So. This is my first fanfiction. Not that that should say anything about anything….
Anyway, I hope you like it… It took me long enough to write it…Enjoy! And maybe review?

It was around seven in the morning when John woke up that day and he sat for several minutes trying to figure out what could have possibly woken him up. It took him 3 minutes and 17 seconds for him to realize. There were no extraneous noises. Of course, there was the sound of the ceiling fan, the water through the pipes to Mrs. Hudson's flat, and the slight sounds of people and cars from outside the window, but there were no sounds from downstairs. No Sherlock banging around working on an experiment, no sounds of the violin as Sherlock sorted through his thoughts, nothing. Quietly, John got up from his bed, opened his door and snuck downstairs to the living room.

There was Sherlock, fast asleep on the sofa, curled up and resting his head on John's union jack pillow. John's eyes softened as a slight smile slid across his face. As he turned around to get the kettle for tea, he froze, an idea resurfacing from the depths of his brain. It was the perfect opportunity…. John glanced back at Sherlock and quickly left the room again, heading upstairs to grab the things he'd need.

Upon reentering the room, John took stock of everything he had to work with. The lighting was perfect, falling across Sherlock's face just so. His left hand was curled up next to his face, just on the edge of the sofa, his right hand draped lightly across his stomach, fingers twitching with the unseen dreams running through his mind. His hair was casting slight shadows across his forehead, which, for once, was completely smooth, untroubled in his sleep.

Quietly, John turned his chair around to face the sofa, bringing the table with it. Smiling again at Sherlock, he set his sketchbook and pencils down on the table and sat in the chair, getting comfortable. John hadn't had the chance to pull the pencils out since he'd returned home from Afghanistan and it had been going through his mind recently how much he wanted to draw again. He'd taken it up during medical school, doodling in the margins of his textbooks, and when someone had commented on the quality of his art, John decided to take it to the next level. He had started small, just illustrations of arms and legs in varying degrees of health or disease.

He'd even gone to the park and started sketching couples walking through the park, mothers with their children, a girl he'd had a crush on. It wasn't until he got to Afghanistan that it had become serious. He'd draw in his free time, just to forget and after he had been sent home, he just lost any and all inspiration. After meeting Sherlock though, he felt alive again. He wanted to draw again and Sherlock was the perfect muse, the perfect model. Not that he would ever sit still long enough to pose, or that he even knew John wanted to draw him. Which was why now was the perfect time. He was sleeping.

Sherlock was any artist's dream model. He was made up of contrasting sharp lines and smooth curves, a general lankiness and catlike grace, even in his sleep.

John knew he didn't have long and so set to work, starting with a general outline, the sofa, the positioning of his body and head. The details would come later, hopefully from memory. Otherwise, how would he explain to Sherlock what he was doing? How could he explain how much he wanted to draw him?

XXXXXXXXXX

John was just about to finish when Sherlock started twitching awake.

'John?'

He sounded groggy and weighed down with sleep and John smiled as he answered. 'Yes?'

'What are you doing?,' came the Sherlock's reply, along with the finishing touches to the drawing.

'Hmm? Oh, nothing. Just finishing a book. Why?'

'You're doing an awful lot of staring. How on earth will you ever finish a book if all you're doing is staring? And why did you turn the chair around? There was absolutely no point in that.'

John blushed, realizing how obvious the answer would be once Sherlock was completely awake and so hid the drawing in his sketchbook, grabbed his pencils and turned the chair back around again.

XXXXXXXXXX

This went on for several weeks before Sherlock began to notice a pattern. John couldn't wait for him to go to sleep, and while it had been normal for John to push him to get some sleep, never before had Sherlock seen that excited glimmer in his eye. Sherlock knew he was doing something, but what on earth could he be doing? The only difference in John before he went to sleep and John after he woke up was that he was more relaxed, happier somehow, mischievous like he'd gotten away with something, and there would be dark smudges on the tips of his fingers, but Sherlock could never get close enough to figure out what it was.

