John sipped his tea quietly. It was surprisingly good for Sherlock. Who rarely made anything for John, it was a nice change, but not the only one he noticed. He couldn't get the image of Sherlock curled up against him out of his head, or the way His long lanky, but surprisingly muscular arm wrapped around John for most of the night. It was just…weird. Sherlock went from being an antisocial, sociopath, to being his best friend, to being something..more? No, john stop it. All it was, was that Sherlock was scared, he was tired, and needed someone. And John just happened to be there at the right time. But even so, it was so unlike Sherlock. To be..vulnerable, to be needy, to be loving? John desperately wanted to say something, but didn't know how, did he just let this slide? Forget about it? Was that what Sherlock wanted? Did he want something more.? John shook his head, and spilled his tea on his lap accidentally. "Damn it!" he shouted, the hot tea seeping into his thin trousers. Sherlock's eyes snapped up to John and pulled him from his thoughts about the previous night. He looked down to see Johns tea had spilled onto his already too thin trousers. He bit his lip and stood, going for a cloth.

He knelt down to eye level while John sat in his chair, pants soaked, and a frequent stream of profanities falling from the doctors lips. Sherlock couldn't help but snort at him, "John, its only tea I think you'll live." He started to dab Johns thigh, and then realized that might not be appropriate, he handed the cloth to John and took his teacup back to the kitchen. John exhaled and stood, why was everything so weird! he hated the tension, it made him feel out of place, and awkward. "Sherlock" He said taking a deep breath. He got a noncommittal "Hmm?" from his flatmate, but none the less he decided he needed to be frank. He was so much more than just a flat mate, a best man, best friend, sociopath, he was Sherlock. And John loved him.

He shook his head, and sighed, nope, not today. He made it to his room and stripped off his tea soaked pants. He punched his hand into his dresser. Dust flittered to the ground and he cursed. "Damn." Everything was so complicated, of course, thats the way it had to be didn't it? Since he 'chose' this type of lifestyle, since he 'craved' danger and adrenaline. He didn't admit to it, but he didn't deny it. It was liberating solving cases, running round london, catching criminals, saving lives. He would have died so many times without Sherlock, He owed him so much, he cared about him so much. When Mary told him about the baby, the first thing John thought of was what Sherlock would say, how Sherlock would react, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. Yet he couldn't tell the man that he owed so much to, thought about constantly, worried about, cried over, mourned over, pined over, that he loved him? Im not gay. He told himself, over and over, nearly every time Sherlock looked at him, every time they bumped into each other, every time Sherlock said something remotely nice..

"John?" A voice called from behind the door, he looked down and remembered he was in his red underpants, and also that he had punched the dresser. "Yeah" He replied slipping on another pair of pants, and opening the door to a worried Sherlock. "Are you okay, I heard.." "Im fine, Just stubbed my foot on the dresser," actually i punched it because i don't know how i feel about you and you make me nervous and flighty. "Hm okay" Sherlock said and loitered off to the den, plopping onto the couch loudly.

John sat on the edge of his bed, taking his sore hand into his other, running his thumb over his knuckles. Im not gay. he said, but really when he thought of Sherlock, he didn't apply to gender.. He was just.. Sherlock, he was different, intrinsic, and eccentric, new and fresh and different. Maybe he was bi? Was that a possibility? did he feel the way he thought he felt..

"Just fucking do it John" He said to himself, and heaved himself out the door and into the den.

"Sherlock, I need to tell you something." Sherlock turned his head, then sat up. "Go on" He said matter of factly.

"The day you.." he stopped and sat down, not sure how his knees would hold him. Sherlock placed his hands palm-to-palm and the tips of his fingers right below his chin. Listening, intrigued. He watch his doctor as he tried to speak. He tried not to deduce anything from it, John did hate that.. he could tell that John was anxious, that his heart was beating irregularly. He looked warmly at the other man and pursed his lips, waiting for the rest of the doctor's sentence. "The day you - hmm- the day you died." He said, holding his hand out, then covering his mouth. Sherlock instantly felt guilty, and bit his lip, not sure how he liked this new emotion. Nope, he didn't like it at all, he felt sick, and ..sorry. He could read the pain in Johns eyes, the memories, and the sadness. He cleared his throat to fight back his own feelings. "That day, was- the worst day of my life, with out a doubt." He said his voice cracking beneath the pressure of his words. "When you were about to board that Jet-about to leave me- again." He stopped once more, and blinked. He made a point NOT to look into Sherlocks eyes, or in his general direction at all.

Sherlock felt an overwhelming need to say something, to apologize, which he was not good at, To stop John. It hurt to know that he had caused John so much pain. And it was literally his fault. "John- Plea-" He started and was cut off. "Please let me finish Sherlock" He said, halfheartedly, he didn't want to say what he needed to, he didn't want to say the rest of his speech, he didn't want to see disgust, or rejection, or confusion on Sherlock's face. Sherlock nodded and sat back. "That day, might have been the second worst day of my life, besides all the shit with Mary." He said rather casually, that brought a smile to Sherlock's face, which soon disappeared remembering that Mary had caused him so much pain, and he hated her for breaking John's heart. Hate.. that was new.

"I had so much to say, So much, we have been through so much, so many cases, and runs, and just living with you, we have so much to say..But I couldn't, I didn't want, I dont know.." John started loosing his words. Sherlock sat on the edge of the sofa now, his own heart beating too quickly. "John" Sherlock said softly, his voice was tender, and it made John's breathing hitch. "Sherlock, I wanted to tell you something before you left. And then you came back, and I couldn't. I was a coward." Sherlock stood at that, and moved towards him, "You, John Watson are many things, but a coward is not one of them. - I had something to tell you, before I left, but I too couldn't force the words from my lips, but now I don't think I need to.." He said, a grin forming on his mouth, a sheepish one, that made him light up and look surprisingly childish. John thought for a moment he had completely stopped breathing. What exactly was happening? What did Sherlock think? What was he doing, he was so close, so close to coming out to his flat mate about his feelings, and now Sherlock, he had something to share. But he couldn't protest, he found himself standing up, looking up to Sherlock.

Sherlock's hand came about John's cheek, just slightly, his fingertips barely brushing John's skin. Enough to make Johns knees shake, and his heart pound. WHAT, was happening. Did Sherlock feel the same, was this a joke? A sick game? "John, I - I need you to be honest with me" His hand dropped, and a pang of sadness tinged his eyes.

Johns own heart dropped and he looked up at his detective, confused. "I won't be mad, I wont be upset, but I want to know if you are in love with Mary." He said gently, but avoided eye contact. "If you are thats fine, I won't bother you any further. But If you do.. If you do anything, do not do it lightly, because I can't take it. I cant lose you John" Sherlock said, and John forgot how to speak. He simply, took Sherlock's hand, and stood on the tips of his toes.