Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. They belong to Moffat.

A/N: Hey, I'm not dead or anything. I lost my notes about this story months ago and only found it recently. Also, my prof found this by accident and, well, after a few awkward conversations, she forced me to write again (apparently, she ships these two even more than Mrs Hudson). So yay for my prof, I guess?

Ten:

A Quiet Revelation

The coffee was barely enough to keep his migraine at bay, but Hamish was determined to act like everything was okay for his son's sake. He would have stayed all night with John, but the Pomfrey sisters insisted that he stay away. His job also required him to be in his office. He'd had to do a lot of convincing just so he could sneak out. It was already afternoon when he returned to the Hogwarts' Infirmary, terribly exhausted and jittery at the same time. The half-empty Styrofoam cup was still clutched in his left hand, already gone ice cold. Just as he was about to drink it, a strange feeling overcame him. A strange feeling that was scented with jasmine shampoo.

"Sorry, darling. It's protocol," the nurse who'd cast a Cleansing Charm on him said. Hamish thought he should have been offended but he was aware that he looked like shit. He felt like shit. So it was only logical that his physical appearance would reflect his sad, shitty emotions.

Hamish glanced at the row of beds where his son had been placed, only to get the shock of his life when he saw that John wasn't there. Instead, there were several students piled on the beds, all of whom were in various degrees of pain. One of the students—a Ravenclaw as could be seen from his uniform—had his face completely encased in bandages, leaving only two small holes to serve as air passage. Another had broken both of her legs and was out cold. Hamish knew that John wasn't the only one who'd been injured in the explosion, but he didn't think that so many had gotten hurt.

"We only got a few last night. We had no idea they'd have a horrible reaction to a few minor burns," the nurse explained. One of the students sat up and began to throw up in a bucket at the side of her bed. The nurse clicked her tongue then left Hamish to assist her.

"You looking for your boy?" another nurse asked, this one a friendlier version of the first. "We switched them. The newer ones are placed near the office. Your son's already up and about, although we did tell him to take it easy on his shoulder. It's the fault of that friend of his."

"Friend?" Hamish asked as the nurse led him to another row of beds at the far end of the Infirmary. There were fewer students here and all of them were awake and were talking to visitors. Most were students but he saw a few grim-faced parents like him. Hamish heard the name 'Powers' being passed around. His blood chilled and he sped past them, hoping no one would stop and try to talk to him about it.

He found his son sitting on the wide windowsill with a curly-haired boy who had his back to Hamish. John's arm was still in a sling but if his wound pained him he gave no sign of it. They were talking in hushed voices. John looked a bit worried but at the same time he seemed to be masking it, pretending to be braver. Hamish stood there for a while, not wanting to interrupt whatever it was the two were talking about. He didn't have to wait long, though. Soon enough, John glanced up and saw him.

"Dad!" he cried, grinning. He stood up but sat back down again when he winced. The curly-haired boy said something to him before turning to face Hamish.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, ignoring the boy for a moment. John meant to shrug but the movement pained him. He winced once more.

"The nurses say they won't keep me here for long. I'll have a scar but other than that I'm fine." John turned to his friend. "Oh, this is Sherlock, by the way. Sherlock Holmes. You've met his brother. He works in the Ministry."

"Is the Ministry," Sherlock corrected. He looked nothing at all like his brother, but when he tilted his head slightly and fixed a steely gaze on Hamish, he saw that there was no mistaking their relationship. Hamish studied him as well. He didn't feel comfortable under the close scrutiny of Sherlock Holmes, but Hamish was positive it wasn't just the strange way Sherlock was looking at him. John had told him about Sherlock and while he wasn't entirely against their friendship, he was wary of them being this close. Sherlock was dangerous. John didn't know that, of course, or if he did then he wasn't aware of how volatile Sherlock could be. Hell, even they didn't know. Sherlock was a ticking bomb waiting to go off.

A scowl appeared on the boy's face, as if he'd just read Hamish's thoughts. Without saying anything else, he walked away from them. John rolled his eyes. "He's like that," he assured him, "so don't be offended."

