I wrote this a while ago, hope you like it. Reviews are greatly appreciated!

John Watson knew it was a ridiculously stupid idea to be running on a bunch of rather high buildings in a dark alleyway in London, but that didn't stop him. Didn't stop Sherlock Holmes either, but John knew he was the type for adventure and action. He was pretty used to it, though. He'd been living with Sherlock at 221B Baker Street for a couple of months now, and he was never bored.

The killer they were running from was pretty fast, but luckily John was faster. Sherlock was the fastest of them all. He was one building ahead of John and didn't stop when he had to jump. It was the sort of skill John wish he could have, but he guessed that the crutch he had to wear when he got back from Afghanistan was why he had less of the ability then he had had before.

The killer was close, now. John ran faster, calling out Sherlock's name, not trying to sound worried. He was, just a little bit, but there was also that thrill he usually got when with Sherlock – excitement, perhaps? He'd always thought that way, but now, now he was starting to get these different emotions, which he couldn't quite work out…

John was running so fast now that he tripped just as he was about to jump and fell. Before he could do that, however, he grabbed onto the edge just in time, gripping it tightly with both hands and gasping for air. There was no thrill anymore. Only fear.

Because if he let go – or, even worse, was pushed off – he would die. The building was too high for anybody to survive.

"Sherlock!" He called, just as the killer stopped right in front of his feeble fingers holding onto the edge. John looked up, seeing the grin of the psychopath that had caused the murder they were looking into in the first place. Please don't push me off, John thought.

He did it finger by finger, like you would see in films. By the time he had finished off one hand, John was still calling Sherlock's name, frustrated and scared now. Where are you, Sherlock! He thought. I thought you cared about me!

Cared? That was new. Sherlock was a sociopath – he even said it himself. It was normal for him not to care for other people. But… Sherlock… he acted different around John. He liked him. At least, John thought so. Why else would he appoint him colleague, companion?

God, why did it bug John so much? I mean, it's not like I care about him that much anyway, he's just a friend, right…?

John completely missed Sherlock coming to the rescue and bringing down the killer. He snapped his attention away from his emotions and tried to help himself up, which was no use. Sherlock was occupying himself with a wrestling match on top of a three storey building with a murderer. It lasted for two minutes before Sherlock finally got fed up and pushed him off the building. John winced as he heard the crack of the killer's skull, and then glanced at Sherlock, indicating for a little help.

Sherlock grabbed John's hand and there was a pause as John felt something he had never felt before. A little tingling sensation in his fingers, as if his friend's hand had electric current running through it. He shook it off, however, as Sherlock helped pull him up. Thank God I'm okay, he thought with a sigh of relief.

John collapsed on the floor, gaining his composure. Sherlock sat down beside him, and there was a silence between them for a minute or so before John spoke.

"Thanks," he said, giving Sherlock a discreet nod. He didn't respond, just looked ahead, his eyes blank and expressionless. John wasn't sure if he even heard his thanks. He looked away, feeling a little ignored that he hadn't even noticed, even though John knew he wouldn't notice, he never does…

What are these bloody feelings?

John sighed, getting up. "I'll be off then," he said. "I'm starving."
Sherlock looked up, straight into his eyes, and John started to feel butterflies in his stomach. Butterflies? These are the sort of feelings a fifteen year old gets, John thought bitterly, but he couldn't shake it off.

"Hold on," Sherlock said, getting up so he was standing right in front of John, quite close. Too close, in fact. "Let me try something."

John looked confused until Sherlock moved in closer, and then pressing his lips against his. John wasn't surprised or shocked at all – in fact, he was relieved. As both of them stood on that starry September night with their lips locked with each other's, the two of them both felt something they couldn't describe, something that John had only just realised the moment Sherlock's lips had touched his…

Love.