They had just finished another case when Sherlock told Lestrade to hold the cases for a couple of days, leaving the DI to wonder what the detective was getting up to, but did as Sherlock asked anyway. The first of those days Sherlock spent sleeping, and he awoke yet again to John's mysterious behavior. Filing this away in the "John" region of his brain, he picked up his violin and calmly waited for the next day, when Sherlock knew John had clinic hours.

XXXXXXXXXX

Just to be sure, Sherlock waited until he knew that John hadn't accidentally left anything behind, that John wasn't coming back to the flat for lunch, and that Mrs. Hudson was out and wasn't going to catch him snooping.

He made his way into John's room slowly, taking in every detail.

It had a Spartan feel to it, a lack of any unnecessary frivolities that you would find in any other grown person's room. There was the bed, neatly made, as though awaiting a quarter's check from a superior. The night stand with the alarm clock on top. Two drawers. The top of which contains the military awards that John never pulls out, the bottom of which contains the military issued browning and a couple of extra magazines. The closet. Nothing of consequence, just the ridiculous jumpers that John seemed to adore (and Sherlock had to admit that they looked good on him) and other clothes. There was nothing under the bed, save a box containing personal items such as photos of his parents, small keepsakes, nothing important, nothing to cause those smudges.

Sherlock paused. Something didn't add up. The night stand. The inside of the top drawer had less space than the outside implied. Sherlock checked again. A false bottom. He smiled. Oh how he loved it when John was clever.

Walking back across the room, he pulled open the drawer and removed the false bottom. All that was there were some pencils (different thickness, different hardness, sharpened with a knife. Obviously for drawing) and an average size book bound in leather (drawing from the conclusion of the drawing pencils, a sketchbook).

A sketchbook? John doesn't sketch. Why would he have this? Given to him by a previous friend, perhaps? A previous lover? These thoughts carried him back downstairs where he gently placed the book on the desk, reveling in the feel of the leather cover. He glanced at the clock. 2:48. He had time, then. John wouldn't be home until 6:17, maybe 6:32 if he stopped at Tesco's for some reason.

Sherlock reached to open the book, pausing just before touching the cover. In his head he can hear John. A bit not good Sherlock, a bit not good. He knew John would be mad with him if he caught him. The delay was minimal, though, and Sherlock's curiosity won out over the warning in his head.

The first sketches were rough, obviously those of a beginner. As they continued, however, they grew with skill, matching nearly to that of a professional. Some were from medical school, so that made the book John's. A girl showed up several times, a crush, maybe a girlfriend? Then there were pictures from Afghanistan. A couple of children playing in the desert streets, a dog chasing them. A group of soldiers playing cards. Then there was one picture of a bloodied soldier lying on a cot. Next to John perhaps, when he'd been shot?

After that, there was nothing. Sherlock frowned. Where had the smudges on John's fingertips come from then? Sherlock picked up the book, flipping through the rest, expecting blank pages. They weren't though. Blank, that is. Not all of them. Just a few. Like a barrier. To separate one part of his life from another? The sketches though, were not was he was expecting. They were of him. Sleeping. All of them. Well, all eight of them. Except the last. It was the beginning of a drawing, a simple sketch. It was an outline of him sitting at the table looking into his microscope.

It was clearly done from memory. Sherlock would have remembered John sitting in his chair for any extended amount of time, especially with the necessity of having to look up at his model. He would have remembered John carrying this book, these pencils. But he hadn't. He'd only had his computer.

Sherlock stopped and thought for a moment, just to be sure. Nothing. It had to be from memory.

Sherlock flipped back to the first one. It was good. Really good. The detail was amazing. The food stain on his shirt (one that hadn't been changed in several days), the ink stain on his fingers from an experiment earlier that day, the way he curled his toes (he'd done it since he was a boy when he'd fractured them in the stables of Holmes Manor hiding from his mum). With the attention to detail, Sherlock was surprised that John didn't come to the conclusions he did. It was just more proof that John saw, but that he couldn't make the leap from seeing what was there to seeing why it was there.

