Johnlock Fanfic

One of them doesn't know if the other likes them, and the other is sure that the other is just shy and afraid to admit their feelings. But in the end, everyone's happy.

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4. Chapter 4

The evening reached London quickly. Sherlock had fallen asleep on the couch, his back facing the ceiling, right arm draped over the edge. He looked so peaceful, John thought as he stared in wonder and admiration at Sherlock. He liked how Sherlock's curls fell onto his forehead, hiding his eyes, how he always wore that blue housecoat, and how fragile he looked. John just wanted to lay there and hold Sherlock to him. He wanted to kiss his forehead and whisper 'goodnight, love' without the fear that Sherlock might become uncomfortable. John also wanted to run his hand through those curls of his. It must be like soft ribbons of silk, he thought; so soft that he could just melt.

All of a sudden, Sherlock's look of content disappeared only to be replaced with creases of concern and fright. He was having another nightmare, John thought. And he was right. Before he knew it, he heard Sherlock mumbling his name as if he were calling him from a distance. His eyebrows scrunched up, and his eyes began to water. John hurried over to Sherlock and kneeled down, taking his hand in his.

He rubbed circles on the back of his hand, telling him, "Sherlock, I'm here, it's okay."

And just like that, Sherlock calmed. His breathing went back to normal, and the tears stopped coming. John wiped the few that had fallen away with his thumbs, and slowly caressed his face. Sherlock leaned into his touch, and hummed happily. Should he sneak behind Sherlock and hold him like he'd wanted to? Or would that be too risky? Would it scare Sherlock away? He figured that if he left Sherlock there, he would start to suffer from the nightmare again. He didn't want that, so he chose to take the risk. He slipped behind Sherlock, and wrapped his arms around him. He tensed when Sherlock turned around, but relaxed when he simply curled into his chest, emitting a sigh.

When Sherlock woke up the next morning, he turned and stretched his arms out, searching for the warmth he had acquired over night. He couldn't find it, however, and only managed to roll right off of the couch with an "oophf". He opened his eyes and searched the piece of furniture for the source of comfort, but nothing was there. Nobody was there. It was a silly thought, Sherlock knew, but he couldn't help have some belief that it had been John. Some HOPE that John had actually been there. He tried to remember the events of last night, what happened to the nightmare, why it suddenly disappeared. He remembered John falling, and then everything froze, John in midair, flailing arms and legs pausing. And then there was something wiping his face, someone. John. He heard his calm, soft voice whisper to him, felt him touch his face gently. John took his hand, and then curled up behind him. He held him. Sherlock felt so safe and calm and LOVED. He closed his eyes and savoured the moment.

Slowly Sherlock was hit with the realization that he had been so naive, so damn doubtful. So stupid! John wasn't being friendly. John...John liked him. A part of his mind still fought about the idea. It was preposterous! But the other part, the stronger part, convinced him that John thought of him as he did him. Sherlock laughed in complete joy. Wait. Where WAS John? Sherlock quickly scanned the living room, and found a note on the table adjacent to him. "Gone out for groceries. Be back soon." He frowned. Not only did he wish to see John, his hair all wet and spiky after taking a shower, wearing his robe, reading the newspaper, but he wanted to confirm his theory. He'd made too many mistakes before, and this time he'd observe, REALLY, THOROUGHLY observe. Sherlock was going to make the doctor his.

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