"He's certainly not what I expected."

John's brow wrinkled in confusion. "You expected him to be like Mike and Bill?"

Realizing that John would have absolutely no idea that people in the Ministry knew about Sherlock and his…condition, Hamish quickly nodded. "I've seen glimpses of him," Hamish admitted. "He's always bothering Mycroft."

"That's Sherlock," John said. Hamish took note of the fondness in his voice. That was a little strange. Hamish certainly never talked about his guy friends in that tone.

"So about that shoulder of yours," Hamish said quickly to avoid the topic that was forming in his brain. John definitely didn't need to be asked about that, at least, not when he looked just as tired as Hamish. Sometime later perhaps, once Hamish was sure. He took the seat in the spot Sherlock had vacated. "That's not going to heal quickly, huh?"

John shook his head. "There was something about that explosion—the fire. It wasn't natural."

"It was a Curse, John. Fires caused by Curses are never normal."

John sighed and for a brief moment he looked older than his years. "They took Carl."

"The Powers boy?" Hamish mirrored John's expression. Carl Powers was the Minister of Magic's nephew. This, Hamish knew, was going to make not just Shacklebolt look bad, but Hogwarts as well. If Powers wasn't found, parents might begin to pull out their kids from school. It had happened before. Those were darker times, surely. But in the Wizarding World, caution was the first item in your survival kit.

"He's our Seeker. But it's not just that." John shook his head. "We were so focused on winning that we didn't realize—He's just a kid, Dad. He's scared out of his wits right now if he's still—" John stopped and neither he nor Hamish dared to continue the sentence.

Hamish clapped him on his good shoulder. "John, you've got to stop carrying the world on your shoulders. You're only fifteen. Leave the worrying to old people like me." He tried a smile which John returned weakly.

He couldn't stay long but John didn't mind. Hamish ruffled his hair fondly before he left the Infirmary. It was cold outside and the open windows only let in more of the wind. Hamish looked out in one of them. The clouds were dreary overhead. He could already feel raindrops against his skin.

"It will only get worse," a voice said from behind him.

Sitting cross-legged, balanced precariously on the ledge of the window opposite him was his son's friend, Sherlock. "That's dangerous," Hamish told him, doing his best to keep the surprise from showing up in his voice. It wouldn't be good if he yelled and startled Sherlock. "You might fall."

In response, Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. To Hamish's relief, he slid down the ledge. The wind stirred his hair but at least it was no longer threatening to make him fall.

"You're Ministry. You work under the Department of International Magic Co-Operation, division of International Magical Trading Standards Body. You know a lot about me, then."

"How did you—"

"You're not very rich," Sherlock said in a matter-of-fact tone. Hamish didn't take offence; he was only stating facts after all. "I saw your wariness when you saw me, though you did your best to hide it because of John. That department's one of the biggest because you handle international trading. However, the salary's not very good. You only label things, after all. I'm not supposed to be talked about but given the number of workers under that department, it's impossible to hide anything."

Hamish said nothing for a moment. Sherlock merely stared back at him calmly. "Amazing," he finally said. "I think I see what John was talking about in his letters."

For a brief moment, the uncaring expression on Sherlock's face waivered and gave way to surprise. He fixed it with a scowl. "I suppose this is the part where you tell me to stay away from John."

"What?"

"Oh, don't play dumb. You know how I am."

Hamish studied him. Under the weak light coming through the windows, he looked almost inhumanly pale. There were shadows under his eyes. His clothes were too loose and not even buttoned properly. It was true Sherlock Holmes was dangerous. He would always be dangerous, actually. But right now he was just a miserable kid, waiting for approval.

"No."

"No?" Sherlock sounded annoyed, as if Hamish had done something that offended him. All he'd done was surprise him a little. Perhaps Sherlock took offence at that.

