Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, John Watson or 221B Baker Street. Not in the slightest, in fact.
Summary: Study in Pink spoilers. Sherlock has been curious for quite a while as to what resides within a password-locked folder on John's laptop. One day, he decides to find out, with a very surprising outcome. John/Sherlock. One-shot.
Warnings: Mentions of suicidal tendencies. Also, the word "bloody" is used quite a few times.
Word Count: 2,134
The Unblogged Entry
"I'll be back in a bit, Sherlock; I'm just stepping out to grab some tea and milk." John called from the kitchen, "Do you need anything while I'm out?"
Sherlock remained seated in chair, quickly sending his inquiry about any new cases to Lestrade before answering, "Just tea is fine. Meal replacement and all that."
John rolled his eyes and grabbed his keys and his coat.
"I'll be back shortly," he stated before stepping out of the flat.
Sherlock's eyes darted to kitchen where John had previously been and jumped up from his seat. He had been waiting for an opportunity like this to arise; one in which he had nothing to do, and John was out of the house.
He quickly ran upstairs to John's bedroom, opened the door and saw what he was looking for laying on John's bed. Sherlock grinned to himself and sauntered over to John's laptop. He ran back downstairs, the laptop secured tightly in his hands.
Sherlock sat down at the desk in the living room, opened the laptop and placed it on the desk. He had been meaning to do this for quite some time; a while back, he had noticed while sifting through John's files that there was a password protected folder under "c:/Documents and Settings/John's documents/personal stuff/." He intended to find out what was in said folder as research on John.
After a mere two guesses, he successfully unlocked the folder and started browsing. There was only one file in this folder; a single Word document entitled "Unposted Entry 1."
Sherlock hesitated, wondering for a split second if opening and reading this file would be an unforgivable action in John's eyes. The normal human moment Sherlock had was over before it really began, and he double-clicked the file.
Inside was a page-long blog entry entitled "Sherlock." That title was all the detective needed to start delving into the document.
It has been two months since I moved in with Sherlock Holmes. It has been...interesting, to say the least. He is obnoxiously antisocial at times, he is a incredibly rude, he has the IQ of Albert Einstein, and he is undeniably blunt.
Sherlock scowled at the computer screen and muttered to himself, "This is ridiculous; if this is an entire document filled with his complaints about me, I'm going to shoot this laptop."
Despite his frustration with John's complaints, Sherlock decided to continue reading the entry.
He does these crazy experiments at all times of the night and has come close to burning down the entire flat a multitude of times. He plays violin – quite terribly, sometimes – at the most inconvenient times (like while I'm trying to talk on my mobile, for instance), and he constantly cockblocks me if I'm ever out trying to enjoy a date with someone.
"I warned him that I played violin the first day I met him." Sherlock scowled, "He should have been prepared for that." Sherlock took in a deep breath to relax himself and continued on reading.
Anyone in their right mind would surely move out, based on all of his previously stated "quirks," but I guess now would be a good time to mention that I am not completely in my right mind. I was shot in Afghanistan, I have a psychosomatic limp that hurts more than the location I was actually shot, and I get off on violence. To put it simply, I am not a normal person. I need the violence in my life; without it, I am a suicidal, limping, miserable doctor.
These attributes only make up a small fraction of the reasons why I stay with Sherlock at 221B Baker Street. The most important – and, oddly, the most psychotic – reason I stay with him is because I think I may honestly be in love with him.
The detective stopped. His heart was pounding in his chest as he re-read that last sentence over and over again, as though it would somehow change; as though his mind was playing tricks on him.
"What in the bloody hell?" Sherlock finally choked out. John? In love with him? This couldn't be right; Sherlock was sure he would have been able to deduce that his best friend was in love with him. The signs were always so obvious, and John was such a dreadfully bad liar.
"He must have talked himself out of that rational in this blog," Sherlock thought aloud. He then proceeded to engage his attention on the rest of the blog, sure that he would come across some back-tracking of that previous statement.
What in the hell, right? I complain and complain about him, but I can't stray away from his brilliance. How insane is that?
However, to put the facts straight (pardon the pun), I'm not gay; I have never been attracted to a male in my entire life, and the side of me that is attracted to my flatmate is completely new. I think he's the only man I will ever have these sort of feelings for, and that thought alone scares the hell out of me. Shoot at me all day, and I will be the most brave soldier you will have ever met, but give me these unrequited feelings, and I'll turn into a bumbling, cowering mess.
