Ingenious Ignorance

"Are you going to move or not!"

Sherlock had been sitting in his armchair with his knees under his chin, staring blankly into space for the past 20 minutes and John was starting to get peeved off.

"…No."

"Oh, brilliant! … I give up! I'm off to the shops. Want anything?"

Before Sherlock had the time to answer back, John had already stormed out of the flat and his footsteps could be heard receding down the apartment stairs.

"…Shit!" Sherlock whispered to himself and put his face in his hands, elbows resting on his knees.

Unbeknown to John, Sherlock had had a lot on his mind recently (not about the case, he'd figured that out hours ago) but about John. His brain kept telling him that he should make John leave- he'd already been threatened twice, nearly shot about five times and been forced to wear a jacket full of explosives- but a very quiet but influential part of his mind, tucked right at the back kept telling him otherwise. He'd never listened to that part of his brain before, (it never told him anything useful, why should he?) but now, he had the feeling he should pay close attention.

When John came back, half an hour later, Sherlock was still sitting in the chair, hands cupping his head and a grave expression on his face.

"How… can you possibly not move for that long!"

Sherlock's eyes darted from the empty space to lock onto John's; bearing down on him and burning holes in his skin.

"Ok! Sorry." John grumbled and slunk off to the kitchen.

Sherlock watched him go with a heavy feeling in his chest but he shrugged it off and retuned his gaze to the nothingness before him.

After everything had been packed away from John's excursions, he shouted through to Sherlock, still unmoved, in the living room.

"Want something to eat?"

"Muh." Came the disgruntled reply.

John took this as a question and replied: "We've got bread so I could do some toast, and I bought some more beans!"

Sherlock just groaned again, painfully unfolded his legs and wandered into the kitchen. John turned around, startled at the sight in front of him, and nearly dropped the bottle of milk he was about to put into the fridge. But he didn't.

After he got over the fact that Sherlock had stirred, he turned back to the fridge and this time he did drop the milk bottle.

"Bloody hell Sherlock! Why is there another head in the fridge! I mean, I can cope with one but why are there two!"

"Another experiment." Sherlock replied grumpily and sat himself down heavily on one of the kitchen barstools.

"You know?" John points out whilst wiping the milk off the floor, "I've never even seen you do any of these supposed 'experiments'!"

"I do!" Sherlock said sullenly, looking down at his hands.

"HA!" John shouted, "You're looking at your hands!"

"And?"

"You always do that when you're not telling the truth! See, I do pick up things from being around you!"

"Humph."

Sherlock receded further into the chair sulkily and almost inaudibly said "I'm not hungry anyway."

John was starting to get worried by Sherlock's constant brooding over nothing and walks over to sit opposite the detective at the kitchen table.

"Hey? What's the matter? I've never seen you this down before."

Sherlock looked up at him and John could see tears his eyes.

"Whoa! Hey? Come on! Don't cry!" John moved around to behind Sherlock, spun the barstool around, knelt down and held Sherlock's hand in his, the same way you would a little child. "I've never seen you like this before. What's the matter?"

"I don't know what to do!" Sherlock sniffed.

"What? About what! About the case? 'Cause you always-"

"No, John. Not about the case." The detective retorted hurtfully.

He felt John flinch, but he still held onto his hands.

"What then?"

"YOU!" Sherlock exploded, like it was the most obvious answer in the world.

John was at a loss for words. "What have I done? I'll try and change it-"

"You can't." Sherlock grumbled and his body started shaking uncontrollably. "There's nothing you can do."

A little gasp escaped John's lips as he saw the always so closed man, open up and let out his feelings in one huge gush. He stood up quickly and pulled curly haired man into a tight embrace.

To his surprise, Sherlock didn't feel uncomfortable and strange enclosed in the doctor's warm arms, only a feeling of belonging and openness.

They stayed that way for about five minutes until John pulled away, confident that Sherlock had stopped crying, and returned to his original position, looking up at the detective.

"Now, are you going to tell me what's got you like this? Eh?"

Sherlock sniffed again. "I like you John."

"I like you too-"

"No. Not in that way. I think."

John was getting really confused now. "What do you mean? In what way then?"

Sherlock didn't answer for a few moments, obviously uncomfortable with this. "I… I… think I love you John. But I've never felt anything like this before!"

John was shaking his head and muttering to himself exasperatedly, like he was shaking the idea out of his head.

"I might not! I might be wrong! I might just care about you in a friendly way because, apart from Mrs Hudson, you're the only person I've met who understands me and… and…" Sherlock gave up and started to cry again, racks of sobs, coursing through his thin frame.

John couldn't get his head around it; he should want to punch Sherlock or run out of the flat and never come back, but he doesn't. When he sees Sherlock crying again he flings his arms around him, it just feels… right.

Sherlock tenses up at his touch but slowly relaxes. "You're not going to leave me then?"

"Only if you want me too. I'm willing to try and… work this out."

"Really?"

"I… you know… I think I might just love you too."

Sherlock pulled back and looked carefully at John's bewildered face, seemingly analysing every inch. Slowly, he edged his head forward. Closer and closer to John's, still examining his expressions. There were only a few centimetres between their lips now and John couldn't take it any more.

He thrust his head forward, closing the gap and their lips touched.

It was the greatest feeling that John had ever felt and he never wanted it to stop.

Sherlock pulled away after a minute, gasping, and got up quickly out of his chair. He ran into the living room and, after a few seconds, John heard the flat door slam.

He drooped his head, mentally cursed himself and ran after him into the bright light of day.