John stared at the ceiling, inhaling sharply. His hands were behind his head, his body seemed to be relaxed, but his mind was running its paces over the discovery he'd just come across.

John was in love with Sherlock.

It wasn't easy for him to admit. He'd fought it tooth and nail. He had sworn up and down and sideways that there was no possible way for him to fall for Sherlock. He was heterosexual—it didn't work that way. Besides, Sherlock was a prat. He was arrogant, and completely self-involved, and extremely degrading to anyone who didn't seem to think on the same insane plane as him. A total pain in the arse, if he was being honest with himself. But… John sighed, squeezing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger.

And he was such a child at times! John's eyes flung open, staring at the ceiling once again. He could be so petulant, and purposely annoying. Heaven forbid he didn't get his way on every matter! John clenched his jaw, thinking of the times Sherlock purposely nicked badges from Lestrade just because he could. He shook his head. He took another deep breath. Rightfully, he shouldn't have even liked Sherlock.

But then his mind would double back. He thought about the first night they'd met. There was something about him. Not the deductions—though that had always baffled him—just something else. He was charming, which seemed like a strange thing for John to think of a man, but no other word could accurately describe him. Nothing like, say, Casanova or anything. He wasn't quite the sweep-you-off-your-feet type, but in a subtle way. Definitely not deliberate.

And John couldn't forget how strangely attractive Sherlock was. His tall frame was lean, and always shrouded in a smart suit. His hair—John had always imagined it was soft to touch, that the curls probably wrapped around fingers quite easily. John's jaw clenched again. And those eyes. Those eyes showed more of Sherlock than Sherlock must have realized. They were piercing and sharp and seemed to be able to look right through anything, but easily seemed to work in reverse. If Sherlock allowed it, or flubbed for just a moment and let down that wall of his, John could see an entirety of emotion that Sherlock would never admit to possessing.

John exhaled slowly. He was in love. He, John Hamish Watson, was in love. With a man.

With Sherlock Holmes.

John tilted his head, squinting at the ceiling. What did that even mean? Surely he'd have to come out now, to the few friends and family he still had. Or would he? Did falling for Sherlock mean he was gay? Or did it mean something larger, something more complex than that. Or perhaps it was more simple. He wasn't attracted to men, per say. Lestrade had never quite tickled his fancy. Nor had any of the other blokes on the street. It was only Sherlock.

He had eyes only for Sherlock.

He rolled his eyes, scoffing at himself. Despite it being true, it seemed a bit cheesy for the likes of him.

So what happened next, he pondered. Did he bottle it up, throw it on the back burner, lead a life beside the man he adored without ever letting him on about just how much he adored him? Well, he wasalready doing that. Technically. But now that he'd come to terms with his emotions, his feelings, could he continue? Would it show on his face? Sherlock would surely be able to see right through it.

It's what he did, after all.

No, perhaps the best idea was to just come clean. Spit it out. Admit to Sherlock that John was in love with him. Just say it, and give Sherlock no time to respond. He'd also include, of course, that it wouldn't change their relationship. John would continue doing just as he had been, being an assistant and a faithful friend. He'd not change his habits in anyway. He just thought it should be known.

And then it wouldn't sit on his brain. He'd be able to function knowing that he was hiding nothing, that there was little Sherlock would be able to discover on his own.

Perfect.

John swung his legs off of his bed and stood. His stomach was knotting up, but he felt confident. He was planning his speech already, rehearsing his every word in his head. He took a deep breath before swinging his door open. "Sherlock?" he called. He made his way down the stairs, cutting through the kitchen and into the living room. "Sherlock?"

"Hand me my phone." Sherlock said, staring at the screen of his laptop.

"Wha-?"

Sherlock's hand was outstretched, patiently waiting. John rolled his eyes, grabbing up the phone from the desk and placing it in his waiting hand. "Sherlock, I need to talk to you."

Sherlock didn't reply, but instead began tapping on the screen of his phone rather quickly.

"Sherlock, I… Are you listening?"

Sherlock's eyes scanned the laptops monitor, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. "Yes. I'm listening. You need to talk to me. Talk." Sherlock replied evenly. His eyes never left the screen. He continued typing. John sighed, rubbing the back of his head.

