Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.

Author´s notes (please read these first):

I have taken this chapter from my story "All the Songs Make Sense", which deals with how John and Sherlock realize they are in love with each other or respectively which trigger situations might occur. I felt that this story can well stand alone, so here goes, plus some minor changes.

It´s neither going to contain smut nor any graphic sex, and I really don´t like the word 'slash'- 'love' sounds much better. So yeah, I couldn´t resist, for they do make a great couple in my opinion, and of course you´ll get some fluff as well.

Still, if you don´t like to read about homosexual love, this might not be the right thing for you.

Furthermore I am no native English speaker and therefore apologize for any mistakes. Oh, and there are spoilers for all six episodes of Sherlock.

Enjoy!

o o o

Darn Brain-Messing Emotions

o o o

It happens every time. The minute John Watson leaves 221B, Sherlock begins to miss him, even if he only nips out to get milk. Sometimes he already misses him before he´s gone, which is even worse, because one day John is bound to notice how Sherlock is staring at him longingly. The detective snorts at himself, but it undeniably is true: he longs for John.

He has no idea how it happened and frankly, is quite unnerved by the surge of emotions the doctor is stirring up in him, but he does not know how to turn it off either, and he doesn´t want to if he is honest with himself. He wants John. He pines for him, to be exact, and every bodily contact, however short or unintentional or both jolts through him like electricity. He wants John to put his arms around him, to hold him for heaven´s sake, and he wants John to be the first thing he feels upon waking. He has never ever before had such cravings.

He is beginning to think that he´s losing his mind, and it´s getting worse; whenever he´s particularly agitated, he needs to have John near him, or at least something which smells of him. His scent is soothing, so logically Sherlock has borrowed one of John´s t-shirts, which is now hidden under a pillow in the detective´s bedroom. He is going to return it, of course, so no harm done. It is of great comfort to bury his face in it when he can´t sleep; if he can´t have the whole package, he can at least sample it, so to speak.

Sherlock loathes the turmoil which his emotions are putting him through, and he fears that he can´t concentrate enough. He does think rather a lot about John instead of entirely focusing on his respective cases, and he even has caught himself at allowing his mind to wander when John talks to him, for it is much more interesting to watch the other´s movements and expressions. Sherlock knows exactly how to read his flatmate´s body language, and he sometimes sees things he doesn´t like. Like the exhaustion after a particularly gruesome workday.

"Are you even listening to me?" John said, exasperated, the last time it happened.

Sherlock visibly started: "I´m sorry."

"Yes, you bloody well should be." John frowned at him.

Not good. Sherlock unexpectedly felt his stomach drop and would have liked to make it up to John, but didn´t know how.

"You´re tired," he therefore said, hoping it would suffice, "you´ve come back from a ten hour-shift at the surgery and are still trying to help me by going through the facts again with a fine-tooth-comb. I however didn´t listen to you, which is making you angry, and you´re considering of getting up and retiring to your room because I´m a rude, inconsiderate, selfish bastard."

John, despite his best efforts, couldn´t but smile: "Yes, my words exactly."

Sherlock had been tremendously relieved and from that point on did his best to not let himself go like that again. It´d been a lot easier when he didn´t have to care about the things he said and did. Except with Mummy, but that´s different.

o

So it is hard to keep to his good intentions at times, because John is so damn handsome and wonderful, and the world seems a better place when he smiles. Which is rather distracting! Also, he´s got the most adorable little dimples, and Sherlock is furthermore certain he could lose himself in those eyes for hours. He sometimes imagines how it would be like if they slept in the same bed, snuggled up together. He would be able to feel John´s heartbeat, a thought that always makes his own heart rate increase considerably.

He already knows that John doesn´t snore, and he is quite sure he doesn´t either, but would it bother John if Sherlock´s breath smelled bad in the morning? Would it be possible to sneak out of bed, brush his teeth and sneak back in without waking John? Or should he keep a packet of mints on the nightstand?

And what if John wanted intercourse? What if it went really bad? Really, really bad?

Frustratedly, Sherlock runs his hands through his hair; how do people do all that, finding a partner and then striking up a relationship without knowing all these variables? He doesn´t have the faintest idea.

John doesn´t seem intimidated by those questions at all. He keeps dating women, who however keep turning him down, much to Sherlock´s relief. It´s nearly unbearable seeing John leave, anticipating a pleasant evening in the company of a potential sexual partner and/or soulmate, unsuspecting of Sherlock´s jealousy.

