AN: slight 2x01 spoilers.

Written based on the quote from A Scandal in Belgravia where Sherlock says, "I image John Watson thinks love's a mystery to me." Enjoy!

He had noticed; of course he had noticed. He was Sherlock Holmes and John wasn't so good at hiding his affections. Of course he knew John loved him, whether as a friend or more (though he suspected more), however he knew he was never going to act on it. No, John valued their friendship too much to risk such a thing.

Sherlock considered calling him out on it. He thought about it, many times, but it all came up with the same two results; John returning the question, or leaving forever. Neither of these Sherlock could deal with. He couldn't admit his feelings to John; he had no idea what he would say, or what John would do. Oh of course he had feelings for John, he was the only one who Sherlock could trust, who had stayed with Sherlock despite all the stress that came with being his flatmate. John was the only one who ever called Sherlock a friend. Frankly, he was scared of being so vulnerable at the hands of another. His life he could flaunt and tease but his heart? His heart was his own, and it was what hurt the most, no matter what physical injuries he suffered though.

No, Sherlock would never call John out on it, because what if John left? What if John realized that loving your somewhat-asexual sociopathic roommate wasn't healthy and all it took was Sherlock to bring it up for John to pack up and leave? What if John left him, all alone, to go back to the way it was before he was happy, before he was loved...before he loved?

No, Sherlock could never say anything; he was perfectly fine with John playing dumb. He was fine with John denying his feelings. He was fine with John being completely and horridly oblivious to Sherlock's own displays of affections, not realizing when Sherlock would watch him from across the room for hours, when he would rest his chin on John's shoulder as he read the screen of his laptop, when he would actually go out and buy the milk and jam to surprise John after he had been working all day. No, John didn't notice Sherlock's affections, and Sherlock pretended not to notice John's, and that's how things were. John loved Sherlock, and Sherlock loved John.

"I imagine John Watson thinks love's a mystery to me," he had told Irene, and yes, there was truth behind the statement. He knew John thought that somewhere deep behind the walls Sherlock had built around himself that he had a heart, but was that heart capable of love? Had it ever felt love? Certainly never the traditional love of a family, but what about the romantic love of a relationship? Had Sherlock ever felt that burning in his veins at the touch of another? The butterflies in his stomach that a look from the right person could elicit? The rapid beating of a heart in love? The nervous babbling and the incoherent thoughts that filled the mind of a love struck man?

Yes, Sherlock wanted to say, yes John I have felt all of those. I've had the burning and the butterflies and the beating and the babbling and everything that goes along with love because I love you, John, can't you see? You give me those crazy feelings, and you've broken down the walls that I spent years putting up and you've come in and turned my life upside down but it's okay because being with you is addicting, John, it's like a drug that leaves me euphoric and wanting more.

And then one day, in between cases, the two of them were sitting in the flat, John typing slowly away at his blog and Sherlock lying on the couch in his usual blue robe when suddenly Sherlock popped the question. He hadn't thought about it at all before it just slipped out, and to be fair he was functioning on thirty five hours without sleep and he though he had assured himself he wasn't tired, his mind really wasn't as organized and careful as it could've been, and then oops! It just seemed to fly out of his mouth and hang in midair.

"John, how do you feel about me?" Sherlock had asked. He saw John's eyes widen from his position on the couch and then John blinked, twice, three times, four. He cleared his throat, the words 'what?' and 'I'm sorry?' forming on his lips but instead he just swallowed, positive that he had heard Sherlock right because it was Sherlock and he never mumbled.

"Well," he started, completely aware of Sherlock's piercing stare but refusing to look away from the screen of his computer. "Not that you don't know, since you've probably deduced it some way or another by now, and we've lived together for quite a long time I suppose, and everyone else seems to notice and takes joy in pointing it out consistently-"

"John," Sherlock interrupted softly his eyes now focused on the ceiling. His mind was overflowing with a million different thoughts but he told them all to shut the hell up, please, and listen to what John was (not so concisely) trying to say.

"Right," John continued, clearing his throat. He dared another glance at the detective, all arms and legs and robe draped haphazardly over the couch. "Well I'd say I'm rather, erm, fond of you." He lowered his eyes uncertainly to stare back at his computer screen. After a period of rather uncomfortable (at least for John) silence, he spoke again. "Why?" he whispered in a tiny voice.

Sherlock's head was racing one more and he could barely hear the question through the cacophony of thoughts flying through his mind; John liked him, and his tone, although nervous and rather tentative, showed that it was more than the fondness you have for a friend that brings you coffee in the mornings but more like the friend that you care for with all your heart, that you would risk your life for because you know that no matter what they would do the same for you, and yes, it was the fondness you would have for a friend but it was more than that, too, Sherlock could see, just because John had admitted it out loud to him. It was more than just friendship.

"Because I love you, John," he said, and for the first time Sherlock sounded unsure, as if maybe it wasn't the right thing to say, maybe not the right moment, but even if it wasn't, it was what he meant, and that he was sure of.

"Oh, um, right." Sherlock glanced quickly down from the white speck he had been staring at on the ceiling to see that John was smiling, a broad and giddy smile, his eyes dropped from the screen to the table, but not yet directed towards the couch. "I guess, then, I...love you too." He looked over at Sherlock and the two of them exchanged rather large and rather lovely smiles and Sherlock knew that John had broken down all the walls he had put up, and John had given him the butterflies and the rapid heart beat and the incoherent thoughts because John loved him, and he knew that John meant it.

Well I hope you enjoyed reading that as much as I enjoyed writing it! Reviews are much appreciated xox