"Sherlock? SHERLOCK?! Where the hell are you?!"
Smiling to himself, Mr Holmes strode into the living room, where his irate flatmate was standing - not looking particularly happy.
Sherlock couldn't understand why: that woman had obviously been a one-night stand kind of person. Honestly, just the items in her handbag were enough to go on!
"Why, how good to see you, John!" John looked as though he might actually explode, and Sherlock decided that he had, perhaps, crossed a line.
"I had a real chance there, Sherlock! She was lovely, and kind and-"
"Looking for a one-night stand." Sherlock interjected.
"Shut up! Why do you always have to ruin these things? If you'd just left us alone, it could have worked, but no, you just had to walk in and tell her to give up, just when I was about to ask her out! What is wrong with you, for God's sake!" And with that, he stormed out, a blazing trail of fury following him as he left.
Sherlock sighed. Why couldn't John see that he'd only been trying to help?
Honestly, there were times when being human became intolerable.
John was horrendously angry when he returned, yelling at Sherlock again, because he'd left blood trailing all over the floor and made John worried sick.
"...I thought you'd been MURDERED, Sherlock!" Rolling his eyes, Sherlock had replied:
"John, please, I can take care of myself. I don't need your petty worrying; I've got Mrs Hudson already!" And after that, John had walked off to his room.
Three hours later, he was still there, and Sherlock decided that maybe there was something wrong.
Knocking on the frosted glass pane of the door, he shouted:
"You're the last person I want to talk to right now, Sherlock!" Was the answer from inside. Sherlock huffed and walked away, desperately trying to conceal the pain he felt.
He was fine.
Lying in his chair, he willed someone to call him with a new case. But, alas, nobody decided to be interesting.
In the end, he got up and grabbed his coat, stalking out of the door and into the evening air. The sky was already dark, despite it being only seven o' clock and it was surprisingly chilly for an evening in September.
Only one street lamp remained in the darkness - the others had died months ago - but it was enough for Sherlock's keen eyes to go by.
Where to go? He could seek out Lestrade and beg him for a new case, but somehow, it didn't seem likely.
He ran through some more ideas, but nothing seemed good enough to cure this boredom.
John's not boring...
His mind called out, but he shoved the idea away. John did not want to see him, and so Sherlock didn't want to see him, either.
But you do...
"Shut up!" He hissed at himself, as he rounded the corner. St. Barts came into view. Well, it was as good a place as any, and he could analyse those blood stains on the curtains in the reception - they'd always looked suspicious.
Striding into the building, he asked to borrow the curtain at the desk, which was met with no argument - people knew Sherlock Holmes and his weird ways - then headed up to the lab. It was peaceful, as usual, but then again, it was a morgue.
He swung open the doors and entered the place he always knew he would find interesting.
"Oh, um, hi, Sherlock!" Molly called from over where she was working, her fingers fidgeting with her hair.
It was obvious she had some news from her nervous stance and excited expression, and judging by her new lipstick colour and hairstyle, and the fact that she hadn't offered him some form of beverage, she'd found someone new.
Thank goodness! Maybe she'd be less annoying with a new crush. Although, judging by her bag, which was bulkier than normal, she had brought spare clothes to change into for a date that night. Interesting indeed.
"What's his name?" He said, not looking at her as he set up his equipment. Molly stammered, not expecting the question:
"It's Gr- wait, w-who do you mean, sorry?" Sherlock smiled to himself.
"Your new date, of course. What's his name?"
"Greg- it's Greg." Sherlock smirked. He hadn't realised the D.I had a thing for Molly.
"Lestrade? Really? Well, at least he's not a criminal mastermind like last time..." Molly blushed.
"No. No, you know he's not! And anyway-"
"Yes, I know, you ended it with Moriarty." He interrupted.
"And, and Jim asked me, not-not me asking him-"
"Yes, thank you Molly." Sherlock said, cutting through her desperate attempts to repair her reputation.
Sneakily, he slid his phone out of his pocket and sent a text to Lestrade:
Congratulations on your success with Molly. - S.H
The reply was almost instant:
Damn you...don't you dare tell.
Sherlock smiled as he replied, but it was a sad, lonely smile.
Oh, not a soul. - S.H
The room fell silent, apart from the occasional clink of test tubes and squawk of chairs on the floor. It felt odd, not having John talking-
Stop thinking about him!
But it did-
I said, STOP!
"So, Sherlock, um, what are you here for today?" Molly said, daring to converse.
"Bored." She looked confused.
"But...surely you and John-" Sherlock snapped up straight.
