Disclaimer: Not mine.

It was a Thursday morning in February. John would always remember that. He and Sherlock had just eaten breakfast—well, John had eaten breakfast; Sherlock had nursed a cup of tea while staring at his laptop and muttering. Lestrade had called the night before, promising an interesting case, but he had insisted on waiting until the morning because the evidence wasn't particularly perishable. He'd refused to say more, even though Sherlock had attempted to deduce what the case was from Lestrade's tone of voice and word choice. When Lestrade had hung up, John had forced Sherlock to go to bed rather than spend the night trying to solve a case on which he hadn't even been briefed. It seemed that Lestrade had gotten to work early and emailed something to Sherlock, however, because Sherlock had definitely been reading something urgent during breakfast.

Now Sherlock threw on his black coat with his usual understated but dramatic flair and wrapped his blue scarf around his neck. John, already dressed for the weather, merely watched, tapping his foot impatiently.

Suddenly, Sherlock took three steps forward, closing the gap between himself and John. Then he pressed his mouth hard against John's. It was not an involved kiss; Sherlock kept his hands clasped behind his back the entire time. When he had finished, he took two steps back and reached for the doorknob to the door out of the flat.

"What?" John demanded.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You have all the information you need, John, if you would only think." He flung open the door. "Enough talking. There's been a murder!"

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"You have all the information you need." The words rattled around John's head all day as he analyzed corpses, translated Sherlock-speak for people whom Sherlock was trying to question, and ran after Sherlock, whose feet seemed to keep pace with his brain.

What information did John have? What information did he need? What did Sherlock mean by need, anyway?

Sherlock had made the remark just after kissing John, so one piece of information must have been that Sherlock wanted to kiss John. That Sherlock—well, yes—that Sherlock was attracted to John.

Sherlock's only reaction when he had found out that Harry was a woman was disappointment that he had misidentified her as John's brother. That implied that Sherlock did not have a problem with people being gay.

Sherlock never denied that he and John were a couple. John had always assumed that this was merely a result of Sherlock not caring what people thought and considering himself above societal interactions. Now, however, John had to wonder. After all, Sherlock always disabused people of their misperceptions. Did Sherlock perhaps wish that this particular misperception would lose its prefix?

Impossible. Yet . . . Sherlock's kiss that morning said otherwise.

John's hands were shaking so badly that Molly took away the test tube he was supposed to be examining and wouldn't let him touch anything else for the rest of the day. John barely noticed. He hadn't expected to react like this, but shaking hands had to mean he was experiencing strong emotions. Too strong. Oh, for God's sake, was he in love with Sherlock?

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It was all Sherlock could do to keep his mind palace up and running. He had thought his behavior made perfect sense, but John had clearly been bewildered about the kiss. Sherlock knew that it was typical for two people to kiss when their relationship held mutual affection, but it seemed he had done something wrong, because John had been frowning at him all day. Sherlock had been on the receiving end of a lot of John's frowns in the past few years, so he would have thought he'd be used to it, but, for some reason, he felt a twisting sort of pain in his chest when John gave him that look. The first few times, he had put a hand to his chest, convinced that the pain was physical. Slowly he had realized that it was pain of another sort.

Sherlock had not wanted to talk. He had not wanted the messy compromises and sacrifices of a human relationship. He had merely wanted John. He had wanted to be able to kiss John and hold John and love John. Now, though, it seemed things would not be that simple.

There was no good reason for things to be anything other than simple. John's attraction to Sherlock was readily apparent—the slight dilation of his pupils when he noticed Sherlock, the slight change in the pitch of his speaking voice when he talked to him, the way his breath caught when Sherlock came home safely from an investigation: all these were signals that Sherlock could read as easily as love notes left on the kitchen table. It was impossible for Sherlock to be wrong about this. Except . . . except John hadn't kissed him back this morning.

Sherlock needed to talk to John.

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The two men returned to their flat in a taxi as usual, but—unlike usual—they didn't even exchange a glance on the way. They practically sprinted up the stairs to the flat, but they held their mutual silence until they had slammed the door, locked it, and turned to face one another.

"Listen, Sherlock—"

"John . . ."

"I think we ought to—ahem—"

"I need to talk to you about . . ."

"This morning."

"Yes."

"Yes."

By some unspoken agreement, they proceeded farther into the flat and sat down, Sherlock on the sofa and John in an armchair.

John looked at his flatmate for a moment before deciding that there was no way Sherlock would start the conversation. Sherlock had made the first move, but he was—if anything—more out of his depth talking than he was kissing. Therefore, John took a deep breath and said, "Why did you kiss me?"

Sherlock did not meet John's eyes. "I am attracted to you."

"Are you now?" John snarled sarcastically.

Sherlock stood and began pacing. "I exhibit all the classic signs. My heart rate becomes elevated when I am around you, particularly when I am interacting with you. Occasionally, when you defend me in front of, say, Anderson, I feel my face grow physically warm. When you knock into me or brush against me, the part of me that has been in contact with you feels warm for several minutes afterward. The pitch of my speaking voice changes when I talk to you. Shall I continue or have you got the idea?"

John rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Being attracted to someone doesn't give you the right to kiss them."

"I know. But the attraction is mutual, and I believe that is when people begin to kiss. Or have I erred?" The question was asked in the same steely tone that Sherlock always used to dare people to question his deductions.

John stood and threw his arms in the air. "Of course you've erred! I had a girlfriend just last week!"

"Enlighten me as to the relevance of that statement."

"I'm not gay!"

"I never said you were."

"You said I was attracted to you."

"Surely, John, with your experience with your sister, you are fully aware that some people identify as bisexual."

John stomped out of the room and began making tea, banging the kettle at every possible opportunity. Sherlock sat down on the sofa again and pulled out his laptop. Just then, Mrs. Hudson entered the flat and peered around. "Are you two all right?" she asked, looking from one to the other. "It was getting awfully loud up here."

"Oh, I'm fine," John practically shouted. "Don't know what's gotten into him."

Sherlock did not look up from his laptop. "I'm all right."

Mrs. Hudson gave a knowing nod. "Yes, I see." She ventured further into the flat. "Fighting, are you? You two are like an old married couple—"

John spun around in place, neglecting the stove, and Sherlock tore his gaze from his precious laptop screen. Their eyes met, and suddenly they were laughing, laughing harder than either of them had in years. Neither of them noticed Mrs. Hudson slip out of the flat or heard the bolt click into place as she locked the door behind her.

A/N: Reviews and favorites are lovely!