It doesn´t occur to the detective that the disappointing outcome might have anything to do with himself; no matter how romantic the restaurant is, there is only a limited amount of time a woman wants to spend listening to her date talking about his quirky- but-oh-so-great flatmate. It gets worse if the flatmate, upon meeting him, turns out to be lacking any social skills and utterly fails to prove his greatness.

The more difficult it becomes to hide his feelings, the more snappy and irritated Sherlock gets, especially with the rest of the world, meaning anyone else he has to share John with. And he certainly has no intention of making a good impression on the respective Sarahs, Janets or Marys.

o

John notices that Sherlock´s behaviour is odd, and much more so than usual. He can´t really fathom the reasons; at home, Sherlock seems reasonably relaxed, at least when they spend some quiet time together. Yet when they´re out, no matter whether it´s at a crime scene or in a supermarket, Sherlock seems to feel uncomfortable. He does his best to hide it behind a deliberate display of arrogance, but John knows him well enough to see through it. Something is bothering Sherlock, and whatever it is, he is sleeping and eating even less than usual. John worries, but knows better than to let it on.

Lestrade isn´t fooled either. "What´s up with him?" he asks in an undertone, nodding towards the detective who´s examining the latest victim´s fingers.

John shakes his head: "I don´t know. He won´t talk to me about certain matters."

Lestrade regards him silently for a moment: "Funny. I´d think he did, what with the way he´s been looking at you recently when you´re not paying attention to him."

John raises one eyebrow in question, at which the D.I. puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs: "Like you´re the only one whose opinion counts. Or... the only one who´s there."

Before John has found a reply to that, Lestrade walks away, all innocence. John murmurs: "Well, I am the only one-" but then he stops. Oh.

Luckily, Sherlock is too occupied with the victim to register how John, after standing stunned for a moment, suddenly moves astonishingly quick to catch up with Lestrade: "Greg. Wait."

The D.I. turns to him, and John has a feeling that he is hiding a grin.

John pointedly ignores it: "What you just said- for how long do you think has it been going on, you think?" And more importantly, who else has noticed? he wonders, but doesn´t ask.

o

John is unusually quiet during the following few days and seems to be avoiding Sherlock´s presence at times, or maybe he simply has got the evening shift for a change.

When he comes home after dark one day, he falls into his chair and sighs tiredly, but doesn´t speak. Sherlock´s been fiddling with his violin without actually playing it, and when he finally sits down opposite the doctor, he feels exhausted. He can sense that something is going on in John´s mind and has done so for a time, but he doesn´t dare ask.

What if John is considering moving out? He will eventually do so, a notion that makes Sherlock want to curl up in despair and simultaneously destroy all available breakables within his reach, but surely not yet? John will wait until he has met the right woman, being the sensible man that he is. The only other reason could be Sherlock´s antics, but as far as he recalls, he´s been good. He´s certainly done his best and even removed the bowl of earlobes from the fridge.

They sit in silence until Sherlock can´t bear it any longer and gets up; he still has work to do. It will at least take his mind off John. John who looks worried, who is paler than usual and who smells so good. If he is indeed going to move out, Sherlock is determined to keep at least one of his t-shirts.

o

Later that night, Sherlock sits at the kitchen counter and measures out liquids into different test tubes when John comes in.

He has been pondering Lestrade´s words for ages and still not got an inkling about what he should do. Maybe he should start by stopping to mull it over.

"Sherlock," he says, and to his astonishment, Sherlock goes perfectly still. He doesn´t exactly drop his pipette, but only barely manages to put it down, then he freezes. He doesn´t look at John, and his body suddenly is tense.

"What´s wrong?" John asks.

Sherlock needs a moment to gather himself before turning to face his friend: "Are you moving out?"

"What?" John looks so surprised that Sherlock makes a mental note: completely misjudged situation, but at least proves that emotions are messing with brain.

He is so relieved, however, that he starts to tremble. He quickly tries to hides his hands and unintentionally knocks an Erlenmeyer flask over with enough force to break it. He hisses as he feels the glass cutting into his skin.

Immediately, John is there, taking hold of his hand before Sherlock can pull it away and begins to examine the wound: "I´ll need to take the shards out-"

"It´s fine, John," Sherlock grounds out through the haze of pain and John´s scent and his own confusion and John. John who´s touching him, whose hands feel good even now, under these circumstances, and who Sherlock doesn´t want to lose.

John looks up at him: "What´s wrong, Sherlock?" he repeats, and his voice is so kind and warm and beautiful that Sherlock trembles even more, trembles with want and bereavement and love all at once: "N-nothing´s wrong," he manages to say.

