Author note: This story takes place in the BBC Sherlock 'verse, after "A Scandal in Belgravia" and before "The Reichenbach Fall".

Many thanks to my beta, the wonderful PrincessNala!

Disclaimers: Sherlock belongs to Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss, Sherlock Holmes originally belonged to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I own nothing. This makes me very sad. However, if Mr. Cumberbatch feels a need for a little temporary ownership, I'd be happy to oblige. ;)

Warnings: Sherlock/John Preslash/Slash. Nothing too racy.

"The man is always the last to know when Cupid has struck him."
– Anonymous, Memoirs of a Mistress

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Chapter 4

"A kiss is a lovely trick designed by nature to stop speech when words become superfluous."

Ingrid Bergman

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Late afternoon sun slanting cross his face woke John. Groaning, he glanced at the clock, and was stunned to see that it was nearly teatime. It would probably take days to reset his body clock to its normal routine thanks to his all night walking session.

After a quick shower, John headed to the kitchen for a restoring cup of tea. The flat was silent, so Sherlock must be out. Thank God. After boiling the kettle and making a large mug of tea, he ambled into the living room, hoping to watch some crap telly and turn his brain off for a while. The Sherlock dilemma was exhausting him.

Slumping into his armchair, John turned on the television, and tried to lose himself in Snog, Marry, Avoid. He quickly realised that he wasn't following a word of it, and with a sigh, turned it off. Back to his own dilemma.

After a night of decidedly homoerotic dreams featuring one admittedly sexy detective with cool, grey eyes, John had to concede the fact that he was indeed attracted to Sherlock. Sarah was right; he wasn't a zero on the Kinsey scale, and Sherlock was hot.

So, sexuality and attraction aside, John had a serious problem. He loved living with Sherlock, loved everything from the adrenaline rush when they were on a case to the companionable nights spent listening to Sherlock mercilessly dissect Big Brother, or some other ridiculous reality show. Sherlock made him feel more alive than he ever had. How could John risk ruining that?

If he let Sherlock know how he felt, it was quite likely that it would ruin everything. Sherlock wouldn't be comfortable around him anymore, and the tension would be unbearable.

The solution seemed obvious, then. John would simply have to find a way to bury his feelings for his friend deep, and keep things as they were. He couldn't risk losing what he did have with Sherlock, even if taking the risk could possibly lead to something so much more. There was simply too much to lose.

The front door opened and closed, and swift footsteps raced up the stairs.

Right. Game face on, then.

Sherlock burst into the room, a swirl of coattails and energy. I wonder if he knows he's making an entrance? I'll bet he'd love to have double doors to burst through – so much more dramatic.

"John. You're finally up." Sherlock removed his coat and scarf, then prowled across the room to curl onto the sofa like an overgrown housecat. John found himself the target of Sherlock's cool gaze, and yet again, had the impression of a tiger stalking its prey. Is everything he does feline?

"So what have you decided, then?"

"About what?" John gasped.

"About the issue that kept you awake and wandering the park all night, and kept you awake until midmorning. About the problem that has so consumed you that you are sitting here in the dark, no television, no book, just thinking. Thinking about whether or not to reveal your feelings to the object of your affection."

"How did…what…you don't…"

"All very well put, John, with your usual concise logic, but I'd like to hear something more specific." Sherlock's eyes were crinkling, his lips quirking up into an amused smile.

"How do you know what I've been thinking about?" John's lips were suddenly so dry. He licked them anxiously, and saw the detective's quicksilver gaze flick to his mouth. God, how could he possibly hope to keep anything from the world's most observant man?

"You are such an open book, John. Your every thought is written on your face, especially when it comes to affairs of the heart." Sherlock shifted in his chair, leaning forward to meet John's gaze forthrightly. "But seriously, John – what have you decided to do?"

"What…what do you think I should do, Sherlock? How do I know if…if…the 'object of my affection' returns my feelings at all? This…person…has made it clear in the past that they were completely uninterested in a relationship. " John watched him carefully.