"Look, I've worked with people who thought you—that you're—you're this little baby demon. Um, the Dark Lord's spawn or something like that. It doesn't help that you're Mycroft's brother, by the way, and he creeps us out. Embarrassing for an old man to be scared of a twenty-year-old but he's…different. And so are you."

Sherlock shifted his weight to his left foot and looked at him pointedly. It was as if he was telling Hamish to get to the point. Hamish ignored it. They were talking about his son and he was going to take his time.

"I love John. He's told you about my wife, yeah?"

"No. But I've deduced it."

"Right. Yes, well, you see why I'm so attached to him. And I know about what you can do. I've heard about your temper and how unstable you are—the people from the Department of Underage Magic practically hate you. I must be crazy but I'm not going to stop you and John being friends. I don't think I can stop you, either. He's good for you and you're good for him. He doesn't trust people easily because of what happened with his mother, but you make him feel comfortable about himself. I just want to see my son happy."

Sherlock nodded. He looked like he was absorbing everything Hamish was saying, analysing his words.

"Just…just don't hurt him, alright? Emotionally and physically. I'm not sure what I can do to make your life a living hell if you do hurt him but—"

"I'm not an idiot," Sherlock snapped. "I'm not going to hurt him deliberately."

Rude and annoying. Definitely Mycroft's little brother.

"Fine. I approve, alright? I approve of you two being…er, friends."

If Sherlock noticed the implication, he certainly didn't give it away. He bid a curt goodbye then stalked off before Hamish could respond. For a moment, he seemed nothing more than an ordinary student, but appearances could be deceiving. Hamish smiled grimly. John never had learned to stay away from danger.

Nine hours after the explosion, John woke up to Sherlock staring at him. It wasn't a very good way to wake up. Not only was it because of the burning pain in his shoulder, but it was also because John was quite aware that he didn't look good sleeping. Harry had taken enough pictures of him for John to be sure of it.

"You sleep with your mouth open," Sherlock pointed out. "It's quite unattractive, John."

"Believe me, I'm aware." His voice was hoarse and the strange croaking noise that came out of his mouth made him aware of how parched he was. Sherlock rolled his eyes then thrust a cup of pumpkin juice in front of him. It was sweet and it burned his throat a little but it was better than nothing.

"What time is it?" he asked as he set the cup down. His bedside table was ridden with all sorts of sweets and funny-looking cards that John didn't trust himself with. One card featured an ugly frog with squinty eyes. Beneath it, written in bold letters was Bill's name. No, John decided. He was definitely not opening that one.

"Five in the morning."

"Five?" John reached for the curtains with his good hand and drew them back slightly. The Infirmary was dimly lit. He could see another bed-ridden student. He had his back to them but it was obvious from his slow and steady breathing that he was still fast asleep. A chair had been placed at his bedside but there was no occupant. John let the curtains fall. "Aren't visiting hours over?"

"I'm not a visitor," Sherlock replied. "I'm a student. I belong here."

"You're not injured." John's face changed from annoyed to worried. "You aren't, right?"

"I'm perfectly fine. The Infirmary is part of the school and I'm enrolled here, therefore, I have every right to stay here."

"Did you find Carl?" he asked quickly before Sherlock could elaborate.

Sherlock said nothing. John didn't need words, anyway. If Sherlock had found him, then he would immediately tell John how he'd done it. Failure silenced Sherlock Holmes. There were times when John secretly relished Sherlock failing, something he always felt guilty about. But now wasn't one of those times. He sat back carefully and waited until Sherlock was ready to speak again. What he said was not something John expected at all.

"Why are you so concerned?"

John blinked. "Sorry?"

"About him, about Carl," Sherlock muttered. He looked irritated, as if John had done something unforgivable and was too stupid to even know that he'd done wrong. Perhaps he had done something offensive. Sherlock was glaring furiously at him. "He's just your Seeker."

"He's just—Sherlock, Carl isn't just the Gryffindor Seeker. I can't believe you're saying that he's only important because of his position in the team. Sherlock, you…you're—you're such an arse."

"I said nothing of the sort. You're making things up."