He looked at his face in the picture again. John had spent a lot of time on his face. The smudges and eraser marks on the paper told him that. Did John have trouble drawing his face? Did he really want it to be that perfect? The Sherlock on the paper seemed much more carefree and innocent than Sherlock felt. Did this, in some way, show how John felt about him? Did John think he was perfect? Sherlock frowned. He wasn't perfect. John knew that.

Sherlock glanced at the clock again. John would be home in a half hour. With a bit of reluctance, Sherlock trudged upstairs, closed the book and placed it back in the drawer with the pencils, making sure it was exactly as it had been. He gently replaced the false bottom and the medals on top of it and closed the drawer.

XXXXXXXXXX

John's return home found Sherlock on the couch again in his signature pose, fingers steepled under his chin, feet hanging off the end. He glanced up to watch as John walked through the doorframe, and then buried himself in his mind again, trying to figure out why John would draw him.

Focused as he was, he didn't notice John watching him, getting down a quick sketch on the back of one of their take-out menus.

XXXXXXXXXX

John smiled as he watched Sherlock. He was absorbed in his thoughts, as usual, and John was grateful for this. It would give him time to help him understand why he liked drawing Sherlock so much. At first, it was just because he was there and he was a perfect model. But now it had become addicting. Only allowing himself to draw when Sherlock was asleep was a brilliant idea….at first. John had gotten bored of drawing Sherlock asleep and had tried to draw from memory, but found that he wasn't as proficient at it. He didn't like those as much, they seemed too forced.

As the drawings changed from sleeping to waking, though, so did the range of expressions. There was happy Sherlock, with just the corner of his mouth turned up in a smile. There was annoyed Sherlock, confused, proud, arrogant, sly, innocent, angry, and amused Sherlock. John had become obsessed with the slight changes in his face, wanting to capture each of his faces.

It wasn't until they were at the next crime scene that he figured it out. Why exactly he wanted to capture every expression. Why he wanted Sherlock, and only Sherlock to be his model. He was just starting to come to terms with this revelation in his mind when Anderson had said something, and right away, John could tell that Sherlock's reaction would be horrific.

Sherlock had completely stopped what he was doing, tensed up, spun around to face Anderson and fixed him with a glare filled with such hatred that John could feel the heat coming off in waves. Sherlock stalked towards Anderson, who in the space of a minute, realized what he had said was wrong and that it was too late to take back. Finally reaching him, Sherlock leaned down and whispered something in Anderson's ear and the man blanched, his eyes unfocusing and face draining of any remaining color.

John would have laughed had the situation not been so serious (and had the comment not been personally offensive towards John (Because, if course, Sherlock never took offence to the comments aimed at him. They just rolled off him, he ignored them. But for some reason whenever John was the object of such comments, Sherlock would become infuriated.).). John had found himself grateful and somewhat overjoyed that Sherlock had taken his defense (even though the comment had been meant for the both of them, but mostly John), and with such a strong reaction. Any emotion at all, especially positive emotion, from Sherlock was a blessing to John. It made him feel lighthearted and laughing with Sherlock always made him feel a few years younger.

John frowned. What was the basis for these feelings? Why did he feel this way? He wasn't gay. At least, he didn't think he was gay. He'd heard about people that had exceptions. As in they weren't gay, but fell in love with someone of the same gender. Could he be like that? Could Sherlock be his exception?

"You're staring off again, John" Sherlock's voice startled him out of his thought and back to the present and realized, that yes, he was staring. At Sherlock. Which made him wonder if Sherlock knew he was more than just a friend to John or if he just ignored it, deleted it like all of the other insignificant moments in his life.

XXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock raced upstairs and pulled out the book as soon as John had left for the day. There were no cases on at the moment and this presented Sherlock with the perfect opportunity to view John's progress from the last few weeks. Sherlock knew John was struggling with himself and his own sense of self identity and sexuality and he wanted to see how that would translate over to his drawings. That was why he hadn't looked for the last five weeks. He wanted to know if John had continued drawing him as he was in the flat, in the place he loved most. He wanted to know if John's feelings would affect the drawings. He wanted to know.

