And, well, perhaps Sherlock hadn’t anticipated that a secretary would be so positively – violent. He protects his face with his arms, of course. Which, naturally, is what puts the fracture in his ulna bone, and of course the man gets a good few hits on his face, after that. That is until Watson’s arm is hooking around his throat, dragging him back and away.
He gets a sizable bruise to his cheekbone for his efforts, the pipe jackrabbiting back and barely missing his eye. There’s a pause, and then John’s throwing the thief off and into the concrete. The pipe skids away.
Not for the first time, Sherlock finds himself marveling at John’s strength. He does not look it. He’s not the tallest - at least he doesn’t seem so, not while standing next to Sherlock (and he surely hadn’t while standing behind his six-foot-five of an opponent) - but he’s got broad shoulders and an incredible strength that lies steady beneath cozy jackets, cringeworthy T-shirts, and a healthy layer of fat.
Sherlock’s blood thrums steadily in his chest.…and, more prominently, his face. And ears. And - other places.
He doesn’t notice. He’s too busy watching John. John stands, breathing heavily and gripping his bruised cheek, for several moments. The thief pants on the ground. He knows he’s met his match, even with nearly a foot of height difference between them. He is large, and capable of fighting dirty – but John is a soldier. And John is angry.
He rounds on Sherlock, dropping to his knees. Sherlock, having been pummeled onto his back, shifts to sit up - but his arm does not allow for this, and neither does John.
“No, Sherlock, your arm,” John says, and his voice is sharp, furious, devastated, grieving... "He broke your bloody arm."
He is angry. Sherlock has never seen him angry like this. “I hadn’t noticed,” he deadpans, even as his arm burns terribly.
John is splinting his arm with the pipe. He must have retrieved it on the way over. “He’d’ve broken your nose as well, if I hadn’t gotten here when I did.” He’s out of breath. He’s bruised and angry and worried.
So Sherlock must reassure him. “You needn’t worry, Doctor, I’ve been dealt many a broken nose before.”
“What about a broken skull, Sherlock?” John snaps, and does not seem reassured. He worries the inside of his cheek as he works. He does not turn back to look at the man now cowering against the concrete floor.
So Sherlock watches for him. His arm burns, but John’s ministrations are endlessly gentle. He is a doctor by trade, of course, but there’s something more to this care. Something more – well, caring about it. John’s hands linger as they push back the sleeve of his button up. John’s hands linger as they trace along the edges of the bruise already forming on Sherlock’s skin. John’s hands linger as they mark the swelling, and John’s hands wrap the makeshift splint into place with a gentleness that Sherlock could only ever find in his dreams.
John is focused and serious and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, and it’s disturbingly easy for Sherlock to shift his attention away from their suspect. His mouth is dry. There is a lump in his throat.
John works. His breathing has evened out, now, though his blood pressure is skyrocketing – Sherlock can feel it in each lapse of contact their skin makes. Sherlock feels somewhat lightheaded. It is immensely distracting, though likely a concussion from the repeated blows to his head with an iron pipe.
In fact, later – after they discover their suspect had escaped unnoticed, after John nearly falls apart with frustration, after the police come and John drags him to a bloody hospital – Sherlock concludes the whole stunning, surreal experience of being cared for by John – though more so his reaction to it – had been the result of the concussion, and nothing more.
…
They’re in A&E – which is, of course, objectively the worst place in any hospital. There’s bright lights and people bleeding onto the seats and the incessant delivery of airborne viruses from all sides – be it through coughing, sneezing, or loud and unnecessary speaking. Sherlock’s mind takes in all of it. He sees and he understands and he analyzes, even if he does not wish to - really, he’d rather be in the bloody morgue.
So he closes his eyes, puts on his ear defenders, and relaxes in the knowledge that John is looking after him. Of course, the overbearing smell of hospital does not go away, but it is lessened by the mask John had given him as they’d stepped into the hospital – something along the lines of COVID running its rounds again and being better safe than sorry. It is hours before they are able to leave the clinic – and for every moment that he can, Sherlock watches John.
Watches and – more importantly – searches. For clues, of course. As to why the frustrating tension between them has all but doubled in the past forty-eight hours.
He is x-rayed. He despises it. But John gives him a reassuring smile, and Sherlock - is left to think on it for several minutes. Because, simply, in Sherlock’s experience, whenever John was upset with him, he’d give the ‘cold shoulder’, as he so liked to call it. He’d become distant, and quiet, and show obvious signs of frustration and annoyance.