While my previous statements probably make him seem completely undesirable, he has loads of attributes that contribute to my infatuation with him. He makes me laugh and smile. He stuns me with his innovative reasoning abilities every time he deduces something, and he could charm the undies off of a lesbian if he really wanted to.
Most importantly, though, he made me feel alive when I was stuck believing that I would be better off dead. I had the gun to take my life with; I kept it in the drawer with my laptop, far away from my bed. I was to the point where I was wishing that the bullet that hit my left shoulder had hit me about three inches to the right. I honestly, truly wanted my life to be over; having the option to kill myself if I ever wanted to was a comfort to me, but it wasn't good enough to keep me going. Sherlock Holmes saved my life by giving me a reason to live again, and for that I will be completely indebted to him until the day I really do die.
While my love for him may be understandable because he saved my life, there's a huge reason that my interest in him is so bloody psychotic. Sherlock Holmes is quite obviously an asexual male. This fact frustrates me to no ends, because I know that our connection goes much deeper than being best friends. He could see the most beautiful man or woman in the world and not even give him or her a second glance. His feelings are obviously unrequited, and that tears me apart.
Even after all of this torment I'm putting myself through, I would still rather have Sherlock as a friend than not have him at all. I can survive without sex and without a romantic relationship, honestly, but, without him, I would surely die; especially now that I know how incredible my life is with him in it. I don't even want to start to think about losing him, so I'm going to finish this thing off.
I share a flat with an asexual, annoying, rude sociopath... but I am in love with the brilliant, caring, quirky, funny man that resides within. I am in love with Sherlock Holmes, and he will likely never know.
Sherlock sat back in his chair, completely paralyzed by what he just read. So many things about John had just been revealed to him, and he didn't know how to react to any of it.
"I assume you read all of it, then?" Sherlock was startled out of his trance by the familiar voice at the door.
He quickly shut the laptop and turned in his seat before he spoke slowly, "How long have you been standing there?"
John smiled sadly, "Long enough."
The detective stood up then and made his way over to the doctor, stopping about a foot away from him, "I didn't intend to find something like that, John." He paused for a long moment before asking, "Do you still feel that way?"
John stared into Sherlock's eyes, the rims of his own eyes shimmering with unshed tears. The doctor nodded slightly before dropping his gaze from Sherlock's to look at the floor sadly.
"I would ask why you never told me, but you clearly stated them in that document..." Sherlock trailed off slightly, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably, "You know, John... I do love you."
John's head shot up with the most surprised look Sherlock had ever seen.
"You...you what?" John stammered, his focus back on Sherlock.
The detective cleared his throat slightly before replying, "I love you, John. You are quite possibly – no, scratch that – you are the best thing that has ever happened to me."
Both the detective and the doctor stood completely still, staring into one another's eyes.
Sherlock broke the silence by continuing on, "I have known since that first case we solved after we met, John, that you were going to have to stay in my life. You saved me that night with the mad taxi driver just as much as I may have saved you." Sherlock reached his hand out and grabbed John's. The doctor looked down at their hands, a stunned looked still on his face. The detective smiled slightly and continued speaking, "I need you, John. I don't think you realized that because of the way I act a lot of the times, but I honestly, truly need you in my life. I would be lost without you."
Sherlock finished speaking and just looked at his flatmate, waiting for some sort of response. John raised his eyes back up to Sherlock's and shook his head in disbelief.
"I love you, Sherlock, but why are you such a bloody idiot?"
It was Sherlock's turn to look surprised. He tilted his head a bit and raised a questioning eyebrow at his flatmate, "And how am I an idiot?"
John just laughed, "You could have told me this so long ago! You had to have noticed that I felt more for you than friendship, Sherlock. You are a bloody detective who makes deductions about a woman's infidelity by her nails and her jewelry for Christ's sake." John shook his head in disbelief as he continued to laugh.
Sherlock stared at John for a moment before he started quietly chuckling at his own stupidity.
"I don't know how I missed it either, John." Sherlock smiled at the doctor slightly, "I love you. I really do." With that, the detective leaned forward and kissed his flatmate as he happily concluded that his life would never be the same.
A/N: Hello! This is only my third fanfic, so be gentle. Any constructive criticism would be nice. I really don't know if I like any of this story except for John's actual blog entry... It's an odd thing. Maybe I should try writing in first person perspective for Sherlock sometime. Hmm...
Anyway, thanks for reading. Reviews are always lovely, and I always check out the pages and fics of those who do so.