John glared back at him. "I can read the subtext," he said testily.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Can you?"

It sounded like a challenge, but John wasn't able to understand what kind of challenge it was. The curtains suddenly flew open, startling both of them. The plumpest of the Pomfrey sisters, the mean one, glowered at them. "You two," she hissed, "keep your voices down. You especially, Mr Holmes, or I'll manhandle you back to the Slytherin Dungeons. I'm doing you a big favour by letting you stay here."

She parted the curtains even further. "And keep these open," she added. "I don't want any mischievous things happening in the Infirmary."

John's face burned. Even now, people were implying things. Sherlock muttered 'old cow' under his breath with such vehemence it made John's embarrassment disappear. He turned to him and gave him a smile. The smile, however, faded quickly when he got a good look at Sherlock's face. "Merlin, didn't you sleep at all? How many hours have you been up? You haven't slept in days."

"Seventy-two," Sherlock answered. His movements were twitchy, his skin an unhealthy shade similar to curdled milk. Bloodshot eyes stared at John wearily.

John shook his head. "I can't believe you've been up all night watching me sleep. That's a whole new level of creepy," he said jokingly. It fell a little flat.

"Oh, do stop being narcissistic, John, it doesn't suit you. I was thinking," Sherlock spat. He rubbed his eyes with a loosely closed fist. Even his hands were shaking. "Mycroft's in on this as well."

John wasn't surprised by that. Mycroft always got his nose in Sherlock's business, even the smallest things. And this was a major crime. "What do you mean exactly?"

A nurse passed by and gave them another look. Sherlock leaned closer and in a low voice said, "Moriarty contacted him." John's eyes widened. "It was just a scrap of paper telling Mycroft to tell me he's back. He was inactive for a while but he's playing again.

"He's clever, very clever. Powers was kidnapped for a reason. Take a rich man's kid and everyone goes in a frenzy. Take the relative of the leader of the country, the whole nation's thrown in pandemonium. Hogwarts is at stake, students will be pulled out of school. No, not just Hogwarts. People have become paranoid, will always be paranoid, in fact. As long as Potter and his crew are still alive and able to talk about what they'd experienced then people will never stop being afraid."

"But what does Moriarty want?"

"He wants to play a game with me, that's all. It's just a game for him. He doesn't need money. This is power play. And Powers knew something. If Moriarty's sole intention was to use him for ransom then he would have done it months ago.

"I'm the only one who can find him. There will be Aurors involved. They're needed to assure the masses that they're looking for him but they'll never find him."

"And how do you know that it has to be you?"

"Because Moriarty wants one thing and he won't stop until he gets it. Me."

John was surprised by how the thought infuriated him. It must have shown on his face because Sherlock rolled his eyes and added, "Not in that way."

It still didn't lessen the anger John felt. "And you're sure about that?" he asked, keeping his voice steady. Sherlock frowned at him.

"Why should you care?"

"Because." He faltered. Why did he care? "Because I don't want my best friend shacking up with a homicidal maniac," he finished lamely. It was the truth, but somehow it sounded like a huge lie. Sherlock didn't seem to believe it either.

The silence that followed gave the impression of lasting for an eternity. John hated silences like this. He seldom knew what to say next. How could anyone tell when you should even say anything? He sneaked a glance at Sherlock. But Sherlock wasn't looking at him anymore. His eyes were barely open. He looked like he was the one who should be lying in a hospital bed, not John.

"You should get some rest," he told him.

For once, Sherlock didn't argue. The poor sod was practically dead. Sherlock obediently closed his eyes. Soon enough, his breathing was even and he slumped forward, his head hanging so that John could only see a mass of curly hair. The curtains were still open and nurses were passing by, checking on the sleeping students.

In the end, John decided not to care. He pulled Sherlock down until his head was resting on the mattress. There were already rumours about their relationship flying, anyway, and there were bigger things to worry about.

"Really, John," Sherlock complained. "Your handwriting is truly atrocious."