On the fringe, his mind wondered why he wanted to know, but he suppressed the thought, pulling open the drawer and removing the false bottom. Finding the last sketch he had seen, Sherlock wondered briefly if John had ever found the answer to the question that was plaguing his mind. Expecting to find the answer in the next pages, Sherlock turned to the next drawing. It was the side of his face this time, a snap shot of a crime scene that involved him rebuking Anderson after a rather derogatory comment aimed at John.

Sherlock remembered that day. He remembered the way the insult had hurt him, even though it was aimed at John, he remembered how much he had wanted to rip Anderson's throat out and feed it to him, he remembered the way John smiled when he saw Sherlock defending him. That was the part Sherlock liked the most. John's smile. His approval. His gratitude. Though, it was followed closely by the look on Anderson's face when he took in the words that Sherlock whispered into his ear. John couldn't have heard what was said, but the fact that Sherlock had managed to put a smile on his face just by sticking up for him like that made Sherlock want to do it more often.

Stopping for a moment, Sherlock wondered at himself. Never had he ever cared so much about one person's feelings, about their happiness, as he did John's. Feelings were a weakness, but Sherlock had yet to think about John in that light. John wasn't his weakness. He had only ever made him better. Maybe Mycroft was wrong in this one instance. Maybe there was something to this love thing. For as best as he could work out, Sherlock did love John. The only problem was figuring out the depth of these…feelings. Just how much did Sherlock love John?

XXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock spent the rest of the day sitting on the sofa, not moving, thinking about what he felt for John. Certainly John was always there for him, especially when he needed him, and that made him glad of his presence. John was funny. There was always something he said that would make him smile, no matter the situation. John was always changing. Always surprising him, another thing Sherlock valued. Sherlock was rarely surprised, and when he was, he valued those moments.

John was never disturbed by his experiments, never bothered by the body parts in the fridge, after the head, of course. He just…accepted them as an integral part of his life…along with the chemistry equipment covering the table, the violin playing at all hours, the not speaking and odd requests. Sherlock took note of the fact that it hadn't been very hard for John to accept these things.

John understood him. There was no one else who had ever known Sherlock like John did. After initially getting to know Sherlock, John could pick apart his moods and feelings with just a look. He always knew when Sherlock was planning something and was usually clever enough to keep up. He always knew where to be in order to be the most beneficial to Sherlock.

Those were small things though. They didn't really say anything about his feelings towards John, just how much he appreciated him, his presence in his life.

Rerouting his thoughts, Sherlock focused more on how John made him feel.

He was always happier around John. John could always make him smile, make him laugh, no matter the circumstances.

John always made him feel like he was home. No matter where they were, John always made Sherlock feel wanted.

John always knew what Sherlock needed, without it ever having to be said. And Sherlock never realized how much he needed that until John came along.

There seemed to be nothing that Sherlock could do that would put John off, and for as much as Sherlock experimented, that means he meant a great deal to John, which made him happier than he had ever been.

Sherlock liked making John smile. His smile never failed to brighten Sherlock's day.

Sherlock decided that yes, he was definitely in love with John.

XXXXXXXXXX

Now that Sherlock had forced himself to go over his feelings and decide exactly what they were, he realized that he had no idea what to do about them. He was pretty sure John felt the same, but between the two of them, John was the expert on feelings and relationships. Never had the need arisen for Sherlock to know what to do, never had someone mattered enough to need to know. John mattered, though. Sherlock could no longer imagine his life without John. For a moment he wondered, if it ever came to it, would these feelings for John would make him vulnerable, or hopefully, stronger.

It was becoming increasingly frustrating. For all of his brains, the fact that he couldn't figure out how to approach John in this manner was a bit daunting. That and there was the subject of John's mental state concerning sexuality. It was John's own admission that he liked, preferred even, women. John had never been with another man, not that Sherlock knew of anyway. He wondered if this would hinder their relationship, if John would get over his predilection for women and choose him and how long it would take him.

