A/N: The idea for this fic randomly hit me tonight so I decided to give it a shot. I almost never write in first-person (or any person but the 3rd omniscient!). I hope I got close enough to John's voice.

Asexual!Sherlock/Straight!John (established relationship, nonsexual romance)

From the Blog of John H. Watson:

On Sherlock

First of all, this post is not about a case: you have been forewarned.

This is a personal post, a very personal post, and I may be off my rocker for writing it or sharing it... But I've been thinking about it all week and feel it needs to be written. I've rarely gotten personal on this blog, in all the years I've kept it. I know there have been periods where I'm rubbish about updating, and if that matters to anyone out there, I apologize. I would think that Sherlock's cases are far more interesting subject material than our personal lives anyway. I'm not writing this post because I think you'll be entertained. I'm writing it because I think I owe it to myself and to Sherlock and to anyone else out there who could benefit from hearing what I have to say about my relationship with him. I'm a fairly typical bloke, not too introspective, and I certainly don't go around spewing these kinds of thoughts and feelings to the world in real life. (Don't expect this sort of thing to become a habit.) Yet it hit me the other day that I've been living with Sherlock for thirteen years, been married to him for about eight, and although I've got my own feelings on the matter sorted out in my head, I've never taken the time to get really coherent about them.

Let's start with the basics: Sherlock is asexual. That means he doesn't feel sexually attracted to anyone. Also, he's a virgin. (You would think he'd be the type to experiment, for the sake of reaching an empirical conclusion about his own sexuality or something, but apparently, this was one area where dullness overpowered the scientific method.) I won't really get into all the details of asexuality because I don't want this post to become a lesson. A quick trip to your search engine will give you plenty of information on that, if you're so inclined.

Second, I'm heterosexual. I always have been. In my younger years, I was quite the womanizer, I have to admit. I had plenty of girlfriends and women who were not my girlfriends but were my sexual partners. I did have romantic feelings for my girlfriends, usually. I rather liked the sex too. I always thought that at some point, I would find the proper woman and get married—or at least, I hoped I would find one. In my mind, it was either that or spend my life alone. And I don't think I would've done too well on my own forever.

What I did not plan on was meeting Sherlock Holmes. At first, we were friends the way most blokes are friends. There wasn't anything too different from my friendship with him than other friendships I've had in my life, except for the living together bit. We would still be ordinary friends if not for the fact that Sherlock is the most extraordinary person on the planet. I mean that as both a compliment and as a way of saying that he doesn't really do ordinary or "normal." It's hard to do it yourself when you're as close to him as I was even in those early days. I'm not sure what drew me to him emotionally. It was all very fast. If you remember our first case together, "A Study in Pink," you can imagine what an absurd whirlwind it was for me. Sherlock's theory is that our initial attraction (not the sexual kind, mind you) wasn't arbitrary at all but a logical result of his individual person and my own suiting each other perfectly; he thinks we're naturally a good fit, in other words. I guess we are, aren't we? Not sure how else to explain it. Apparently, anyone else would have run from him, seeing what his life is like and what kind of person he is. (Sherlock is fully capable of being quite the impressive wanker, no doubt about it.)

(I love you anyway, Sherlock.)

Instead, I wanted to be closer. Don't ask me what I was thinking. I obviously wasn't thinking. Maybe I was charmed by the flat.

I didn't realize it immediately but moving in with Sherlock saved my life. I didn't have much of anything, when I met him: just some pitiful little room, no work and no idea what to do with myself, not to mention the sorry state of my social life. It was really desperate. (Maybe it's not surprising I moved in with him after all.) I don't think I fully knew how lonely I was. It's hard, coming back from war and trying to be normal again. Bloody hard.

Anyway. At some point, I started to love him and he started to love me, though I'm still unclear on the details of that process for him. At first, I thought I loved him as a best friend—he is my best friend—but eventually, it became clear that this wasn't the kind of love I'd had for my good mates in the past. I had no idea what it was, for a while. I knew I didn't want to have sex with him, but that didn't help much. We became more affectionate, physically. Sherlock let me know what he needed and I provided because I really cared about him and I wanted to help. That probably started the change between us.