John lowered Astounding Magical Discoveries by Evgeny Hoffman and shot Sherlock a glare. Next to him, Sarah stifled a laugh. "Shut up," he muttered, keeping his voice low. He didn't dare call the attention of the prissy librarian. "It's not that bad. You have ink on your nose, by the way."

Sherlock rubbed at the spot without much thought. The ink only spread to his left cheek. "Stop that, you're making it worse," John chided. He pulled out a few crumpled tissues from his pocket. Sherlock kept rubbing at the spot. "Okay, stop, you're doing that on purpose. Just hold still and let me—"

He stopped, however, when he caught Bill's eye. His friends were staring at them, their brows raised questioningly. John quickly dropped the tissues on Sherlock's lap and scooted away. "It was annoying," he muttered, avoiding eye contact. He kept himself busy for a moment by adjusting his sling. His shoulder was mostly healed but the Pomfrey sisters told him to keep using the sling for a while to get a full recovery. John hated it as it always came loose, but right now it served as a good distraction.

Mike was more interested in the book Sherlock had in his hands. "That's for O.W.L.S, right? John's notes?" He leaned forward and was in the process of reading it when Sherlock suddenly closed the book. Mike yelped. He'd barely had time to keep his nose from getting smashed between the pages.

"None of your business," Sherlock said in a mockingly sweet voice, before he opened the book once more and continued reading. John shook his head and mouthed an apology to Mike. Still, it was a good thing Mike hadn't read that. Sherlock was reviewing the cases he'd written down, the ones about Moriarty, and was doing his best to see how they were linked. John and his friends, on the other hand, were studying for their O.W.L.S, which was fast approaching. They only had less than a week. Between O.W.L.S and the disappearance of Carl, John wondered how he was still functioning. He marvelled at how Sherlock was functioning. He had more on his mind than anyone else in Hogwarts, and he was the one who looked like he didn't need to ingest gallons of caffeine. But then, Sherlock didn't even have to study for his O.W.L.S. He already knew everything.

Sarah turned a page and yawned. "Holy Dumbledore, this is killing me," she groused. Her skinny boyfriend, Ethan, was fast asleep already, face pressed against the yellowing pages of a book about the magical architecture of Hogwarts. Bill nodded his assent. He was making paper airplanes now. He'd cast a charm on a few of them a while ago. Paper airplanes lazily flew overhead. Just watching them made John feel sleepy. He cleared his head and focused on what he was reading.

"We'll survive," John assured Sarah as she leaned against him. It was a perfectly friendly gesture so no one minded it. At least, that was what John thought. Suddenly, there was a sound like a page accidentally being ripped. John looked up from his book and saw Sherlock glaring at him. One of the handwritten pages was clutched in his hand. "What?"

"Shut up."

"I didn't even—Where are you going now?"

Sherlock slammed the book shut. Without looking at any of them, he stuffed several books in his bag, slung it over his shoulder, then haughtily stalked off. John couldn't believe it. "What's the matter with him?" he exclaimed.

"Sorry, John," Sarah said as she moved away from him. "I didn't know he was that jealous."

"Jealous?" John stammered. "Why would he be jealous?"

They stared at him blankly. John repeated the question. "You know, it's alright, for Sherlock to be jealous," Mike finally said. He was talking slowly as if John was an animal that would bolt if he wasn't careful enough. He certainly felt like one right now. "Since you guys just got together and—"

"We're not together," John said quickly.

Another round of blank stares. "But Weasley said you guys kissed when, you know, you got injured," Bill informed him.

"Jules is a loudmouth. We're not together. And you were there, you pillock," he said, smacking Bill with a book for good measure.

They gave him unbelieving looks. All except for Bill who brightened. "So, I'm kind of getting past his whole rude thing," he said. "And since you're not together-together…you wouldn't mind it if I…you know. He is kind of hot."

"Piss off," John snarled. He picked up another book and hit Bill with it. Bill yelped loudly, causing the librarian to glare in their direction.

