Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, the BBC do. And I do not own the characters or general story, Arthur Conan Doyle does. The only thing I own is what I've written here and I don't profit from it in any way except the sheer enjoyment of writing it

Story: John reveals his feelings. Holmes/Watson.

"Sherlock?" John said into the increasingly frightening silence. "Say something?"

"You...love me," Sherlock repeated quietly. Shaking his head slowly, he took a step back, then simply walked out of the room, and up the stairs. For a moment John just watched him, just listened to the footsteps, then forced himself into action.

"Sherlock! Sherlock!" He hammered on the door. "Let me in."

"You were right, John," Sherlock called in response. "Mixing our partnership with something more was a bad idea."

'What?' John thought, silently recoiling from the door like he had been hit. 'Does he mean that? No, he can't.' "That's bullshit," he yelled into the wood. "What, because I love you, we'd be no good as a team? We'd be better! I'd die for you, Sherlock."

"I know. I remember."

John's memory flashed back to the swimming pool. Moriarty. The explosives. He'd been prepared to die, just so Sherlock wouldn't have to. It was crazy to risk so much for a man he had only known a month or two, but he already felt like he had a strong bond to the other man. He only wanted the space between them to continue to close.

"Sherlock!" John pounded on the door, not caring that it hurt his knuckles. "Let me in!"

Silence. He pictured Sherlock on the other side of the door. Lying on the bed, his eyes closed. Trying to decide what was the best course of action, no doubt. It was up to him to convince Sherlock.

"I...I know that we haven't known each other for that long. We've been together for an even briefer time. But, well, I want to know you Sherlock. The real you. Everything. The good stuff and the bad stuff." John laughed, feeling like he was talking to himself, but knowing he had to go on. "Hell, I couldn't ask you to accept all my faults without accepting yours."

"You've already accepted me keeping experiments in the fridge, and shooting holes in the wall," Sherlock murmured, so quietly that John didn't hear. "I can't imagine anyone else doing that."

"Please. Open the door?"

All John could hear now was his heartbeat, as he waited. Finally the door opened, and he saw Sherlock standing, with tear-stained cheeks, but the same expression as ever. He opened his mouth to say something, but John cut him off, with one step forward to pull him into a tight hug.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock murmured roughly.

"Don't be silly," John smiled as he pulled back. "Now, shall we make tea?"

Sherlock nodded. "I'm not eating beans again though," he said as John took him by the hand and led him down the stairs.

Mrs. Hudson was waiting there. "Ah, boys, I was just wondering if...Oh dear, is everything alright?"

John realised she had noticed Sherlock's tear stained face. "Ah, yes, yes, Mrs. Hudson, everything's fine. Sherlock just got something in his eye and I had to help him. He was being a terrible baby about it though." Had it been the truth, Sherlock would instantly have produced a cutting defensive remark, but he remained silent. Luckily Mrs. Hudson didn't notice any different.

"I was just wondering if you had any laundry you wanted doing. I've got a lovely new detergent I wanted to try out. Lotus and Elderberry...or something like that."

"No thank you, Mrs. Hudson, we're good for laundry."

"Why did you lie?" Sherlock asked, the instant she was gone.

"Well, Mrs. Hudson means well, but she's a terrible gossip. It's like you said, people do little else but talk. No need to give them reason to."

"Once she sees 'tall, dark and handsome' on your blog she'll put two and two together anyway," Sherlock smirked, and strode into the kitchen as though he hadn't had an emotional breakdown mere minutes earlier.

But John smiled to himself as he watched Sherlock, his Sherlock in the kitchen, intently studying cooking instructions on a lasagne as though they were written in a foreign language he didn't understand. 'You may be a tough nut to crack, Sherlock,' he thought to himself. 'But I'll wear you down. I'll show you that love isn't something to be afraid of...'