(I wanted to do a story where Sherlock just didn't see John's feelings, so he gets taken completely by surprise, so this it. I wrote this in one sitting before work, so hopefully it's good.)

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To say that Sherlock was shocked was an understatement. His eyes went up and down John's body, taking in the minute details that he knew his partner was trying to hide. His fingers twitched as he tried to keep it from clenching and unclenching into a fist and he stood with his weight one foot, trying to seem casual but in reality was so that he could propel himself quickly to the door without a pause. The way he held himself when he knew that they were about to hurry somewhere.

"Sherlock?"

His eyes flickered left and right once each, before returning to Sherlock's face, but their eyes wouldn't meet. They were focused just below on his nose and he could see the almost abnormally deep breaths John was taking, trying to calm his beating heart. He could tell by the faint color on the man's cheeks his pulse was rapid and pupils were dilated.

"Did you hear me?"

Any minute, he'd break and run, likely to go to Lestrade's flat. The tenseness in his muscles, how his foot shifted just centimeters. His gaze broke just briefly and John looked to the door, as if calculating how quickly it would take him to get there. Beads of sweat were breaking out now on his palms and the doctor rubbed one hand on his jeans.

"Well, then I'll just…go. For now. Get my…things later."

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, to stop him, but only a strangled breath sounded. John looked at him, nodded to himself, and headed out the door, and all he found himself capable of doing was silently gape, not even feeling the beakers in his hands anymore.

John…loved him? But he couldn't… John had dated plenty of women and he'd given…no indication… John cared about him as a friend, he couldn't… No, he had to have misheard…but he knew that his ears were fine and why else would John almost run out the door? Why would he…Nobody loved him. Well…except Mycroft, but he was contractually obligated to by blood.

…Mycroft!

He felt anger pump through his veins and he all but tossed the beakers on the counter. Mycroft must have done something! He hurried out the door, sure that he could catch John because he couldn't have just been standing there, motionless, for more than a few seconds…right? His watch said he hadn't moved for five minutes, which couldn't be true.

John was nowhere to be found and he angrily hailed a cab. He knew which office Mycroft was in and he could have called him…but this egregious act required confronting him in person. Mycroft must have told John to lie, or he lied to John about something. He moved so fast through the halls that Anthea barely saw him, slamming the door open with such force that he knew there would be a dent left behind.

Mycroft even jumped a little in his chair, looking up from the papers on his desk, phone pressed to his ear. Oh, his brother was a good actor. He had to have known Sherlock would come to confront him after what he'd done. "You…"

He wasn't sure what Mycroft saw in his face, because he was sure all it was showing was anger, but his brother stood up, abandoning his phone call without a word. "Anthea, coffee and close the door. Until I say otherwise, I'm not to be disturbed. Rearrange anything you need to."

She quickly nodded and closed the door behind her, leaving them alone, and Sherlock felt his hands shaking. "What did you do, Mycroft?"

"What happened, Sherlock?"

The tone of voice was calm…too calm. He moved slowly, carefully, the way he did when Sherlock was high as a kite and thought he was liable to break. It only made him more upset and he balled his fingers into fists. "What did you do to John?"

"John?" A look of worry crossed over those normally supercilious features. "What happened, Sherlock?"

"You must have done something, told him something. There's no other explanation!"

"Sherlock, I haven't spoken with Doctor Watson for a week."

"It doesn't matter when you talked to him, but you must have said something!"

"…Are you high right now, little brother?"

He lunged forward, not giving Mycroft time to react, and grabbed fistfuls of the expensive suit. They stumbled back, Mycroft's back hitting his desk. He felt his brother's strong grip on his wrists, but he wasn't trying to pull him away just yet. "You've gone too far, Mycroft. I accept your meddling in my life, but to make John say those things—"

"Sherlock, what happened?"

Something, he wasn't sure what, distracted him enough that he could see sheer confusion and concern. He could see none of the little signs he had memorized when Mycroft was lying or being disingenuous. Which didn't make sense, because Mycroft was forever pulling everyone's strings, particularly John. He always went to John, manipulating him, to get Sherlock to do what he wanted. So he had assumed he had done this to make Sherlock…do what? Mycroft would know, more than anyone, what his reaction would be to such a trick.