XXXXXXXXXX

John knew. Despite what Sherlock thought, he wasn't stupid. He may not have figured it out when Sherlock first saw the drawings, but eventually he did catch on. Sherlock had started getting reckless when he put up the sketchbook, forgetting to close the drawer all the way, leaving wrinkles on the bed where he'd sat (John was nothing less than the perfect military man, his quarters always neat, his bed always perfectly made). The strange thing, though, was that he hadn't said anything yet. Usually, if John was hiding something and Sherlock figured it out Sherlock would bring it up or tell John about it in some way.

And then there were the looks. And the quietness. And for a while John thought that he'd done something wrong, but then he'd catch Sherlock looking and smiling (a small smile, but significant for Sherlock) and sometimes just staring off into the distance. That was how John figured it out…that Sherlock fancied him.

The thought made him smile. Sherlock fancied him. Him. John Watson. For a moment he wondered why on earth Sherlock would choose him, but he had waited too long to try and come up with an argument as to why Sherlock wouldn't want to be with him. John knew that Sherlock thought he was straight, but when he found out that Harriet was gay, he'd sat down and thought about his….preferences. John decided he could go either way, but from the moment he met Sherlock, he knew there would never be anyone else. Even if Sherlock never figured it out, which now he had, John knew he would never leave him, friend or otherwise.

All that was left was for Sherlock to figure out how John felt about him. John decided that he would give it two more days, maybe one more sketch, before he told Sherlock.

XXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock had had this planned out for days. He knew John was onto him. Though, he a bit more than fancied John (knowing John as he did, that would definitely be the word he used, and it wasn't accurate. Not at all. It was too weak a term for what Sherlock felt).

Knowing that he lacked subtly, Sherlock had decided to not even contemplate attempting such a feat. He was going to go straight for the crux of it. He had discovered John's feelings for him through John's sketches and he decided that he was going to draw one for John. Sherlock had always had a capable hand and had always been an analytical drawer, picking up on the smallest of details. He had to be, at least he thought so, for the nature of his schooling, and later, his work. This had been extremely valuable to him when he'd started the drawing and he thought it had turned out beautifully, especially for not having been quite as artistic as John.

Sherlock could tell the differences, really anyone could. Sherlock's was more dark lines and harsh contrasts of shadow that all came together nicely, giving the effect he desired, while John's depended more on soft lines and delicate shading. Clearly John was more experienced when it came to art, but Sherlock still found himself wanting John to see it more and more.

He glanced up at the clock. John would be home soon. Time to put his plan into action.

He quickly swept up his eraser and pencil shavings, deposited them in the trash, and quickly climbed the stairs to John's room. Pausing at the door, he took a moment to memorize the state of John's room. Sherlock wanted to make it obvious that he'd been there.

Crossing the room, he pulled open the drawer containing John's sketchbook, pulled up the false bottom and grabbed the sketchbook. Quickly, he flipped to the last sketch (another new one that took his breath away) and slid his in behind it, just making sure that it stuck out from the edge of the book enough so that John would see immediately that something was out of place. Sherlock then placed the book back, slightly skewed from its previous position, replaced the false bottom, slid the drawer closed until an inch remained open, mussed up John's bed where he'd been sitting, and finally left the room to take up his usual position in his chair.

Knowing John as he did, he hoped that John would know what it meant.

XXXXXXXXXX

Tired from work and smelling of disinfectant, John's first thought when he entered 221 Baker Street that night was to take a nice relaxing shower and maybe have some tea and read for a bit before bed. Tomorrow was his day off; he could talk to Sherlock then.

Coming into the living area, John dropped his bag and peeled off his jacket, placing it on its hook behind the door. Glancing around the room, John saw Sherlock standing by the window, violin in hand, but not actually playing. Shrugging mentally, John turned and left the room, heading upstairs to collect his things to take a shower.

As tired as he was, John failed to take note of the small things Sherlock had changed, going straight to the closet and dresser, picking out some comfortable night things.

XXXXXXXXXX

Anxious, Sherlock had taken to pacing the living room. It wasn't until he saw John on the street below that he picked up the violin in an attempt at appearing normal. He heard John come in and remove his jacket before heading upstairs.