"Alright. Fine. Sherlock, this is going to sound a bit weird. Hell, it sounds a bit weird to me." John said. He cleared his throat, attempting to settle his stomach. He couldn't seem to fight down the kicking. "And I've been thinking about this a lot. I mean, a lot. More than I probably should be thinking about it." He scratched his eyebrow, staring at the floor. He clenched his jaw. Could he say it? He needed to. It needed to be said. He took another deep breath and exhaled slowly, looking up at Sherlock.

Sherlock's focus was still on the screen. His eyes glanced upward at John, an eyebrow cocked, then went back to the monitor. "What I've realized is that… Sherlock. I'm…"

He searched Sherlock's face. He tried to figure out if he was listening. He couldn't tell. Maybe it would be better if he wasn't. Spit it out. John's mind seemed to be screaming. "Alright. I'm just gonna say this. And you can take it as you want, but I need to say it because I don't want to sit around wondering when you're going to figure it out." He took a final deep breath. "Sherlock, I'm in love with you. There, I've said it. I'm in love with you. That's it. I can't tell you it how it happened, or why, or what it means, but—"

Sherlock's phone made a noise. He quickly picked it up, sliding his thumb on the screen and scanning the words that had—apparently—come up. "Brilliant." he said. He set his laptop aside and jumped up from his seat, making his way to the couch. "Absolutely… An operative of mine just spotted the husband down by the Thames. Overheard him talking about where they'd be meeting. Oh, this is fantastic." he was saying. He wrapped his scarf around his neck and quickly threw his coat over his shoulders.

John furrowed his eyebrows. His jaw dropped just slightly. Confusion was evident on his face. "Sherlock, I just…" he trailed off as Sherlock began to speak.

"Come on John. We've got to intercept him while he's in the cafe. It's vital to the case. He's the missing piece."

"Sherlock." he said, slipping his arms into his coat.

Sherlock was already striding across the flat to the stairs. John was dumbfounded. Surely his confession hadn't truly just fallen on deaf ears? Sherlock always heard everything, was always completely in tune with whatever seemed to be going on around him. "Sherlock, did you just hear a word I said?" He yelled. He was angry—he hadn't meant to be. Hell, a moment ago he'd hoped that Sherlock wasn't listening.

Sherlock came back into the room. "What? John. We have to go now."

"You weren't listening. I tell you I need to talk to you, and you tell me to talk, and then you don't listen." John was in disbelief, "I can't believe—"

Sherlock rolled his eyes impatiently. He stalked over to John, "We don't have time for this but if we must, then I'll prove to you that I was listening." He stared directly into John's eyes as he spoke. "You'd been doing a lot of thinking, maybe too much you feel. You aren't sure how I'm going to take it, but you've instructed me to take it 'however I want', because you had to get it off of your chest before I realized it which, by the way, you're late on. You're in love with me. You're not sure how, or why, or what it means, but you've decided that you are. I have a feeling the next line of the speech was going to be something along the lines of 'it won't change the dynamic of our current relationship' and other dull things that are completely irrelevant."

John just stared.

"Now. You're looking for a reply. Fine, then here it is." Sherlock quickly grabbed John by the zipper of his coat and pulled him in close, leaning down quickly and smashing his lips into John's.

John hadn't thought about this moment. He hadn't thought he'd get the words out. The whole situation was new and different, and completely unexpected. Sherlock's lips were moving against John's, and both of their lips were making way for one another's tongues. And John's hands were finding their way to Sherlock's waist, and they were squeezing him close. Everything felt a little hurried and a little bit sloppy but never the less beautiful.

Sherlock pulled away. His eyes focused in on John's once again, only they'd gone a bit softer. The corner of his mouth twitched into a small smile. "Yes. Me too." he said simply. "Now, we have to go."

"Right." John said lamely.

Sherlock turned for the door once again, taking giant strides out and down the stairs. John wanted just a moment, a quick one. Just to reflect. Just to figure out what had really happened. Sherlock had just—"John!" his thoughts were interrupted by the bark of Sherlock's voice.

"Right. Coming!" John yelled. He zipped up his coat and grabbed his phone, jogging out the door and down the stairs to follow after Sherlock Holmes, the man he apparently loved and who—apparently—loved him in return.