Which meant…

"John, he… I don't… He…"

He couldn't quite figure out what to say. If he had just overreacted, if for once Mycroft wasn't involved… No wonder Mycroft thought him high! Had he gotten high and what he heard a hallucination? Because John wouldn't… He was—Mycroft's grip on his arm distracted him from his internal thoughts.

"What did he say, Sherlock?"

"…You should know. You know everything."

"I have a suspicion, but Doctor Watson has surprised me in the past, so I would rather not assume."

"He said…he loves me. Mycroft, nobody loves me but you and you have to."

Understanding flashed over the taller man's face. "So you thought I told him to say that, as a prank on you."

"Who else would? John's… John can't. He makes such a fuss about being assumed gay. He's had…girlfriends! He—"

"I wondered when he would finally say it."

"…What?"

Mycroft pried off his fingers and forced him into a chair, sitting next to him, just as Anthea returned with a tray of coffee. She looked hard at them both, likely deducing what had occurred, but she said nothing and merely left. He heard the lock click in the quiet.

"I'm surprised you didn't see it, Sherlock."

"Are you insinuating—" he hissed.

"I'm not insinuating anything, Sherlock. Perhaps you were just too…close to it to see it. Doctor John Watson has been in love with you for some time. Did you not notice that his relationships with those women never lasted long? You yourself commented on it once." Well…yes, he had mentioned something like that… "He no doubt needed a distraction from his feelings the way you need cases to distract from your boredom. Perhaps it was that he was trying to convince himself that he didn't love you in that way and that it was just friendship he felt. In the end, it doesn't really matter. You have to accept that what you heard was the truth."

"But…it can't be."

"Has he ever lied to you before?"

"Yes, but that…I know why he did it. Foolish reason, thought it would make feel better or some such nonsense."

Mycroft leaned forward, bracing his arms on his knees. "Why did hearing him say that make you do this?"

"Do what?"

"Get upset. Come running to my office."

Yes, why had he reacted that way? As embarrassing as it was, he'd just been too stunned for words at first, but why had he done everything after? Mycroft had come to mind and he had latched onto him, perceiving him as somehow the reason for what had happened. It didn't make sense. Unless… He almost blanched as he realized that it wasn't the…confession, but when John had left, saying he would get his things later. He had panicked then, and since Mycroft had crossed his mind, it had been easiest to lay blame on his brother, attempting to break them apart.

Panic. The emotion was highly unwelcome. He hated feeling panicky and thinking back, all the moments he'd ever felt it had involved John. When he had ripped off the explosives on the man's chest, the time he'd been kidnapped by the Chinese mafia, when John had been threatened in Irene Adler's house… Every time he'd felt his heart quicken and fear cloud his mind, it had been related to John.

Mycroft was eying him and he was sure that the man had figured out all his inner thoughts, much to his displeasure. "What?"

"You once said, 'I imagine Watson thinks love is a mystery to me, but the chemistry is incredibly simple and very destructive. I have always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage.'"

"What about it?"

"Why haven't you used all the tools you used against Irene Adler's infatuation? Sherlock, is it possible that the very things you diagnosed in her…you recognized in yourself and you panicked?"

"No, it's not possible—" he started to argue, before stopping as he realized something. That moment not ten minutes ago, even while he'd been cataloguing every reaction in John, he now realized had been mirrored in himself. He'd been unable to say a word, to speak, and he'd elected to not notice the rushing sound in his ears. His panic that he thought John was going to be leaving permanently had only been fueled higher by the adrenaline his heart had pumped out, peaking in a moment within the safety of anger toward Mycroft rather than the realizations that he, despite his convictions, might have indeed found himself in that very same disadvantage?

Part of himself rebelled against the very thought. His objectivity, the one thing he needed above all else, was lost when John was concerned. He'd catered to that man, had come to care about his comfort and his presence. He'd done things he had deemed useless long ago when John wheedled him a little. He relied on him now, found himself thinking about John when he wasn't there, wondering what he would think about this or that when he read something. John brought a certain…comfort to him and he had…fun when the man was around. With all this, he couldn't be objective with the doctor anymore. By all rights, he should let him go, remove the virus that had infected his harddrive.