Sherlock stopped everything and turned his head to listen to the small noises coming from upstairs. Sherlock's heart almost stopped when John started back down the stairs only to start beating faster than even as John got closer.

John walked past the living room.

Sherlock frowned. Did John not see the signs Sherlock so very clearly left him?

Going back, Sherlock realized that John hadn't even been in his room long enough to have pulled out the sketches, let alone realize what that last added one meant.

Sherlock heard the shower start. John must be unusually tired, then, as he didn't normally take a shower until just before bed.

Deciding he could wait for John to take a shower, Sherlock closed his eyes and brought the violin up to his shoulder, playing a new composition; one he'd written with John in mind.

XXXXXXXXXX

John really was glad for the shower. After the day he'd had, it was relaxing and rejuvenating and helped him focus on what he was going to say to Sherlock in the morning.

As resistant to emotions as Sherlock was, John felt as though he'd have to be unusually blunt in order to get his point across. He would just have to figure out the best was to approach him, what words to say, where to stand.

Sighing as he realized he'd been in the shower a little too long, he stepped out, dried himself and pulled on his clothes before leaving the bathroom to head back upstairs. As it was only seven thirty, John decided he'd grab his book from his room and read for a bit before getting something for dinner.

Once in his room, John crossed to the closet to put his dirty clothes in the hamper before turning to collect his book off of the bedside table.

John froze.

The drawer was open. He frowned. He knew Sherlock had been into his drawings, but for Sherlock to make it obvious…well, obviously there was something he wanted John to notice. John pulled the drawer open and pulled up the false bottom to retrieve his sketch book.

There was a page sticking out from the rest. This was probably what Sherlock wanted him to see. Taking a deep breath, John opened the book to that page, taking in what he knew had been put there for his benefit.

It was a sketch of himself. As Sherlock must see him, he realized.

In the picture, he was sitting in his chair in the living room, forgotten newspaper in his lap. He was looking up and smiling. At Sherlock, John thought. There was an intense amount of detail, but that would only be what he expected.

The thing that took his breath away, though, was that despite claiming to be emotionless and ignorant, Sherlock had managed to capture the happiness and, dare he think it, love, in John's eyes. It was all John could do to remember that Sherlock had put this here intentionally and that he was still downstairs, likely waiting for a response to his not so subtle declaration.

Slowly, John stood and wandered down the stairs, book and drawing still in hand.

XXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock tensed as he heard John leave the bathroom and head back upstairs. Maybe this time John would notice.

He stilled and quieted his breathing to listen to the noises coming down from John's room. There was the creak of the floorboards as John walked across to his closet; to put his dirty clothes away most likely. More creaking as he walked back to the bed, then silence. He must have noticed. Then came the sound of the wire springs in John's bed compressing as John sat. More silence.

Had John seen it yet? Sherlock could imagine John's face overtaken with surprise to see the addition to the sketch book, but would he be as happy as Sherlock hoped? Sherlock hoped so.

Sherlock frowned as he realized he hadn't quite thought of all of the possible ways John might react. Of course, he had read the signs correctly. John did have feelings for him, but what if…

Sherlock stopped himself. It was too late to think of the 'what ifs' now. He would just have to take the cards he'd dealt himself.

Sherlock cocked his ear towards the stairs again. Still nothing. Could John really be taking this long to take in what Sherlock was trying to tell him with that drawing? He hoped not. Sherlock heaved a sigh and strode back to the window, still holding his violin but not playing as he looked out the window and down at Baker Street.

XXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn't even hear John enter the room. And, for some reason, this made John smile. For once, he'd managed to sneak up on the always aware detective.

He was five feet away before Sherlock tensed and turned his head in John's direction, acknowledging John and speaking for the first time that day.

"John."

It was quiet and John had to smile at the affection in Sherlock's tone of voice.

"I found something in my drawer tonight, Sherlock. Something I find to be…intriguing, to say the least."

"Oh? Intriguing, you say? What is it?" Sherlock said, deciding to play innocent.