It´s obvious that John doesn´t believe him.

"Liar," he breathes. He let´s go of the topic for the time being though, in order to care for Sherlock´s wound despite the detective´s protests.

Twenty minutes later, the wound is clean and bandaged, and John has poured Sherlock and himself a brandy. "For the pain," he says, and they clink glasses.

Sherlock doesn´t feel like drinking it and the pain is already receding, but he complies. Anything is better than talking; he feels cornered, which makes him uneasy, and he must be careful not to become snappy.

"You´re trembling," John observes."Need me to get you a red blanket?"

Sherlock huffs but can´t subdue a small smile. John´s humour. Another treat.

"Seriously, Sherlock." John looks at him with so much affection that Sherlock begins to feel funny.

"What is going on? Why did you think I´d want to move out?"

Sherlock´s brain is letting him down, however; darn emotions. Wordlessly, he holds out his glass; it can´t get worse anyway.

o

Only after the second refill, Sherlock finally begins to relax: "All these women," he says, "you keep dating all these women. I guess their breath doesn´t smell bad in the morning."

John really doesn´t know how to answer that.

Sherlock however has only just started, and he hears himself, rather horrified, as all the pent-up emotions take over: "These women. Their breath probably smells liks flowers when they wake up, even though that´s physically impossible. But what do I know, I have never woken up with a woman, so it´s all guesswork. I can only guess how it would be to wake up next to you. And let me tell you, I´m done with that. Feelings only make one´s life a misery because frankly, it´s very hard to look on and then there´s pining and heartache and wondering what to do in case you´d want intercourse, but I guess none of them even notices how really good you smell, and I just can´t do that anymore."

He stops, exhausted and a little horrified, and asks himself whether he has gone mad; if John really hasn´t considered moving out so far, he certainly is going to now. Oh god, how Sherlock is already missing him. With an appalled sigh, he lets his head drop into his uninjured hand, making another mental note: brandy on an empty stomach equals truth serum. Not good when applied to self.

John is too busy trying to comprehend what he has just heard, and he is deliberately ignoring the word 'intercourse' for the time being. Sherlock has a crush on him, that much seems clear, and what he has just blurted out explains a lot. Explains everything, for that matter. John looks at the detective, who´s trembling again, sitting hunched over and hiding his eyes behind his fingers. Maybe it´s more than a crush.

Though John has eaten something, he can also feel the effect of the brandy, if ever so slightly. He probably should go to bed and deal with this later, well-rested and rationally, but he can´t. He can´t leave Sherlock like this, not after what he just revealed.

And John doesn´t want to leave it at that, because his heart rate has actually increased considerably during the past half hour, starting when he found Sherlock in the kitchen, obviously distressed and looking so forlorn that John felt the need to hug him. Which he didn´t do, because he wasn´t certain how Sherlock would react. And then Sherlock said all those things, making John´s heart beat even faster.

When John remains silent but miraculously doesn´t leave the room, Sherlock almost timidly raises his head: "I´m. I´m sorry, John," he grounds out. "I- I..."

John shakes his head: "Don´t be."

Sherlock thinks he has misheard: "What?"

The doctor shrugs: "There really is only one way to find out."

"Find out what?"

"Oh, do keep up Sherlock." John smiles at Sherlock´s obvious confusion, cocking his head: "Will you go out with me?"

For a moment, Sherlock doesn´t seem to breathe.

"On a date?"

"Yes, on a date. It´s when two people go out and do something nice together, remember?."

"But we always-"

"No, we don´t. Cases don´t count."

"Oh." Sherlock can´t quite believe that he´s not dreaming this.

But then John touches him, only ever so slightly but sending another electric jolt through Sherlock´s nerves, and there is his scent again, familiar and soothing. He is waiting for an answer. "So?"

Sherlock, for once happy not to think about the matter for too long, nods: "Yes... I´d like to go out with you."

He looks as though he doesn´t know what has struck him.

"Good. I know a nice little place." John smiles once more, illuminating the whole room or so it seems. "I´m going to bed now. Good night."

"John-" Sherlock breathes, struggling for the right words. "How does one do it?"

John stops dead in his tracks:"Do what?"

"Well- you know... dating?"

The doctor stares at Sherlock for a moment, secretly relieved: "Relax. You´ll find out." He nods reassuringly: "You´ll like it."

o

Much later that night, lying widely awake on the sofa, Sherlock makes another mental note. Correction: emotions do mess with brain but outcome might not be entirely undesirable.

o o o

The End

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