"Sherlock!"

No answer.

"Sherlock!"

Still nothing.

"Damn it, Sherlock," I mutter, cursing the man who is currently boiling eyeballs in the kitchen. I move out of my chair and over next to him by the stove. He doesn't look up as I lean on the bench so that we are facing each other; and by facing each other I mean I'm facing him and he's facing the pot of boiling eyes. "Sherlock," I say, trying to catch his gaze and not the pot's. I take a deep breath. "Sherlock, there's something I have to tell you." He doesn't even look up.

"You love me." I involuntarily jump away from the counter top.

"I'm sorry?" I gasp. Then he looks at me with those damn eyes that I still can't decide if they're grey, blue, green or all three plus a couple of colours that haven't even been invented yet, rife with condescension. "Oh please, John. You live with the only consulting detective in the world and you think he wouldn't notice if you developed a little crush?" I can't help myself.

"It's not a little crush!" I shout in my broken voice, embarrassed by the noise. I hunch my shoulders and feel my nose itch, my cheeks redden and my eyes fill up with the salt water that accompanies sadness, injustice and rejection. I am about to declare that I am going for a walk and that he can just damn well forget it, I'll sleep at Sarah's when I feel him move across the kitchen towards me. A slender yet strong hand slides up my arm to my shoulder. "Look at me," he whispers. Involuntarily, I glance up at his face, handsome and still. He is the picture of calm; all except his hair, which is a wild ramble of curls. Oh God. I swallow, trying to moisten my alarmingly dry mouth. Suddenly, a kindness comes into Sherlock's features and changes his face drastically. Crinkles become evident at the corners of his eyes and a small smile plays on his lips. Lips. Mm. Focus, John. He goes to say something, and I wait expectantly. But all of a sudden, his eyes dart away and his mouth closes, as if he's decided not to say what could have changed our lives. I lower my gaze and try to come to terms with the rejection-hope-rejection rollercoaster I have just experienced when, abruptly, we're kissing. His lips are pressed to mine. My lips are against his. My mind takes a moment to comprehend what's happening, and then simply relishes in the action. I close my eyes and lean in closer, and his mouth tastes like sugared tea and the marmalade Mrs Hudson bought yesterday. As time passes, Sherlock's hands move to my shoulder blades to press my chest closer to his. Closer, closer. It goes on like this for a while, stopping only for breaths and taking in the perfect absurdity of what we are doing. I wonder if he always knew this was going to happen, a part of me thinks. My ecstatic brain banishes the thought and continues to delight in the bliss I am experiencing. In the background, the rancid smell of over-boiled eyeballs rises and the sound of a client ringing the door incessantly clangs; but the smell doesn't reach our noses and the noise doesn't reach our ears. We don't care enough about them, and I understand how Sherlock can find normal things boring when his brain is stimulated by a case. Right now, my brain is stimulated by something else, but I get it. And it's wonderful.