"Jealous," Bill muttered as he rubbed his shoulder.

John rolled his eyes. He didn't have time for this. In fact, he would have happily ignored them in favour of his studies if Sarah hadn't grabbed him and dragged him to the library's history section. She ignored his protests and firmly pushed him against the shelf with one hand.

"What?" John asked. "What did I do now?"

Sarah rolled her eyes. "John, are you really this oblivious?"

"About what?"

"About Sherlock!" she hissed.

John knit his brows in confusion. "What about him? The leaving? Is that it? Because he does that on a daily basis."

"Not the leaving, no." Sarah sighed. "It's the 'he's madly in love with you' part that you don't get."

John gaped at her. It was probably unattractive and if Sherlock was here, he wouldn't hesitate to tell John he looked like a fish out of water. Sarah didn't seem to mind. She stood there with her hands on her hips, waiting. John had to blink several times and clear his throat before he finally got anything out.

"He's not…" John faltered. "He's not, right? I mean, that's impossible. Sherlock doesn't do that."

Sarah looked surprised. "John, it's kind of mean to assume—"

"I'm not assuming that he doesn't feel anything," John retorted, feeling as if he needed to defend Sherlock's stoicism. He wasn't a machine. He acted like one sometimes, but he had emotions just like anyone. John knew that all too well. "It's just he told me he doesn't do relationships."

"So he doesn't know how to tell you then." John couldn't believe it. Sarah's eyes had gone all soft. It was as if he and Sherlock had been thrust into an idiotic rom-com and she was the one directing it. As if John's life wasn't strange enough already. "And there's you, of course."

"What about me, then?"

"You like him but you don't want to admit it."

"I'm not gay!" John cried. A First Year who had been looking through copies of Hogwarts: A History yelped and dropped the book. Sarah shooed her away. "I'm not," John repeated in a calmer voice. "I like girls. I'm not attracted to guys."

"Sherlock's your exception." Sarah held up her hand, signalling John to keep quiet for a moment. "Look, maybe it's just him you like. John, you can't deny it. The way you look at each other, for instance. Even Bill thinks you're in love and all that boy thinks about is sex. Liking Sherlock doesn't make you any less of a man."

"I'm not—"

"Think about it, John."

John pursed his lips. "I'm pretty sure I would know if I was in love with someone, Sarah," he said firmly.

In the end, she finally dropped it. They returned to their tables. Ethan was already awake. His glasses were askew but no one bothered to mention it. He and Sarah started quizzing each other. John, on the other hand, had trouble concentrating. His thoughts kept returning to what Sarah had told him.

"I'm taking a break," he said after several minutes. "See you in the Common Room."

He didn't go to the Common Room, though. He wandered the castle for a while but that proved to be a mistake. It had been four days since Carl's disappearance. Everywhere John went he saw upset students. Several Third Years were even crying. The Gryffindor Common Room was even worse. A couple of Seventh Years had set up pictures of Carl on the mantelpiece. Every now and then John would find someone standing in front of the fireplace, crying their eyes out. John was sure he wasn't dead, but everyone else had already labelled Carl as a dead man.

Lestrade passed by, interrupting John's thoughts. The prefects were escorting the younger students to their Common Rooms. John waved at him half-heartedly. Lestrade said nothing. He smiled grimly then set off to work. It made John feel ill. It was as if he'd stepped inside the world's biggest funeral.

He went to the Owlery after seeing another group of weeping students. He knew Sherlock was there but it took some time to find him. He was again, perched on the ledge of an open window, his pet raven on his shoulder. The bird cawed at John.

"You know smoke is bad for birds," he said. Sherlock looked over his shoulder once the raven flew off. "And for your lungs."

"Hello," Sherlock greeted flatly. The book was in his left hand, the cigarette in his right. John wanted to toss the cigarette away but when he moved closer to Sherlock, the raven flew to his shoulder and cawed very loudly in his ear. Fucking hell bird.

