Love?

It's true that some people referred to Sherlock Holmes as a snoop. He resented this because he was not a snoop, he was a detective and there was a big difference between the two. After all, he made it his business to know what other people didn't know and sometimes it was what other people didn't want him to know. So, naturally, he found it perfectly acceptable to do a little investigating on his flatmate's laptop.

It wasn't like he had woken up that morning with the intention of rooting about through another person's personal files, but with John gone to the store and his own computer being in a separate room, he saw nothing wrong with using the doctor's to do a little research. Yes, it had started out as a perfectly innocent endeavor but when he saw a minimized window under the name of "Sherlock", the curiosity got the better of him. And it was his name after all. He had the right to see what it was.

He anxiously panned the mouse over to the bottom of the screen and clicked. Two seconds later, a group of folders appeared, labeled: "pictures", "videos", and "letters". His eyes narrowed; pictures of what? Him? John had taken pictures of him? He didn't hesitate to open the first folder which then displayed about a dozen thumbnails of, indeed, photographs of Sherlock. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and brought up the first picture.

It was just a picture of himself drinking tea and glaring at the telly. Confused, he opened the rest and they were all relatively unexciting; Sherlock at a crime scene, Sherlock in the lab, Sherlock on the computer, Sherlock making a sandwich, and finally, Sherlock sleeping? What the bloody hell? He could tell from the fact that most of them were blurry that they were taken hastily and probably with a mobile phone, since he definitely would have noticed a flash.

He jumped back to the previous page and selected the video folder. There were two videos to choose from. The first was taken mostly from the back so Sherlock wouldn't notice what he was doing. Not that he would have noticed anyway, as he was busy making rapid fire deductions to a baffled Scotland Yard. He smiled briefly; at least this was interesting. The next video was grainy, filmed in the dark. It took him a moment to realize exactly what was going on and when he did, he felt his face go hot. There he was, asleep on the couch and clutching a pillow to his chest like a teddy bear.

He was muttering nonsense in between intervals of light snoring; something about "that finger is not the correct apple tree. Call Lestrade and ask about his pocket size." The sound of John's suppressed sniggering could be heard in the background, along with the accompanying camera jiggle. And then he said something else entirely: "John…John…I need…don't leave, John…nnggh…" he once again descended into snoring. The video continued as John gently pulled a blanket over him and then the screen went black.

Sherlock stared at the computer as if it had done him a personal offense. What was this supposed to mean, anyway? Was this John's cruel idea of a joke? To mess with him or mortify him? He wondered if he had shown it to anyone else. Feeling utterly betrayed, Sherlock clicked back to the other page and selected the "letters" folder, no longer feeling any scruples about snooping.

The names of the three files inside, however, caused him pause: "Curiosity", "Lust" and "Love?" His eyebrows furrowed as the current situation contorted itself bafflingly in his mind. John was an admittedly difficult puzzle to crack. The letters had obviously been written in a particular order so Sherlock selected the first, "Curiosity".

"Sherlock,

I've only known you for a week now, and yet you've captured my interest like no one has before. I should feel weird saying that, but somehow this crazy, ridiculous new relationship of ours feels far more right than anything has since the war. I know if you read this, you'd probably roll your eyes at me or give me some kind of other condescending gesture, which is why I'm glad that you never will. I guess writing down my thoughts has become something of a habit since my therapist started me on that blog.

Speaking of the blog, I've started typing up the story of you and the cab driver. I don't have a name for it yet but I'm thinking it should involve the word 'pink'. I'm a bit wary to have you read it though. Being the world's only consulting detective, you'll probably see through it like glass and know how completely fascinating I find you. I find a bloke fascinating. Should I be worried? Well, too late for that, eh?

I must admit, I also don't like it when people call you a freak. I barely know you and yet I feel myself getting defensive already. And I thought had I trust issues… then again, I also thought I had a limp but you cured me of that straight away! Anyway, you're amazing. There, now maybe I can stop blithering like a teenage girl and get on with my life and pray to God you don't find this. Your ego is big enough as it is.

-John"

Sherlock sat for a moment, absorbing this. Yes, he had read "A Study in Pink" and then he had yelled at John for his lack of description in Sherlock's analysis, the lack of facts. John was hoping he'd be flattered and he really should have been. His angry tirade about hard drives and bashing of John's opinions hadn't really bothered him at the time but he could now feel a smidgen of guilt curling in his chest.

He stared at the name of the next file for a good thirty seconds, thinking it over; what it could mean. "Lust"...he swallowed down an apprehensive lump in his throat and clicked.

"Sherlock,

Honestly, something is wrong with me. I should be panicking instead of typing. I've been looking at you, Sherlock. Far too much. Perhaps you've noticed this (I wouldn't put it past you) but you've certainly given me no indication.

When we're at crime scenes or even just around the flat, I find myself staring at you, just gaping like a fool and then turning away in embarrassment. And then there's those times when our eyes meet and it's like a staring contest, a showdown to see who's the bravest. I always lose. I break under your cool blue gaze and wonder what on earth is going on inside your head. I know I would never be able to fully understand but do you even think about things? I mean like normal things guys think about. Like how soft someone's hair looks, how long their legs are, or dear me, how delightful their backside is to look at it. Heaven sakes, I even ogle your hands as you pluck at that blasted violin!