"You know very well what it is, Sherlock. And I must say, I find myself rather delirious and hoping it means what I think it means."

Sherlock feels his face heat as he realizes that John is now waiting for him to turn around and respond. His grip on his bow tightens before he turns to place it and the violin in their case to look at John properly.

Sherlock's stomach feels as though it's about to relieve itself of its contents, even though Sherlock knows there can't be much there. In any event, he turns to face John and pulls himself up to his full height. "If I know you, I'm pretty sure that it means what you think, but with the aim of being as accurate as possible, what do you think it means?"

John flushes. He'd hoped that Sherlock would just reveal himself and that would be the end of it, but apparently not. He'd have to take that step himself.

John placed the book and the drawing on the sofa and took a cautious step forward. Swallowing hard, John replied, "I was hoping it meant that you, in whatever capacity you are able, did have feelings for me. I was hoping it meant that you felt for me as I feel for you."

There. It was all out there now. Let the chips fall where they may and all that.

"And how do you feel about me?"

John frowned. Now Sherlock was just being deliberately obtuse. He looked up to snap at Sherlock to find that he was smirking at John, knowing it would bother him.

John closed his mouth and let his breath out. This could go one of several different ways. He and Sherlock could just dance around this and play cautious, John could take charge of this and march up to Sherlock and kiss him (in which Sherlock would either respond or freak out), or John could just stop where they were and let their friendship remain intact (not that he wanted that, but he didn't want to lose Sherlock).

He looked back at Sherlock. John's fear seemed to be reflected in Sherlock's eyes, though Sherlock seemed more afraid that John would turn and leave than anything else.

John didn't want Sherlock to be afraid, so bolstering his thoughts, he covered the last few feet between them and reached one hand up to Sherlock's cheek, and the other he wrapped around the back of Sherlock's neck, pulling his lips down to meet John's. Sherlock stiffened for a moment before relaxing and trying to awkwardly trying to kiss back, his hand going up to cover John's on his cheek.

XXXXXXXXXX

xxxxx

XXXXXXXXXX

John shivered as he walked, pulling his coat tighter around himself awkwardly with one hand. The other hand wrapped tighter around its own item in protection.

It was ten days from Christmas and John hoped Sherlock would like what he had gotten him.

Reaching Baker Street, John carefully put the present down next to the door to reach for his keys and unlock the door. Picking it back up, John climbed the stairs and headed for the pre-determined hiding place of said present; the upstairs bedroom.

After John and Sherlock had officially 'gotten together' they decided that it would be more economical to share the downstairs bedroom. Other than the fact that it saved energy not having to climb the stairs every so often, it saved money not having to keep it cool or warm depending on the time of the year, and John found that since he'd been sleeping in Sherlock's room, Sherlock had been getting hours more sleep each week (which ended up doing really well for both the doctor's and detective's sanity).

As such, neither of them had any reason to go upstairs and John knew for a fact that Sherlock hadn't, even though it'd been at least four months. John quickly made his way up the stairs, knowing his time was limited as Sherlock only expected to be out only for another hour or so.

John pushed the door open and looked around. A thin layer of dust had settled over what had stayed in the room and John knew that that could be potentially problematic. Dust is eloquent, Sherlock always said.

With that in mind, John made several different tracks in the dust, messing it up here and there, before finally putting it in its hiding place.

XXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock, on the other hand, still had no idea what to get John for Christmas (not that he put much stock into the idea of Christmas with all of the happiness and love and gift giving). With as relaxed as John was, Sherlock assumed he'd gotten what he assumed to be the perfect gift.

Sherlock thought for days as to the perfect gift for John. It didn't hit him until he'd finally picked up his violin to help him think.

XXXXXXXXXX

It took about a week for Sherlock to make the proper arrangements (and to call in a couple of favors) and when Sherlock finally received the finished copy of his gift to John, he was almost too excited to wait to give John his present, which wasn't something that happened often.

XXXXXXXXXX

Christmas Eve found both John and Sherlock surrounded with the unwelcome company of Mycroft, Greg, Molly, Mrs. Hudson and several others. Unwelcome not for any particular reason other than the fact that all either of them wanted was to be alone to exchange their gifts in private.