At the same time, the very thought of not having John there was painful. He needed him and losing him was just not an option. The virus had infected too deeply to root out. He'd end up killing himself trying to remove John. Who else gave him that high, that relief? It was more potent than some of the drugs he had taken in the past. A joke, the laughter between them, was like injecting a shot of cocaine, filling him with warmth. Even in the cases, no matter how they argued, John was always there and sometimes, just sometimes, maybe he needed the harsh words. John had taught him…many things over the years, some fascinating, others boring, but they were new facts, flashes of brilliance and delight.

The feeling of a hot cup being pushed into his hands broke his internal searching. "I need to find John."

"You need to stay and think," Mycroft argued. "Doctor Watson is not leaving the country and you have to decide what you're going to do with the information he gave you."

"Do?"

"Sherlock, if he finally decided to tell you his feelings, he wants to move what you both have to something else." His eyebrows lowered just a little in confusion. "Sex, dear brother. He desires a greater emotional and physical intimacy than what you have now. Your choice is whether you want to accept that." It was almost embarrassing that in his state, it hadn't occurred to him what Mycroft had been hinting at. "Or is a decision necessary on your part?"

"What are you talking about, Mycroft?"

His brother leaned back in his chair with a contemplative look. "Sherlock, I have been with you all your life. I know everything that has ever happened to you, including Irene Adler, and I have never seen you like this. Are you going to tell me that you don't return his feelings?"

Sherlock couldn't admit that Mycroft was right. There really was no other answer after he'd analyzed the facts, but he wasn't about to tell that to him. "I'm going to find John," he said, shoving his untouched coffee back on the tray and heading for the door.

"Sherlock."

He paused, hand on the doorknob. "What?"

"I'm happy for you. You can come to me again anytime you need to."

"…I think I just threw up a bit in my mouth. Thank you for that, Mycroft," he muttered, unlocking the door and stalking about, refusing to acknowledge the warmth that the words had left behind.

It didn't take him long to reach Lestrade's flat. There was no other place John would go, could go. He banged his fist against the door several times and heard footsteps quickly approach. "Hey, don't break it—Sherlock?"

"Where is he?" he demanded, squeezing by Lestrade. "John?!"

"What? I'm right here."

His head snapped to the left, seeing the man with a beer in his hand and standing next to the sofa. He seemed normal, as if he hadn't said anything before, but it was a pitiful attempt at hiding it. The faint color to his cheeks, the way his eyes shifted… He was nervous all over again, just like he'd been at their flat.

Something about seeing John there eased a cold knot in his stomach, only to replace it with nerves of his own. His eyes flickered down to those lips when John unconsciously moistened them with his tongue. He felt a shudder go through him, something that looking back on it now, he'd had a few times in the past regarding the doctor. How could he have been so foolish?

"Sherlock?" John prompted, raising his eyebrows at the silence.

Really, Sherlock had had words he had prepared on the way over, but that thing he'd done with his tongue. Well, it was all John's fault that he stalked right up to him and just had to know how that tongue tasted. John gave a faint, startled sound when their lips sealed together and Sherlock had never felt or tasted anything like it before in his life. The rush he received far surpassed any drug he'd ever taken and it was all because it was John.

John's free hand came up, gripping his arm, and he felt the doctor lean into it, returning the embrace with all the passion that the detective gave him. His hands reached out, bracing against those hips and pulling him closer in a fit of desire. He'd never wanted to do this before, the impulse to kiss or hold someone never really taking root until then. John's mind was attractive as all hell, a lot smarter than he looked…but the body attached to that mind was just as alluring. He wanted to see all of it, map all the skin he didn't know, memorize the sounds he made when he—

"Oi! Someone want to tell me what the hell is going on, besides the fact that you're making out in my flat?"

John broke the kiss, trying to step away, but Sherlock wrapped his arms around the man tightly and wouldn't let him go far. "Later. We're going back to Baker's Street. Now."

"We are?"

"You are?"

"Yes. I have research to conduct. With John."

"What research?"

"How John sounds when he's naked," he answered the detective.

"Sherlock!"

-End-