And don't even get me started on your neck. Seriously, I could write volumes. But my point is this has to mean something, right? I mean, sure I've found men attractive before, but it was just a passing thought and I'd move on…but you…I can't seem to move on. And I don't know how long I can last living in the same flat as you, knowing you're always right there, so close but so out of my reach. A man could go crazy like this. That's why I've decided to start dating Sarah. Maybe, in time, she can take my mind off of you and maybe I'll get laid. Maybe it's been my hormones raging this whole time and I just can't tell left from right anymore. Maybe.

-John"

Sherlock hadn't realized he'd been breathing quite so hard until he caught himself at it and closed his eyes for a moment. John found him attractive. John Watson found Sherlock Holmes attractive. Sherlock's entire world had just been tilted 180 degrees. And Sarah was a cover-up? A distraction from what John truly wanted? Something about that made Sherlock proud. He knew that was probably the wrong emotion to be feeling, but he wasn't very keen on feeling things in the first place.

But this- the warmth in his chest, the tiny hairs prickling on the back of his neck and up his thighs…it wasn't entirely unpleasant. It was true that Sherlock had considered John to be, on more than one occasion, attractive but he knew the feeling would never be mutual and he wouldn't know what to do if it were, so he just buried himself in his work and ignored that niggling flutter in the pit of his stomach whenever John happened to brush against him while handing him a cup of tea.

He wasted no time in opening the final letter.

"Dear Sherlock,

We've been living together for a little over two months now and I must say, it's been the most thrilling time of my life. Even between cases, I'm never bored with you. I enjoy your company (most of the time) and I feel myself becoming more and more attached to you. It's crazy to think that I'd just as easily take a bullet for you as I would sit at home and have a Bond marathon.

This connection we have…it's different. I have a sibling, and I've had best friends before, and several girlfriends, but all of those relationships seem to pale in the light of what I feel for you. You're like a missing to piece to my puzzle. I know it seems cliché to say 'you complete me' but I can't really come up with any other phrase to sum it up. Except maybe one, but I don't think either one of us is quite ready for that.

I'll tell you someday, be it the day you discover that your feelings are the same or with my dying breath after I actually do take a bullet for you. And when I do, I hope you don't laugh or patronize me for having feelings, because we both know, despite your incredible beauty and brilliance, you are human just like the rest of us.

-Yours Always, John"

Sherlock couldn't take his eyes off the screen. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat. His brain was far past having any coherent thoughts but one that kept circling round and round his head: "John loves me". Larger and louder the thought grew until it threatened to tear him apart lest he do something about it!

Just then, as if on cue, he heard the front door slam. With a speed he didn't know he possessed, Sherlock minimized all the windows, slammed the laptop shut and dived back onto the couch, feigning sleep. He listened to John's heavy footsteps as he approached, no doubt weighed down with bags of groceries, meaning he hadn't had another fight with a machine. The door opened and John gave a tired sigh as he lugged the bags to the kitchen.

"Oh don't mind me, I'm fine," he announced sarcastically and Sherlock could hear the slamming of cabinets and the refrigerator door as he put away the food.

His heart was still hammering away, as if urging him to move but for once, Sherlock didn't know what to do. He continued to lay with his eyes shut, intentionally slowing his breathing as John made his way into the room.

"Sherlock. You asleep?" he asked and Sherlock did not answer.

John's footsteps were slow, hesitant, as he moved towards the sofa and stopped just beside it. Sherlock had to make a conscious effort to remain still as a blanket was pulled over him. He thought he was in the clear, but something happened that he was utterly unprepared for: John's fingers brushing gently through his hair. He honestly could not be blamed for losing control of his hand as it latched onto John's wrist, making the other man gasp and curse.

His eyes opened to immediately land on John who was a flustered mess. "Did you just wake up or do you find it amusing to scare the living hell out of me?" he demanded, his face the picture of adorable mortification.

Sherlock struggled for something to say before finally muttering a soft, "John…" and tugging him down, almost on top of himself, and pressing his lips against those of his flatmate. John made a startled noise but Sherlock held him there, his other hand moving to cup the back of his neck, threading his fingertips into his short blond hair. The next noise that escaped John was a moan as he parted his lips and leaned into Sherlock, whose tongue tentatively wove its way into his mouth.

He catalogued the way John tasted; masculine, hints of tea with something else that was subtly sweet. He also found that he wanted more of it. He pulled John until he was straddling Sherlock's waist and then promptly flipped them both over so he was now on top. Their lips had never parted for more than a second and John's hands were on him now, sliding past his dressing gown and up under his shirt. Chills rose to Sherlock's skin as he growled, clashing their mouths more passionately together, his hands fisting John's jumper as if wanting to tug it off without breaking the kiss.

Suddenly John's hands were on his chest, pushing Sherlock back until their lips were forced to separate. "Sh-Sherlock…" he panted, face flushed and eyes dark, "What brought this on?"

Sherlock shrugged as best he could and replied with, "I just realized something, that's all," before diving in for another kiss. John's hands stopped him again and he gave Sherlock a fairly level stare.

"Oh don't make me say it now, John, you're not a virgin girl."

He chuckled, "Fair enough. But I will hear it eventually, you mark my words."

"Of course, my dear Watson," Sherlock consented before John leaned up to capture his lips once more and he pondered briefly if John would ever find out about his sneaking. Just then, John's hands reached a very interesting place and Sherlock knew wouldn't be pondering again for quite a while.

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