It was like any other day at 221B, save for the fact that Sherlock Holmes seemed to be in an impeccable mood. It really was too bad that John wasn't around to see it, as he had left early that morning for the job he seemed to keep forgetting he had. Sherlock couldn't put his finger on it, but he felt generally good today, and his day only brightened when he turned on the television around noon. Breaking BBC News was flashing across the top of the screen, and regular one o'clock broadcaster, Sophie Raworth, was looking grim as she reported a triple homicide not too awfully far from Baker Street. Sherlock didn't hesitate to grab his phone.

John! Come home, things have happened. –SH

It wasn't long before he received a worried message back, to which he rolled his eyes.

Why are you alright? Please tell me you didn't set fire to the bathroom again…you're lucky Mrs. Hudson is too nice to throw us out. –JW

Don't be silly, John, I can't set the bathroom on fire without matches, which you have rudely hidden from me. Though I have a strong inclination that you hide them under your mattress where you've been known to hide various other things you seem to not want me to see. Judging you for the Asian porn by the way. –SH

There was a long wait this time and Sherlock smiled happily to himself, knowing he had riled his short companion up.

Stay out of my bedroom! –JW

No, now come home! You'll have more fun with me than at that boring job of yours anyway. –SH

Not until you tell me why. –JW

Murder, John, why else? It's a good day to be us, there are three bodies! Close to home too. –SH

You're a disturbed man, Sherlock. –JW

…you love me. –SH

John didn't know how to respond to that last message. With everybody lately telling him he was gay he really didn't want to think about the possible implications behind the text. Knowing Sherlock it didn't mean anything, not anything like what John was thinking, but then again Sherlock was a complicated man. He grabbed his coat and clocked out, walking out to his car thinking about everything that had happened since he'd met his flat-mate. John knew, of course, deep down in his heart that he had some sort of feelings, intense feelings, for his friend. But the doctor simply refused to acknowledge that they were anything more than best friend sort of feelings. John Watson was stubborn, and nobody knew that more than the very person who was eagerly awaiting his return home. He had barely opened the door before he was bombarded with questions.

"What took you so long? You never wrote me back…never mind that though, put on a warmer coat its cold. Scarf or no scarf?" It was a good thing John had grown accustomed to Sherlock's fits of word vomit.

"Sorry I'm late, not sorry I didn't answer that text, stop coddling me, and yes, wear the scarf, it's chilly." He said back just as fast, changing his coat even though he had pretended to be annoyed at his friend's suggestion. Sherlock wrapped his blue scarf around his neck quickly and reached for John's arm as he opened their door. John didn't really think anything of it until they made it to the car, receiving an odd look from one of the passersby. He wiggled out of Sherlock's grasp.

"People are going to talk." He muttered, climbing into the car and earning a tired look from his friend. Sherlock didn't say anything, but honestly the amount of which John cared about what people thought was truly annoying. They drove to the crime scene in silence, and Sherlock's mood deflated just a bit, though it didn't dampen his eagerness to see the bodies once they arrived.

When they entered the shabby building that was located only about six or so blocks from their flat, they each looked around curiously. Lestrade should have been there, the police should have been there, but the place seemed absolutely desolate.

"Sherlock…are you sure we have the right address?" Goosebumps were crawling up John's arms and he felt himself unconsciously backing toward the door.

"We're at the right place, look." Sherlock didn't ask, simply took John's hand and pulled him in the direction of the first body. It was that of a woman, mid-twenties from what Sherlock could deduce, twice married, no children but incredibly stressed which suggested a life a business…a pretty average woman.

"Hmm…" Sherlock placed his fingers under his chin, wondering how she could have ended up hanging from her ceiling fan.

"What did you do…husband did it maybe?" John normally would have asked what made him think that, absolutely loving to hear him ramble about everything he could tell by just looking at a person, he found it utterly adorable. But today he was too fixated on what was staring him in the eye on the other side of the room, nausea coming over him like a wave.

"S-Sherlock…" The detective turned to see what his comrade was shakily pointing too, not quite as phased by what he saw but curious nonetheless. The two other victims, laying dismembered and hardly recognizable, were troubling to Sherlock.

"No…there is the husband. This is interesting indeed." He said as he rubbed his chin, attempting to analyze the victims, though they were mainly too mangled to get an awful lot of information. One seemed to be the husband, just as stressed as the hanging woman, but he had a child, a teenage child from the looks of it, and only married once. The other victim he assumed was said child. Sherlock opened his mouth to give his new theory but shut it again, hearing sirens closing in on the house.

"Finally. They really shouldn't be late to their own crime scene." John turned to Sherlock, his forehead creased with worry.

"Shouldn't they already have been here if this was on the tele?" Sherlock kicked himself, having not taken the time to think about that…but it was already too late.

"It was on the tele because I called it in to a journalist instead of the police. I wanted the world to know what I'd done." Said a twisting, insane voice from behind them. It was a female voice, and it made Sherlock grin.