I wasn't paying too much attention until one day, it sort of clicked into place that I was in love with him. I'd like to think it took me months to realize not because I'm daft but because it wasn't anything like the movies or other people's experiences. I didn't want to shag him or snog him and I didn't walk around daydreaming about him or anything like that. I'd loved my girlfriends before, but what I feel for Sherlock actually isn't the same thing. I can't explain the difference, apart from the sex bit, but there definitely is one, or I would've figured it all out much sooner. Once I knew I was in love with him, though, it made perfect sense. Unbelievably, realizing that was perhaps the easiest part.

I asked him to marry me to prove that I was serious and that I wasn't going to leave him. He really worried about that. It hurt him, that fear, and I didn't want him to be afraid anymore. I didn't really need the civil union for myself, but I'm glad we did it. I would definitely do it again. So yes: I'm in a sexless marriage. (For the record, I have not retired to a life of celibacy; I have a very dear friend of mine who understands my relationship with Sherlock perfectly and satisfies my sexual needs.)

I didn't know what I was doing. No one tells you about this sort of thing. Nobody ever pulled me aside and told me I could fall in love with a bloke and not want to have sex with him or that I could marry someone I wasn't sexually attracted to and be happy or that I could meet a woman who I care about a lot and have sex with her and never be expected to get romantic about it. All of this just sort of happened on it's own and I had to navigate it by myself. I had to trust my gut, which is something they taught me in the military. (You wouldn't believe how much of that training has stayed relevant in my life, especially because of my relationship with Sherlock.) It was scary. I'm not too proud to admit that: it was bloody frightening. I had no one to advise me, to tell me what I should do or how to do it, which in retrospect was probably a blessing because anyone I might've asked wouldn't have known what they were talking about. Sherlock didn't know what the hell he was doing either, since he'd never been in love before. (That still makes me reel a bit. I had no idea he's only felt romantic feelings for me until nearly a year ago.)

All I knew is that I couldn't abandon him. (Thank God, I would've broken him completely if I had.) How or why I managed to develop these feelings for him, I have no sodding idea, but I can say with absolute sincerity that I have never been more grateful for anything in my life. It sounds soppy, but I feel whole with him. I don't mean that I was some poor, empty bastard before I met him; I could've got along fine without him eventually, I suspect. (Sherlock, my life would be unbearably dull without you.) What I mean is that, I'm happy. There's nothing missing. I feel like myself with him—or maybe I should say I feel like I'm the man I want to be. He gave me a purpose, which is what I needed most after the war.

And he loves me. He really, really does. It's overwhelming sometimes. Not to mention humbling. He'll scoff at that when he reads this but really, to be the one person Sherlock Holmes depends upon and the person he loves most in the world... that's really something. The man's a genius, after all. I'm still not quite sure why it's me he loves like this. (Not being self-deprecating, Sherlock; I honestly don't know!)

I'm just bloody glad it is me.

If you've gotten this far, you might be sitting at your computer thinking I'm a complete mental case. If someone told me back in uni, say, that this is where I would end, I would've said it was mental too. I don't expect everybody to understand. My relationship with Sherlock and the general state of my life is unconventional, but it works for me. I'm fifty-two years old, and I'm past the point of caring whether I fit in. Being happy is much more important.

I love Sherlock. I love him with all my heart, for whatever that's worth. Sometimes, he's an idiot, and sometimes he's an arsehole. (He's really good at the latter, when he wants to be.) He's almost gotten me killed on too many occasions to count, and I'm sure he's not finished yet. But he's also brilliant and someone I can trust completely. He can be extraordinarily caring and funny and good. He's learned, over these thirteen years, how to be a decent flat mate and the partner I need. He's not perfect (your ego will recover, Sherlock) but that's fine. I have just enough patience for his imperfections.

I guess what I really mean to say is that sometimes, life surprises you. And it's worth giving the unexpected a chance.

Also, despite what he'd like you to think, Sherlock's is a good man. Far more human than he lets on. (No, he's not a bloody sociopath.)

He's the love of my life.

In case you were wondering.