A/N: This is basically shameless fluff. I wanted a series in which we get to see each character when they find out about John and Sherlock. I'm not sure how many I'll do, but I've got a few more planned. This one is (obviously) about Sherlock, and it's from his POV. Also, I think they will all be in chronological order. Happy reading!
Sherlock wondered that he hadn't seen it before. In retrospect, it had taken him an embarrassingly long time to do so. His business was observation. Nevertheless, (he rationalized), it wasn't really his fault. He was used to observing the world, yes, but he wasn't used to turning that highly-refined skill inwards on himself. And as a sociopath, he hadn't expected to find himself doing something as… as human as falling in love.
Falling in love. Even the phrasing was distasteful. It implied losing control, something Sherlock almost never did. He kept a very tight watch on his emotions, lest they distract from vital intellectual pursuits.
It would be unthinkable for him to give up control of his actions, or to be unable to control his own thoughts. But then, wasn't that what had already happened? Sherlock used to have perfect focus. But now, he could be in the middle of a case, and still get distracted, wondering what John was doing, what he was thinking. John could sit food in front of him, and he would eat it. Even though he knew it would slow him down and obscure his thoughts.
Oddly, thinking of the things John made him do didn't make him feel resentful. Perhaps then there was a difference between losing control and giving it away. And perhaps that's what love was. Someone else having control over you and you not minding. It was rather fitting that it had taken an ex-soldier to breach his defenses.
Except no, that could be quite it. Because Mycroft had a rather unfortunately large amount of control over him, and he hated every second of it. Even though he supposed he loved his brother.
But then, he'd always knew he loved Mycroft. It was undoubtedly there, although often obscured by anger and resentment. But his feelings for John, or at least his realization of them had come on rather quickly over the course of the evening.
Or rather, yesterday evening, he thought, glancing at the clock. In his opinion, 3AM was the best time to think. Less chance of interruption. Lestrade never called before five, and Mycroft preferred to text in the middle of the night. Or at least, he had ever since John had almost shot the man he'd sent to speak with them. Combat reflexes, and all that.
John was, of course, asleep upstairs. Sherlock didn't blame him. Aside from it being what even a nocturnal insomniac would call a late hour, John had had a singularly bad day.
Sherlock remembered uncomfortably the moment when he'd first seen John drugged and tied to a chair. At least the crossbow hadn't been pointed at him. If it had been, Sherlock wasn't sure what he would have done.
The thought of his flatmate dying was painful. Before this evening, Sherlock hadn't known that thoughts could be so. But when he considered John being gone forever, he went slightly hot and cold at the same time, and felt vaguely sick.
It was a novel sensation. Sherlock catalogued it carefully, and stored it away in the section of his mind where he kept that sort of thing. He'd added more to that particular catalogue in the weeks he'd known John than in the five- no, in the ten years preceeding their meeting.
There had been the odd leap of joy when John had agreed to come on that first case, and again in the cab when John had deemed him, or at least his deductive skills, brilliant. That should have been a clue he supposed- both John's atypical response, and his own oddly strong reaction. But of course he hadn't been thinking about love back then.
There was the exasperation he felt when John disturbed his experiments, but not the cold frustration he felt towards Mycroft or Anderson. It was a warm feeling, which made him feel surprisingly willing to accept John's stammered apologies. Not least because John wasthe only person who ever othered apologize to Sherlock.
Then there was the oddly contented feeling he got whenever John returned to the flat. And, to contrast, the slight emptiness when John was off at work. Sherlock had managed on his own for years before moving in with the doctor, but the thought of not having John as his flatmate left him with the strong desire to prevent that possible turn of events.
John was just so fascinating. He'd shot a man for Sherlock on their very first case, and yet he would refuse to let him leave experiments lying about. He would occasionally shoot Sherlock a look when he thought the detective wasn't watching (which was absurd, because Sherlock was always paying attention to John), the sort of look which he had seen his father give his mother on a very rare occasion. But then he would go out on a date with Sarah, and the flat would feel so cold and empty that Sherlock would take any opportunity to leave.
Sarah. Ah yes, Sarah. Sherlock had always had an irrational dislike of the girl, although he had rather figured out the reasons for that by now. She took up John's time, time that would be better spent with Sherlock and the cases they worked on together now.
He was surprised to find a twinge of jealousy inside himself as well. He wasn't quite sure what he had to be jealous about. He spent more time with John than Sarah did, to be sure. And he certainly knew the doctor far better than she.
He thought back to the circus, before he had snuck backstage. He had stood behind them, ostensibly focused on the case. They had been huddled together for warmth, hands clasped between them.
Ah. Sherlock found that he wished he had been the one holding hands with John. Wanted to be able to say that they belonged to each other. He wanted exclusive rights to John Watson. And…
…all right, he wanted exclusive rights to all of John Watson. He wasn't an asexual, after all. He wanted (sometimes rather too much) to slide his hands under John's shirt, and to run his fingers on John's hair, and to discover what John's lips tasted like…
Sherlock terminated that train of thought before it got too distracting. He had known that John was attractive to him even before tonight, although he'd ignored it. He had so much practice suppressing his libido that he didn't even have to try to ignore that sort of thought.
Besides, it wasn't (just) John's body that he wanted. It was his sweaters, and his tea, and his limp, and his laugh, and the way he complained about the body parts in the fridge but never actually did anything about it, and the way he would drop everything and come whenever Sherlock said it was important, no questions asked, and how he always put everyone else before himself…
All right, so Sherlock was in love with him. Now what?
He wasn't exactly clear on what his next step ought to be. He'd never dated anyone. Casual shags, yes, a standing arrangement with a Spaniard on exchange, but nothing where he actually cared about the other person.
Although, even if he did decide the best course of action was to declare his affections, which he could honestly never imagine himself doing, there were a few problems in the way.
Sarah, for one. He could tell that she wasn't going to last, that despite their shared profession, they were too different to be truly compatible. But he certainly couldn't do anything until that had run its course.
And of course, there was John's sexuality to contend with. John was straight, or at least he thought so. Sherlock, observant as he was, had come to the conclusion that John must be bisexual, although he had extremely discerning taste in men. Besides himself, he'd only caught John looking at a man unduly once. And that could have been because the man in question had been a certain famous actor they'd passed on a chase, and everyone had exceptions to their rules.
But Sherlock didn't know how well John would react to anything overt. John's unpredictability, normally fascinating, was proving to be a frustration.
Sherlock considered. It did go quite against his nature, but he could just wait awhile. See how things went, adjust his actions as the situation called. He hated waiting, but he had a wonderful distraction living with him that went a long way in making up for that. Besides, John was worth waiting for.
Satisfied, he returned his full attention to the task at hand. Well, almost his full attention. He may be a sociopath, but he was still (sometimes unwillingly) a human being, with the faults that entails.
Though throughout his entire internal discussion and subsequent epiphany, his hand had never once shook or faltered, and he had eye-droppered out his specimens impeccably. In love or not, he was still Sherlock Holmes.
He hoped John knew what he had gotten into.
He suspected that he did, and didn't care.
His hand remained steady, and his measurements remained sure, but a small smile spread across his face. Love, he decided, wasn't quite as bad as he'd thought.