"Me and John what?" Molly blinked, startled like a rabbit in the headlights.
"I, you, John - you and John have a case to solve." Sherlock sighed, slumping back down to his work.
"Even if there was something to solve, John is...grumpy."
"Yes, does that surprise you?" Molly walked closer.
"You mean, you're not...talking?" She asked. Sherlock stiffened, but allowed the conversation to continue.
"Well, John was about to ask out a girl who was looking for a one-night stand and I told her to give up. Then, he got ridiculously angry and stormed out, returning only to shout again and then when I attempted to comfort him, he said I was 'the last person he wanted to talk to'." As he spoke, Sherlock could feel himself getting more and more upset. John didn't want to talk to him. He was upset, but he wouldn't go to Sherlock.
And Sherlock knew why: John didn't want Sherlock to interfere in his life anymore. He didn't want to know if women didn't care for him; if that shirt would make the wrong impression; if that music was too romantic. He just wanted to live his life and Sherlock was ruining it.
It was all his fault.
"Sherlock...I, I don't think he, you know, really means it; he's just angry. And...well, I...I guess that you could have held back, but it sounds as though you actually helped in the end." She said, nodding shakily.
Sherlock looked up at her properly, taking in all aspects of her. All the aspects he'd overlooked...
"Thank you, Molly." They sat for a few seconds in silence, until Molly spoke up again.
"I know why you did it. And it's okay; you, you shouldn't be ashamed." Sherlock looked up again, cocking his head to indicate that he needed further information. "You shouldn't be scared to tell yourself the truth-"
"Molly, please, what do you mean?"
"I mean that...well, it's obvious to everyone but you and John that you and John like each other." Sherlock spluttered, but she continued, turning to look out of the window, "Look, please, I...I mean that if you're going to insist on chipping into John's love life, you need a reason. You need to tell John how you feel. Do you see where I'm coming from, Sherlock? Sherlock?!" But he was already striding towards the doors.
Molly might have put it bluntly, but she was right. He needed to get it out, tell John how he felt before it was too late and John got settled down with someone else.
Suddenly solemn, he continued his journey home.
When he finally reached the door, he noticed that someone had come out of the door since he'd left. Looking around, he saw a black suitcase on the niche under the steps to the left of the door.
Dashing inside, Sherlock's footsteps pounded on the stairs.
John couldn't be leaving! Sherlock realised in that split second just how much he wanted John to stay there in 221B forever, with him.
John wouldn't be leaving.
"John? John?! JOHN!" Sherlock yelled as he reached the living room. Where was John?!
"Oh. Sherlock." Said a voice so heartbreakingly blunt as the person it belonged to walked out of the bedroom.
"John, you-you're, you're leaving...Why...why are you leaving?!" Sherlock spluttered, gasping for breath.
"Because, Sherlock, I've had enough. I've had enough of you ruining my chances every time I find a possible romance! I don't even know why you do it - why on earth would you care-"
"I know; I know. It's all my fault and...I..." Sherlock swallowed hard, "...I'm so, so sorry, John," John started to walk towards the door, but Sherlock caught his arm, pulling him back, "really, I am."
John sighed, sitting back down on the sofa.
"Look, Sherlock, I get it - you're sorry. But why do you even do it? How am I supposed to know that I won't find you shooing all the girls from my door? I'm moving out to find a flatmate who wants me to have a successful love life!" He yelled, standing up again. Sherlock moved to block the doorway.
This was it.
"John, look, please. I..I do want you to have successful love life. I want you to be happy," John snorted, "fine! I'll say it! I'll put it out there, just like you want! I don't want you to be in love with all those women who you bring home, because I want you to be in love with me!"
John blinked. The world seemed to have switched to mute.
Sherlock bit his lip and stepped back into the living room, before saying quietly, "I...guess...you'll be...going then?"
John closed his eyes. And opened them again. Sherlock swallowed: he was really going. Sherlock had put his biggest secret out there and now John was just going to walk out.
This time, Sherlock closed his eyes, not wanting to see the man he loved leave his life forever.
And then he felt something, something warm and rough and beautiful against his lips and suddenly they were kissing, wrapped up together so tightly, Sherlock wondered if they would ever come apart again.
It felt as though everything in the world was on place, as though all the colours in the room were a thousand shades brighter.
When they finally broke away, John opened his mouth, took a deep and powerful breath, and said:
"Darn it, Sherlock, you don't know how long I've been waiting for that."
"I love you." Sherlock said, pulling John close again.
"I swear you'll be the death of me, but...I love you too."
And as they stood there, leaning into one another, Sherlock knew that he'd never let John go again.