John shooed the bird away, but not without getting the collar of his shirt torn. "I think I know why Poe went mad," John muttered. The bird stared him down with a beady eye before swallowing the scrap of cloth it had stolen from John. That was unnatural.

"No news from Moriarty then?" John asked in a fake, cheery tone. What was wrong with him? Carl had been kidnapped and here he was, talking about it like it was something good. He mentally slapped himself.

Sherlock grumbled a 'no'. "He's waiting for something," Sherlock muttered. "I don't know what." Furious, Sherlock threw the cigarette down with such force he nearly toppled along with it. John quickly grabbed him, cursing when he realized he'd used his bad shoulder again. The pain was dull but still present. It was just enough to make John grit his teeth.

"I'm fine," he assured Sherlock who'd stepped closer. The raven cawed again. Sherlock harshly told it to shut up. To John's surprise, it did.

"Hey," he said.

Sherlock frowned. "What?"

"Nothing. You said 'hello'. Didn't say it back."

Sherlock smiled at that. It was his real smile, the one he rarely showed. John couldn't look away. Bill was right. Sherlock was bloody gorgeous. Hell, John had known that ages ago, back when he saw Sherlock in the train station a year ago with Mycroft. There was a black feather stuck in his hair and the ink smudge was still there but he looked…

He looked like someone who couldn't possibly be paired with John. Ever.

Sarah couldn't be right. Sherlock in love with him? It was ridiculous. Him being in love with Sherlock, though. That was something John was still confused about. He loved him, of course. In a platonic way? He certainly cared about his emotional and physical health and he was always there when Sherlock needed him. He hated it when the idiot got hurt, and absolutely despised anyone who'd dared hurt him.

And he also hated it whenever someone flirted with him.

Oh god, John was an idiot.

Everyone knew before him. Bill, Mike, Sarah, even Mycroft. And his dad. Even his old man knew. John should have paid closer attention to himself. The jealousy, the possessiveness, the anxiety he felt whenever Sherlock was hurt or in a particularly bad mood. Sarah was right. He wasn't gay. He wasn't attracted to guys, but Sherlock…Sherlock was different.

He liked it the sound of Sherlock's laughter, liked the way he talked so fast you had to pay a lot of attention just to understand what he was saying. He liked the way Sherlock said his name, even liked it when he whined about something in the most childish way ever.

Bugger.

"You don't look very well, John," Sherlock told him, reminding John that Sherlock was standing in front of him, able to read his thoughts through his facial expressions. "Is your shoulder bothering you?"

"What? No, I'm fine." He refused to look at him. "I, uh, just have some things to think about."

"Can't be much," Sherlock teased.

John considered walking away. He considered learning how to suppress his feelings. A part of him was still telling him that he wasn't gay, but it quieted down when his eyes met Sherlock's. He thought of leaning forward, of closing the gap between them, of kissing him. The image didn't disgust him. He wanted to do it, in fact. He'd wanted to do it for weeks and it was only now that he was realizing it.

Sherlock was no longer amused. He was looking at John so intensely it nearly hurt to look at him. John would have looked away but he couldn't. "What are you thinking about, John?" he asked, his voice soft. He settled his hands lightly on John's shoulder, rooting him to the spot. "What is it?"

Sherlock wasn't going to give him any time to sort this out. John could have stayed there forever with his mouth shut and Sherlock would still be standing in front of him, waiting for an answer. John could have done the rational thing and lied. But, without really thinking about it, he opened his mouth and told the truth.

"You." Sherlock blinked, surprised. "I was thinking about you."

A/N: Oh my god, just kiss already, John's father already gave his blessing (sort of). Sherlock, baby, you jealous bag of dicks. John, you tiny, sweet, bumbling idiot. Moriarty, man, just go away for a while and let these two have their moment. And Mycroft, piss off. Don't you dare do your creepy stalking thing.

Also, thanks for your suggestions on Sherlock's Patronus. I chose a panda.

Okay, joking, I didn't choose a panda. You'll see it soon enough, though. And I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. It's just, really huge writer's block.