This is a tale of the joining between two idiots. They are not called so because of their lack of knowledge, but rather because they are the two densest men you will ever meet. One is an army doctor; the other, a consulting detective. They both know a great deal about life and science and things of the sort. What they do not know though is their love for one another. It's a faint stirring in the pits of their stomachs and hearts, the deepest of aches in their bones. They both believe their love is unrequited, but it's almost unfathomable as to the reason why they believe this.

For John, it's expected. He normally sees things on the surface as for what they are. He tries to look deeper and understand thoroughly, but he's no Sherlock and never will be. If his brain worked more like Sherlock's, then he would've seen how the taller male looked at him in a completely different light, or how he began to do "mundane" things just for him. No, he would just see it as Sherlock trying to shut him up for a bit. But if he had the deduction skills he would have known within three seconds of looking at his flatmate that his feelings were returned, and strongly.

Only, he wouldn't for Sherlock himself couldn't see that John loved him as well. That's what emotions did to people and that was precisely why Sherlock had built himself a perfect palace made of what he thought was the toughest material. Then John came along and those walls cracked; and then they almost died and Sherlock realized that he didn't know what he would do if John would have died and the walls slowly began to crumble; finally, he realized that he was absolutely in love with John and then the walls began to grow mysterious holes and he lost all sorts of data. All of those missing pieces were filled with John and now he had trouble reading him simply because he wanted to read what he was hoping was there all along.

It's so unfortunate how he didn't realize just how right he was.