Oh.
The conclusion comes to him on their way out of the large glass doors, his arm in a heavy cast and supported by a sling (It is his left arm. This does not matter, he is ambidextrous).
John is not, in fact, upset with him.
He ruminates on this the whole car ride back. John seems to ruminate as well, though what he’s thinking about, Sherlock cannot fathom.
It’s thrilling.
He catches John staring more than a few times. John, in turn, catches him staring (read: assessing. Clue gathering. Deducing. Learning) more than a few times as well - and then they’re home at 221B Baker Street, and John disappears into the bathroom. Sherlock tosses and turns, that night.
John is – a doctor, by trade. He cares, deeply and inherently, for the world around him, and the people that occupy it. Sherlock just happens to fit that bill most frequently.
He catches glimpses into John’s mind that no one else is privy to, and it’s…invigorating - and yet, there’s this dreadful tension between them. It’s driving Sherlock stark raving mad. It has only grown. Sherlock believes he’s aggravated it.
John wakes up earlier now, before Sherlock ever can. He makes his own breakfast, and is out of the kitchen before Sherlock need use it. He is his same old self on cases, and helps more where he can, considering Sherlock’s arm - but his blood pressure still elevates when Sherlock is in the room. He still cannot maintain consistent eye contact. And, Sherlock’s most recent revelation – though one he had been enjoying – John grows increasingly flustered when complimented.
He supposes it had always been that way, to an extent – though it feels different, now.
It seems to alleviate the tension between them in the moment – John will smile and blush all over and make silly thankful comments – but then it’ll get a little too comfortable, and once they reach that point, things seem to end quickly. Almost as if they’re shut down before things can get any further. It is a complicated, twisting, unsteady case, and one that Sherlock cannot, for the life of him, crack.
Because, simply, if these things don’t mean John is upset with him…
…what do they mean?
.........
A leftover bottle of champagne is what does it.
A client had purchased some for them a month or so back, and he, Sherlock, and Mariana had very gratefully enjoyed one. Sherlock and John, of course, had woken up thoroughly hungover. Mariana, who had maintained the reasonable sense to drink water regularly throughout the night alongside her alcohol, had woken up utterly fine. There had been a row.
Now, Mariana is sleeping peacefully downstairs, and Sherlock and John are cracking open another bottle. In their defense, they are celebrating. Lestrade had finally tracked down the con-artist that had managed to escape after that night on the roof, and Sherlock’s cast had come off that morning. He’d spent all day itching at his arm and sighing gratefully.
John was happy for him. He is also happy for the alcohol. Really, as much as he’d longed for a trip to The Volunteer the past several weeks, he’d not gone, and he couldn’t quite pin down why. It just didn’t feel… right, he supposed. Going alone.
Bit depressing, wasn’t it? Now, though, it’s different. This is a bottle of celebratory champagne with a friend. With Sherlock, in particular.
This is right.
They’re two glasses in when Sherlock begins to rattle on about the monolithic period. John listens, petting Archie - who had curled into a ball on his lap, heavy and obnoxious but comforting and endlessly loveable - all the while.
Three, and John really – just feels it. Sherlock is still talking, and John loves the sound. He listens, and the tone of Sherlock’s voice carries his mind away to thoughts of eyes and hands and cases and–
“You’ve got such lovely hands,” John says, as Sherlock, standing over his chair, holds out a bottled water. He is not watching Sherlock’s face. He’s watching Sherlock’s splotchy, scarred, bloody beautiful hands, and thinking of dreams and aprons and cases that lead to long fingers curled into fists stained with blood.
“Yes, I’m sure they’re very lovely. Drink some water, John,” Sherlock says, and, taking his hand, places the water bottle into it.
His fingers linger on John’s wrist, and John smiles. “You’re taking my vitals.”
“Mmm, yes. Blood pressure is elevated, as usual - though it’s strange that they would be despite the alcohol.”
John narrows his eyes. “Is it always? I wasn’t aware.”
“It is when I take it.”
His eyes narrow further, though he says nothing.
Sherlock’s hands drift up his. He uncaps the water bottle. “Water, Watson. Drink.”