Fortunately, Mycroft seemed to pick up on this fact (due to the not so subtle scowling of his younger brother and the glances that passed between him and the good doctor) and surreptitiously informed Greg, who managed to get everyone out without Sherlock having to force them out.

XXXXXXXXXX

John, having managed to decline Mrs. Hudson's slightly intrusive offer of tea, turned back to the living room to find it empty.

John smiled and took the moment to run up the stairs to grab his gift and returned to find Sherlock sitting in his chair, hands steepled under his chin, eyes fixed on John. John swallowed nervously as he walked towards Sherlock and set the gift down in his lap.

Sherlock, once John backed away, finally pulled his eyes from the older man and looked towards the object in his lap. It wasn't wrapped, just draped with a piece of cloth, so Sherlock had seen what it was immediately. A picture frame. The only question was; what was in the frame?

Only one way to find out, he supposed.

Sherlock looked up at John once more before bringing his hand up and pulling the cloth away from the frame.

What he saw, Sherlock definitely didn't expect. It was two drawings. Both their own sketches. One by Sherlock and one by John. The left was John's first portrait of Sherlock and the right was Sherlock's first portrait of John. Or at least, the one Sherlock had given him. (John didn't know that there were many sketches Sherlock had discarded at first, not liking the way they had come out. And Sherlock had wanted the first one to be perfect.)

Sherlock looked up at John in surprise, never having thought about framing their sketches. In that moment, Sherlock felt so overwhelmed with emotions, some old and some new, that he lost all ability to think and speak.

John seemed to grow nervous at the extended silence and said, "I know it's probably not what you expected, but I thought that it might be something that you would appreciate."

Sherlock jolted himself from his surprise and pushed himself out of his chair to pull John into a hug, glad that John knew the significance these drawings had to him. He buried his face into John's neck and drew a deep breath before reaching into his coat pocket to retrieve his gift for John.

XXXXXXXXXX

What he'd realized while playing his violin those weeks ago was that John loved hearing him play. He may not say it, but Sherlock could tell. John always seemed calmer when Sherlock played, his face and neck relaxing and the tension visibly leaving his body. Now that Sherlock knew about the sketches, he'd even begun drawing while Sherlock played.

So Sherlock made a recording. All of John's favorite songs (of the ones he played on the violin, anyway) on a neat little disk for him to listen to whenever he wanted.

Even though Sherlock didn't hold much stake in the giving of gifts nonsense that surrounded Christmas, he felt rather confident about his choice in gifts for John.

XXXXXXXXXX

John took the little package from Sherlock's hands and looked up at Sherlock before gently pulling on the ribbon that was tied around the small box. He quickly tore through the wrapping paper to find a cardboard shipping box, and intrigued, John looked at the address. It was addressed to Sherlock, but that didn't mean much.

He slipped his thumb under the flap on the box, eased it open and let the contents slide out into his hand. It was a cd. Completely blank, no writing anywhere other than the 'Sherlock' in neat handwriting on the front of the cd. Confused, John looked up to Sherlock to ask what it was, but Sherlock stopped him before he could say anything, holding up his computer for John to listen to the cd.

John popped the CD into the drive and waited for the player to tell him that the CD had been successfully loaded. After a moment, the program produced a play button and John eagerly clicked it as he stole a quick glance at Sherlock, excited to see what he had made for him.

As the violin music started, John stared at the computer, confused. When he took another look at Sherlock he saw the man smirking and realized that it was him that was playing the violin. Noting John's confusion, Sherlock pulled him from his thoughts, "Since you enjoy listening so much, I thought you might like to have something to listen to when I'm not here to play for you."

John smiled, laughing at how narcissistic the words were (especially coming from Sherlock's mouth) and pressed the pause button before gently closing the laptop, placing it on the coffee table in front of them. "It's perfect, Sherlock."

John leaned forward into the space between them and gently pulled Sherlock to meet him, wrapping his arms around the detective and burying his face in the younger man's neck.