Maintaining a Personal Life

Chapter Five

There was no way around it— John felt like a complete and utter arse.

Over the course of the next two days, John turned his conversation with Sherlock over and over in his mind in a desperate bid to come to any conclusion but the obvious: Sherlock Holmes was attracted to him. The very idea would have been laughable just a few days ago, before his perspective had been turned on its head by one incredibly strange conversation. John now knew for a solid fact that Sherlock not only had sexual impulses like a relatively normal human being, but had actually acted on them before. This tiny and seemingly simple bit of information forced John to revaluate everything he thought he knew about his friend.

If John was honest with himself, he'd been attracted to Sherlock from the moment they met. Even aside from his obvious good looks, there was something about Sherlock, a magnetic energy that drew John to him despite the impossible man's best efforts to the contrary. For most of the first year and a half that John had known him, Sherlock had been so damn confusing at every turn— pushing John away and pulling him closer in equal measure to an extent that was both dizzying and electric. John couldn't have stayed away from Sherlock even if he had wanted to.

Then Sherlock went and died, and John had realized that he'd fallen in love with the bastard despite his own better judgement. There really was no worse feeling in the world than that, to finally realize how much someone truly meant when it was too late to ever do anything about it. Dark thoughts had haunted John relentlessly, taunting him with the idea that if he had just figured it out sooner and had somehow found a way to tell Sherlock in a way that he'd understood, Sherlock might not have killed himself.

John had worked through it, though— barely, and tried to move on like normal, healthy people do. But normal, healthy people didn't have best friends who faked their own deaths, or end up married to murderous assassins.

John had long since given up the illusion that his life would ever be uncomplicated.

But Sherlock— even when he'd come back from the dead a little less cutting around the edges, John certainly hadn't clung to any illusions about the possibilities there. Sherlock had been very clear about his lack of interest from the start. John hadn't even really been intentionally coming on to Sherlock that very first night of their acquaintance, but the detective still saw right through him and quickly shut him down. Sherlock made it very clear that any interest of that sort was unwelcome, and John respected that. John had been very careful from that point on never to make his friend feel uncomfortable. He became quite good at shelving his feelings for Sherlock Holmes, to the point where he barely thought about it much anymore like a familiar ache that dulled from years of exposure.

So just where the hell did Sherlock get off being bloody attracted to him now? Was it even real, or just some odd experiment in driving his best friend around the twist?

No, it was more than that and John knew it. In his gut, he knew it. There was something that had been lurking in the periphery of John's awareness for some time, something he'd seen glimpses of as far back as his wedding and quickly pushed aside for the sake of his own sanity. Now that he finally let himself look at it full on, he was struck with a revelation so obvious that it left him reeling.

Sherlock had feelings for him, genuine feelings that ran deeper than friendship, and possibly had done for who knows how long. John knew of course that Sherlock cared for him and about him, but he hadn't really thought anything more was remotely possible. If he was right, John could barely stand to think about the implications of this.

For the better part of a year after his sham of a marriage had gone to shit, John had been parading his string of meaningless rebound flings through the flat like an enormous prick. And all the while, Sherlock had been nothing but unerringly supportive in his own way. He'd let John snap and bristle and rage away at him when John had been so angry all he wanted to do was hurt everything that crossed his path—which almost always happened to be Sherlock. He'd been quiet when John needed him to be, giving him space for days at a time when John couldn't bear to speak to anyone. He'd instinctively known exactly when John had spent too much time trapped in his own head, and instead needed to be dragged around the arse-end of London after a machete-wielding exotic animal smuggler. He'd asked very odd and stilted open-ended questions (that he'd obviously gotten from a book) about how John was feeling about his situation. He'd spontaneously designated an entire shelf in the refrigerator as an 'experiment-free zone' for human food only. He'd glared daggers at every single one of the dozen women John had thoughtlessly flaunted in his face, but held his famously sharp tongue because he knew it displeased John when he made them cry.

Sherlock was right. John was an idiot.

But he wasn't a hopeless idiot. There was still time to make it right.