John feels heat in his face. He drinks the water. Sherlock sits back in his seat and finishes the rest of his champagne flute. Another glass and a half later, he’s smiling, his violin settled in his arms. He is not playing it, and has not all night – but its presence is comforting, in a way. It’s availability, should he so choose to pick a tune.
Archie has retreated to his bed.
John is lying on his back on the floor.
“Do you think,” Sherlock begins lazily, slumping further into his seat. “This tension will ruin us?”
He says it in such a casual, conversational way, and John almost misses the meaning of the words. It takes him several seconds to process them - and then he's startling.
“Tension? What tension? Ruin what?” He does not sit up.
“The tension between us,” Sherlock explains. “Will it ruin this? Our status as roommates. The podcast.”
John takes a moment to consider the response, face scrunching up in concentration. Then, he repeats his question. “What tension between us?”
Sherlock blinks, then sits up some. “You’ve not noticed it?” A beat, then he shakes his head. Of course, based on John’s responses, he hadn’t noticed it. “The – unease. It was all so easy, at first. The sharing life, and everything that would come with it. But it’s been growing less so, as of late. Like treading through a swamp that gets progressively deeper – a tension.”
Sherlock, watching him like he’ll disappear he looks away. Then, sitting back again, his hair falling back against his face. “I wouldn’t have let you drown.”
The way he says it, like a secret. An admission. And John’s breath hitching in his throat. “I know, Sherlock.”
John sits up.
“I don’t mean to say I think it will ruin us – I wouldn’t…I would most certainly not enjoy that outcome,” Sherlock hurries to say, sitting up fully as well. His unfinished glass of champagne sits on the table beside him. John’s heart pounds in his chest.
“You always bring your microphone. It’s part of the routine,” Sherlock, insisting. “It was decidedly distracting that you weren’t fiddling with it throughout my investigation.”
“It was distracting - that I wasn’t being a distraction?”
“Precisely.”
A lapse of silence. John is considering this for several moments. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t see. Then, “Oh.”
And Sherlock’s eyes, seeing everything, breaking him down into symptoms and habits and not telling him what he’s thinking. John, wanting to shrivel and flourish and wither and die under that look. He hadn’t know why. It had never bothered him quite so much before, after all.
“John?” Sherlock breathes, like he’s crossed a line, like he’s realized in the sort of clarity that comes with silence that he’s said something he hadn’t meant to.
John stands on wobbly legs. Gravity is a bugger though, and he is drunk. He stumbles, and very nearly eats utter shit, if not for his well-placed sitting room chair. Sherlock stands anxiously, eyes wide and hands outstretched, lingering, perfect, there, reaching. John feels lightheaded.
“Let’s – let’s talk about this in the morning, mate,” John breathes, because his mind is racing and his heart is pounding in his chest and he’s beginning to put together pieces of things he really shouldn’t while drunk and in Sherlock’s company.
Sherlock stands wordlessly for several moments, processing the words, understanding them, committing them to his mind. Then, he’s nodding. “Yes. Of course.”
And John goes to bed.
Sherlock stays up a little while longer, staring into the fireplace in unabashedly present horror, and finishes the bottle of champagne on his own.
—
John does not sleep. He sits at the foot of his bed, holding his head in his hands and staring at the light seeping out from under his bedroom door. He can hear Sherlock tidying up the living room, glassware clinking as he collects the champagne flutes scattered about.
His heart pounds and beats and burrows. He’s on fire. Everything is so warm. Ah, what a horrible revelation to have, right now, in this moment, when everything is warm and fuzzy and distant. Really, it had been stunningly bloody obvious. How had he not seen it sooner?
Perhaps because he hadn’t been looking for it.
Sherlock hadn’t, either, and yet...he’d seen the signs that John couldn’t.
The elevated blood pressure, his heart racing in his chest at Sherlock’s height and hands and mind. The lack of consistent eye contact – he’d begun to feel so restless, under Sherlock’s eyes. Unnerved, unsettled, perceived. The way he’d been noticing Sherlock more. His hair, as it falls out of his bun and into his face throughout the day. His smiles, and how perfect they always seem. How just – generally attractive he was, as a person. Both physically, and personality-wise, and christ, his mind. John was quite possibly utterly enamored by the way Sherlock understood and described the world around him - from his deductive skills, to his utter nil knowledge on things as crucial as the solar system.
And – oh.
The conclusion draws itself.
Bugger.
He’s in love with Sherlock Holmes.