"Knew it! Mistress, that was my second guess!" John shot Sherlock a hard glare, wishing his friend wouldn't make a habit of saying things to piss off psychos. They both turned around to see an older woman, wide glossy eyes and what seemed like a permanent smile on her face.

"Oh sure, mistress they call me. I was supposed to be with him, you know, his child was mine! He promised….he promised…" That was all she could say before Lestrade and his team burst through the door. She let out a wild cackle and slit her throat with the knife she had been holding, her body hitting the floor with a thump as the officers piled in and pulled out their weapons.

"Well…that escaladed quickly." Sherlock mused to himself, earning another sour look from John, though he couldn't quite hold it as he was overcome by the urge to dry heave at the very thought of the situation he found himself in. John didn't object when Sherlock wrapped his arms around him and urged him away from the woman's body, knowing there were just some things his partner would always be sensitive about. He walked the shorter man outside and grabbed him a shock blanket, pulling it over his shoulders.

"Thanks…but I don't think the blanket was necessary." John said with a small laugh, trying to relieve some of the weird tension that had been between them recently. Sherlock gently patted John's cheek.

"You're a good man, John." He said softly, to which John shook his head.

"So are you you know, when you want to be." They sat their awkwardly for a moment before either of them finally spoke, which wasn't unusual for them, though this time felt different. The entire day had been a strange one, and neither man couldn't really say why.

"Do you want dinner?" Sherlock finally asked, John nearly choking he was so surprised.

"Are you seriously hungry?" Sherlock just sort of smirked and shrugged his shoulders.

"Not particularly, but if you are we can go somewhere, since we're out. I've been bored all day and this was a bust." John's eyebrows rose playfully.

"You call that a bust?" Sherlock nodded and sighed heavily, his boredom from earlier returning.

"Well duh, I didn't get to solve anything. It's no fun when they kill themselves." John burst into laughter at this.

"As I said earlier, you are a disturbed man, Sherlock." Sherlock laughed too and took John's arm once more, heading back towards their car.

"So are you, when you want to be." He said with a wink, earning a bright flush from the other man. It pleased Sherlock when John didn't retort back with a complaint about people accusing them of what was true, so pleased in fact, that he really did buy John dinner.

However, the complacent mood that had settled over the two of them did not last, and things became tense once more when they returned to their apartment. Things weren't so bad at first, Sherlock going to play his violin and John sitting down with his laptop to update his blog. But the more John listened to him play, the more infatuated he seemed to become with the gorgeous song he heard, and later, he would truly regret opening his mouth.

"Sherlock…that song, what is it?" It came from an innocent place, it did, but Sherlock didn't want to answer. He remained quiet, an uneasiness coming over him as he continued to play the song, looking out the window so he wouldn't be able to see John's face.

"Hello? Sherlock, are you alright?" Sherlock closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and deciding it was best to tell him instead of being evasive.

"Ode to John." John tilted his head to the side, unsure if he'd heard him properly.

"Sorry?" Sherlock ceased his playing and sat down his bow, his fearful and uncomfortable blue eyes meeting John's confused ones.

"Ode to John is the songs name. I wrote it." The realization suddenly hit him and he felt instantly guilty for pressing about the song, looking back down at his computer quickly.

"Oh." Was all he could say. So his sentiment earlier had been correct…Sherlock did have feelings for him. Sherlock's eyes didn't leave John's face, studying the other man's expression. He was scared, his heartbeat was accelerated, and his face was turning pink just below his eyes, where Sherlock had come to notice he usually reddened when something he did or said made him happy. Sherlock took all of that as a sign that the feelings were reciprocated and he nervously approached John. Sherlock wasn't much for romance, he wasn't used to it, and he wasn't overly fond of human contact, but he wanted to try this. He would try it for John. What Sherlock didn't realize was that just because the feelings were returned, didn't mean John was ready to accept them.

"John." He reluctantly looked up to find that Sherlock was by his side, bending down and leaning in. John couldn't breathe, his entire body screaming yes while his mind was shouting no. He just sat there, frozen as he felt the soft, tenderness of Sherlock's lips against his. It was only a peck, the kind of sweet, childlike kiss that one normally received as a first kiss in high school. It never occurred to John that to Sherlock, that's exactly what it was. Instead he pulled away quickly and stood up, Sherlock the one who was now confused.

"No, no no! No, this…this cannot happen. Sherlock, I am sorry if I gave you the wrong impression or something, but I am straight, and I don't appreciate…I have to go, I'm sorry. This is wrong." John was babbling, grabbing all the things he could seem to carry and hurrying towards the door. Sherlock didn't stop him, only stood there. The pain in those beautiful eyes hurt John, when he looked back, and all he could muster up was a tearful "I'm so sorry" before slamming the door behind him.

"Goodbye, John."