Chapter Twenty

Hearts Collide

Never before had Sherlock been plagued with such consuming insomnia. No sooner did he drift off into a restless dream that he woke again with a heavy heart, an aching one. All his thoughts and desires and hopes and fears had been boiled down to one pathetically simple statement: He was in love with John. And there had to be a way to tell him, a way for Sherlock to make his intentions clear, because his heart was breaking over it in the most stupidly beautiful way.

After an agonizing stretch of time, he freed himself from his blankets and pulled on his blue dressing gown, striding softly into the hall. Silence. He wandered gloomily into the kitchen and flicked on a light, throwing the sitting room into even sharper darkness. He glared at the science equipment on the table, shoved some of it aside, and sat down.

What was to become of him? He was terribly confused; was or wasn't John attracted to him? Had John ended it with Mary to be with Sherlock? Did he think of Sherlock in platonic terms only? If he'd lived all his life dating women, would he be disgusted at the thought of being with a man? Had he ever doubted his sexuality? Did he see Sherlock as a cold, mechanic sociopath? No, Sherlock knew the answer to the last question. John saw Sherlock for what he was—an annoying, unpredictable, insufferable git with tremendous potential to be a good person. That was precisely why Sherlock kept John around. And why he had slowly, irretrievably fallen in love with him. God.

Glancing miserably about for anything of distraction, his eyes fell on the ever-growing stack of dirty plates. With a groan, he got out of his seat and set to the arduous task of dishwashing. Only moments later, John padded softly into the room, drawn no doubt by the muffled clanking of dishware. Sherlock was blushing before John even said a word; he didn't turn and continued scrubbing with a dogged persistence.

"Sherlock." There was a warm significance in those words that weakened Sherlock at the knees. He exhaled, gathered his wits about him, and turned to face John.

Something had changed between them—a shift brought on by many fights, moments of sweetness, and a change of heart. It felt strange, as though they were actors playing each other on stage. Awkward and tentative. Sherlock was suddenly seized with an appalling sense of injustice; he had been waiting all along for the moment to expose his feelings for John, the perfect moment. But perfect hadn't come. And staring into John's all overwhelming blue eyes; Sherlock realized that he no longer cared. This moment was perfect in all its imperfections, and that was enough.

It always had been.

He opened his mouth, heart on the tip of his tongue, but John closed the distance between them in two strides and looked fiercely into Sherlock's eyes. "You. Are. Brilliant. And I'm a total arse for not noticing it sooner."

The world came to a screeching, glorious halt. And Sherlock's old criticisms flew away, up with the birds. He had the strange sense of being upside down and enjoying it. Before his mind could get twisted up in logic as it always did, he spoke. "I didn't mean to fall in love," he began. "But I did. And you, you weren't supposed to make fall in love with you, so I believe we both broke the rules." He tried to swallow the lump in his throat out of existence, but it stuck there, relentless. "I'm always on guard with the rest of the world, but with you, I know it's no good." He smiled with a wry sadness. "You're an idiot, John, but you're not stupid. You always saw past my moods and tantrums and discrepancies. You never once called me a freak. And that, that unfailing loyalty was completely brilliant and infinitely attractive." Sherlock took a great gulp of air after that revealing outburst and watched the heat consume John's face. "I want things to work between us because sometimes a heart can't afford to be 'just friends,' and I just couldn't keep this in any longer!"

"It was really quite terrifying," said John, "to realize that I was falling for you."

"What?"

"You're a bit out of my league, for one thing." The heavy atmosphere lightened and warmth swelled somewhere near Sherlock's heart. "And somehow, you managed to successfully unseat me from my original sexuality. Bit scary, yeah?"

"But you—you and Mary—and being straight and me being a man…I don't understand."

"I don't, either. I admire you and respect you and half the time I'm a soldier on your battlefield, and I don't know—I just woke up one day and loved you. It was just was. Mary and I didn't work because my heart wasn't in it, because my relationship with her was only prolonging reality and Jesus, I think it took less courage to invade Afghanistan than it did to tell you how I feel." John's blush deepened as he sought to sort out his racing emotions.

In past years, Sherlock had always attributed "love" to hormones and endorphins, but it would be an insult to compare this feeling to invisible chemicals in the blood stream. It did somewhat smite his powers of deduction, but when it came to love, a clever person turned into a rather stupid one. "I'm not perfect," said Sherlock, with a desperate sort of sadness. "I'll annoy you and piss you off and say stupid things and take it all back, but I'm hopelessly yours. For as long as you want it…if you want it."

"I want it, Sherlock. So much."

And John was laying a warm palm on Sherlock's cheekbone and pulling him close; it seemed the most natural next step to kiss, especially when all words had become superfluous. The small things made it beautiful, like the fact that John's height forced him to stand on tiptoe, and that he tugged the dish from Sherlock's fingers as their lips collided in a bittersweet blaze. The distant sound of the plate clattering to the floor became white noise; all Sherlock felt was John—on him, around him, with him. Only when Sherlock became dangerously close to passing out from lack of oxygen did he pull away, blushing and staring at John's chest. "What?" he asked, seeing John's flash of amusement.

"Nope, definitely not straight," John chuckled.

Sherlock smiled a bit mischievously, and kissed him again, praying that it would be the second of many kisses, of ruffled hair and flushed cheeks, of heated conversations and hearts bursting. Lightening had struck.

And so began the perfect storm.

I hope you found this accurate and imaginative; I nearly killed myself writing it! :) I can't believe I'm at the end of this story looking back...if only I could go back and begin it all again.

Here's to Johnlock and earhats and all things Sherlock! Cheers!

Ever yours,

-Spark Writer-

I'm considering a sequel...