Alone on Baker Street

Chapter Four

"John? John."

John groggily opened his eyes, and looked up at a relieved looking Sherlock.

He was still in the couch, except he was laying down. A warm blanket had been placed on him as well, obviously Sherlock's doing. He blushed slightly at the thought of Sherlock caring enough to make sure he was comfortable.

John sat up, and saw it was just now turning dusk outside. Dusk?

"How long have I been asleep?"

Sherlock glanced at his watch. "About 22 hours."

"It's seven o'clock?!"

"Yes. And it's been even longer than that since you've eaten. Grab your coat, we're going out."

____________________

Sherlock hailed a cab, and held the door open for John to climb in. "Where are we going?" John asked.

"A nice little Italian place about ten minutes from here." Sherlock answered. He said the name Fegorelli's to the cab driver.

"Sherlock, can I ask you something?"

Looking out his own window, Sherlock mumbled, "Of course."

"Why do you seem...different?"

At this, Sherlock turned around to face John.

"Different? What do you mean?"

"You've just...not been yourself. You've acted...nice, and friendly."

Sherlock looked as if John just punched him in the face. He turned away quickly. "I'm sorry."

"No wait, Sherlock, I am." John quickly said. "I didn't mean it as a bad thing."

Sherlock looked back at John, the hurt still evident in his eyes. "Why did you miss me?" he asked suddenly.

"What?"

"When I died...why did you miss me?"

"Well, because you were...are...my best friend. When I saw you there on the pavement, with no pulse, I swear a part of me died."

Sherlock looked flattered by the remark, but without his usual cockiness. "But I was utterly insufferable."

"Well, I could suffer you quite well."

Sherlock gave a small laugh.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, for what I said. I didn't mean it to be-"

"No, John, you don't have to apologize. The reason I am different is because I missed you. As each day went by, a new regret surfaced about how horribly I treated you. I took you for granted. And it will never happen again." With this, Sherlock rested his hand on top of John's, gauging his reaction.

John flinched, but made no attempt to remove his hand. The electric warmth of Sherlock's touch was one of the best feelings John had experienced.

They stayed like that until they arrived at the restaurant.

"Ciao," the Italian waitress greeted them. She had a thick Italian accent, but her English was understandable enough. "Table for two?"

"Please." Sherlock smiled. "And preferably in the back of the restaurant."

The two men were led to a dimly lit table in the back of Fegorelli's. They both ordered their drinks and the waitress went off to get them.

"Why the back of the restaurant?"

"Because...we need to talk."

John felt a sense of uneasiness at this. What did Sherlock want to tell him?

He thought back to when Sherlock was taking his pulse and observing his pupil dilation just yesterday. "John Watson, if I didn't know you better, I'd say you were in l--" is what he said.

Oh God.

He knew.

Of course he knew, John thought with despair. He was the world's greatest detective--he may not be that good with emotions, but John's love for Sherlock was something that even an idiot couldn't deny.

"Sherlock, I...I have to talk to you too."

"Umm, I'm not sure how to say this," Sherlock began, playing with his shirt sleeve nervously. He was wearing a tight purple shirt, one that had always secretly been John's favorite.

"I've noticed something recently that I can't ignore," Sherlock continued.

John interjected. "I've noticed something also. I've known it for a while, but I couldn't tell you."

"The thing is, John.."

"You see, Sherlock.."

Their words came out at the same time:

"I'm in love with you."'