"Completely, John?" Sherlock's velvety baritone sent shivers down John's spine. How had he not noticed what that voice did to him before now? "This…person…hasn't dropped any hints that the original position has changed?"

"How would I know?"

"You know my methods, John. Apply them." Sherlock sank back onto the sofa, long fingers steepled beneath his chin, clearly waiting for John to solve the problem.

John tilted his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes to avoid Sherlock's gaze. Right, because 'applying his methods' hasn't given me enough grief in the last 24 hours.

Still, Sherlock had told him to do it, and John never denied anything the brilliant detective requested. So John thought back, looking for clues about his flatmate's current feelings.

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Vivaldi's The Four Seasons had long been a favorite of John's, and Summer was the best part. A few weeks before, he had requested that Sherlock play it for him, and Sherlock had rolled his eyes at him.

"Vivaldi, John? Really? How plebian. Why not go the whole way, and request that I play something by George Michael or the Spice Girls? A whole world of astonishing violin composers out there, like Stenhammer or Arensky, and you request Vivaldi?"

Stung, John had replied, "Did it ever occur to you that Vivaldi was popular for a reason? Besides, it's my favorite piece of violin music, and I'm old enough to feel secure in my musical taste. I'm not going to apologize for liking Vivaldi…or George Michael, for that matter."

Sherlock had stared back at him for a moment, then the corners of his eyes creased, and his lips curved up into an amused smile. "Bravo, John. I love that about you…you always stand up to me."

Without another word, he set the violin beneath his chin, turned to the window, and swept into a breathtaking rendition of Vivaldi's Summer.

Remembering that conversation now, John realised that Sherlock had played Vivaldi regularly since then. Given his regard of Vivaldi as "plebian," could it be that he was playing it solely to please John?

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John's mind raced back over hundreds of other conversations with Sherlock, looking for more clues.

That, ah— thing that you did. That you, um, you offered to do. That was, uh, good.

I'm glad no one saw that.

Hm?

You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk.

People do little else.

Are you coming?

If you want me to.

Of course. I'd be lost without my blogger.

Listen. What I said before, John, I meant it. I don't have friends. I've just got one.

John! You are amazing! You are fantastic!

Yes, all right. Don't have to overdo it.

You've never been the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light you are unbeatable.

We're going out tonight.

Actually, I've uh, got a date.

What?

It's where two people who like each other go out and have fun.

That's what I was suggesting.

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Maybe things weren't so hopeless after all.

John raised his head, meeting Sherlock's limpid gaze. "I think I might have a possible solution to my problem."

"Wonderful." Sherlock leaned forward, watching John closely. "What's the solution?"

"An experiment, Sherlock. If you'd indulge me?"

Sherlock's eyes crinkled with amusement at the role reversal, and John's breath caught in his throat. Those eyes! He stood, stepped around the coffee table, and seated himself on the sofa beside Sherlock. Leaning forward, John stopped with only a few centimetres between their faces. Sherlock was absolutely still, as if he'd been carved from marble.

Slowly, John closed the gap between them, tentatively brushing Sherlock's full lips with his own. To his amazement, Sherlock leaned into the kiss, his lips softening against John's. John lightly traced Sherlock's lower lip with the tip of his tongue.

Sherlock responded by deepening the kiss, their tongues circling gently, then with more passion. John's fingers curled into those amazingly soft, inky curls, and he pulled Sherlock closer. Lips sliding together, tongues exploring and claiming, breathing into each other's mouths…it was better than anything John had ever experienced. Finally the kiss tapered off into softer, gentler kisses, then they slowly pulled apart, gazing into each other's eyes.

Trembling, John raised a hand to caress his friend's cheek. Sherlock's eyes half lidded, and he leaned into John's hand like a cat being stroked. Everything about him really is feline.

"Sherlock?" John waited, breathless, for Sherlock to speak.

Sherlock reached out and gently curled his fingers around the back of John's neck, drawing him forward so that their foreheads met. Silvery upturned eyes gazed lovingly into wide hazel ones. The corners of Sherlock's mouth turned up into a sweet, affectionate smile.

"I knew you'd get there in the end."