Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's Sherlock.
I hear his voice from his bedroom, calling to me. I want to get up and go to him, to tell him I'm all right, but then again, that would be an obvious lie. Because I am not all right, and it would be excessively appalling to tell him a lie at this time.
I hear John's footsteps coming closer, down the hallway and already past his door. By the way he steps quickly I can tell he is worried about me, for whatever reason I did not understand at the moment. Then again, he was almost always worried about me, making sure I'm okay and forcing me to eat because it's 'healthy'. The memory of the day I collapsed from food deprivation is one I have not deleted, and I do not plan to anytime soon.
Finally, John rounds the corner and he is in view of me, his view in mine. Our eyes meet and without a word I can almost see the words passing through his head. The sigh of relief and the relaxing of muscles was all I needed.
"Sherlock..." He approaches, however keeping his distance. "Are you okay?"
I nod subtly, not taking my eyes of his. He turns his head to the left side, and I know he is attempting to read me. I bring forth the emotionless mask so easily - I have done it my whole life - and he looks away, defeated. I stand up from the sofa now, still watching him.
"John," I began hesitatingly. "I need to... er... I need to tell you something."
Stuttering? Detestable. Unusually rare. I never stutter. I am sure with what I say and I recite my dialogue beforehand. It is almost impossible for me to stutter. But with realization I come back to the fact that with John Watson, you could never tell what would happen next.
"What is it?" John asks. Oh, yes. John - so understanding. Extremely unusual, too. Had it been in the beginning when I first felt my attraction to him? Probably. When we first met, I found him interesting, more so than others.
No. It was not then. It was officially when I had caught sight of him with the shock blanket draped over my shoulders, Lestrade yapping away about the shot cabbie to me. Everything had slowed down in the crime scene when his eyes met mine. I knew it was him that had just saved my life. We had barely known each other, and this man was risking himself for me. Me, the antisocial, sociopathic freak. Yes, that was when I knew that he was different, that he was special. That I wanted to keep him.
Thinking about John that way made it worse. I realized I did not want to tell him the truth now.
What if he is disgusted? What to be if he pitied me and chose to fake admiration back? No - that is not the worst situation that could happen with us. The worst would be for him to leave me. Just like everyone else. He would pack slowly, his head hung not in shame but in regret and pity, not able to look at me in the eye. Not able to ever look at me again. Which would be why he would leave me, and I can see the ugly image playing in my head: John Watson turning to leave, walking through 221B and disappearing into London, never to be seen by me again. I would not be surprised, simply disappointed and almost saddened.
I take a breath once more to speak, but the words so carefully recited do not come out of my mouth. I stand there, hesitant, frozen, speechless.
I hope enormously that John realizes the situation before I would have to tell him. I also hope he would forget about this entire morning. If he were to leave now, there would be no harm done, and we would go back to solving cases and talking about murders. But if he left, I would never find the answer to the one question I did not understand.
What is love?
If anything were to be love, it would be John Watson. I remember clearly all the times he dared to give his life for me even after all the times I've lied him and been so rude to him. The man never left me, never doubted me. Even when the entire world was against me with proof, he risked himself to me, to protect me and stay with me.
Friends protect people, Sherlock, he had told me.
No... but there. One more clue. Friends. Had he said lovers? No. Did he - perhaps - mean it? Possibly. No - couldn't be. Would never be.
One more thing I wanted clarified. Sexual orientation. John had dated girls many times. Bisexual? Likely, though if he were he wouldn't try and deny the constant mistaking of his homosexuality. Although he had seemingly flirted with me on the first day at Angelo's. And Irene Adler - she had specified us as a couple. Those men in the bar at Baskerville automatically thought us as lovers. Still, he continued to deny. My god, was John Watson confusing.
Suddenly John stands up, slowly approaching me. I instinctively step back, unsure what to do next. His eyes, searching for answers - not important. His posture - the relaxed shoulders must mean he is the opposite of tense. I sigh in relief, knowing that John was not at all upset or angry about it - whatever 'it' was to him. The way he stepped towards me was alike to how one may approach an animal, attempting to be the most understanding and harmful they can look. Was John trying to tame me? Tame me into what, exactly?
Telling the truth, a voice whispered in my head. Yes, of course.
John snaps me out of my thoughts. He has been doing so recently. He reaches down and suddenly I feel his hand on mine. I relax into the touch. I enjoy the feeling of security John Watson brings with him, the comfort and the assurance that everything will be all right brings my mind to peace. All the hours and days of examining my feelings and making hypotheses of my emotions dissolve in the moment. I am quite sure - extremely sure of the one thing. The thing I have never felt before, not ever, not truly. And then I suddenly want to seize the man holding my hand now, grab him and force his lips upon mine. I want to possess him and keep him and make him mine forever. I want no harm to come to him or me and even the entire London and James Moriarty couldn't possibly pull us apart. I will wake up every morning with him, and he will stay, because he feels the same. Scotland Yard will laugh at us and make a distance, but for once I will not give it a second thought, because I will have John. The brilliant, fantastic, loyal Dr. John Hamish Watson.
Suddenly I feel that I know exactly what I want to tell him: the truth. I love everything about him. I want to spend the rest of my life with him. I love you, John Watson. I look down and into his eyes, and he looks at me back. No words are spoken, but all that is needed to are already known.
And then I feel John's arms around me in an embrace I would have never enjoyed otherwise. I don't understand what had caused him to do such a thing, but I do not want to stop it. It is somewhat alien to me, and when I would expect myself to recoil, I find myself leaning into John's arms. His warmth soothes me.
I want to tell him. But today is not that day. And so when I pull back, I go back to what I was. At least for a while. Our friendship is pure, and my uncontrollable emotions will not do much other than complicate both of our lives. And so I stand and I hope that someday I will be able to express to him how much he means to me. When John pulls back as well he looks uncomfortable and in a daze, as if he had no idea what he had just done.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I don't know what's gotten into me..."
I want to tell him that it's fine, that I enjoy his presence and would not mind him becoming more.
Instead, I whisper.
"There's been a murder."
And that is that.
Author's Note: This is kind of a one-shot, but could possibly be continued if I have time. I also wrote this at 4 in the morning without editing so I hope nothing is out of place. And this is sort of my first Johnlock fic.
So please review if you feel like it! Thank you.
Edit: I continued.