Thirty-Six Questions to Fall in Love

Question 36 (Part 2)

He nervously watched Sherlock's face, hoping that the redness of his cheeks were a result of mutual affection. Sherlock, at this point, had sat down and placed his hands into a prayer-esque position over his lips. He closed his eyes, his mind spinning with thoughts, all of which were about John.

"John..." Sherlock mumbled, still with his eyes shut. "I must reflect back to you how I seem to be feeling about the problem you have chosen."

"What?" John didn't understand why Sherlock was still worried about the experiment. He just told him that he loved him, for God's sake. But John knew this was an easier way for Sherlock to deal with the situation, so he went along with it. "Oh- Okay, Sherlock. Please. Yes, I would like to know how you feel about this."

Sherlock got up off his chair and stood in front of John. His body trembling with worry. "Alright, I just feel- John... I feel..." Sherlock stood for a moment, his chest inflating and deflating rapidly as he anxiously breathed. "Christ, John, I feel!"

The sentence was hollered at the wall, his hands turning into fists and then moving up to his hair, weaving through it and threatening to pull it out. His breath became quick and shallow, his movements becoming wide and irrational. "I have emotion. Can you believe that? Emotion. It's in my head. It's everywhere. All the time. And I don't know what to do with it."

John was shocked at the sudden outburst, and he started to question if Sherlock was actually more nervous than he was. He watched him pace the room, his eyes glazed over with wild frustration.

"It's a chemical reaction," Sherlock bargained aloud to himself. "It's a release of dopamine and oxytocin from the brain, causing me to... to feel whenever you merely set foot into the bloody room. My brain likes you, John, even though I don't want it to. It can't help itself." He sighed, his eyes wide as he glanced around the room. "I think I'm going insane."

John furrowed his brow. "Wha-? Sherlock, you aren't thinking rationally. Come on-"

"That's it, John!" Sherlock called across the room, taking papers and folders in his hand and erratically waving them around, notes flying out of them and landing on the floor. "I'm insane. I'm going mad and you're gonna have to chain me up! You'll have to put me in a little cell and feed me anti-hallucinogenic drugs until the day I die! The press will just love it, too; that's a guarantee. And don't even get me started on Sally Donovan, and God, will Anderson get a kick out of this! That one genius he hates will never have to step foot in his sight again and the world will, at once, be at peace-"

"Sherlock!" John heard himself yell, silencing him with the single word. He walked over and took the folders out of his hand, plopping them back onto the table and sitting back down in his chair. "Will you sit down?"

Sherlock, frazzled and confused, abidingly did as he was told. He crossed one leg over the other, his fingers tapping the end of his armrests as he glared around the room.

"Sherlock Holmes," John said in quiet exasperation. "Just breathe."

Sherlock's jaw set. "I am breathing."

"You're hyperventilating," John countered, "so you're doing a terrible job."

Sherlock closed his eyes, taking a slow breath in and holding it for a while, letting it out slowly as he counted the seconds in his head. Once he regained his sanity, he swallowed and leaned back in his chair, pursing his lips and looking down at his own shoes.

"Now, with coherent explanation," John guided him, "Tell me what's going on."

Sherlock nodded. "Fine."

For a few tense moments, he was silent. He stared at the floor, and then at John, blinking and overanalysing everything that crossed his mind. He couldn't put in words what he had to say. That was a first.

"Don't be alarmed, John," he finally spoke, quietly and unsteadily.

John nodded. "Okay."

Sherlock stood up.

He swallowed and tried to compose himself, fearing that his legs would give out at any given moment.

Come on, idiot, he told himself. Don't let your brain shut you down. It's just a brain.

He met John's eyes.

Just a stupid brain.

So he began to move.

His legs felt like liquid, his stomach empty and terrified as he made his way across the few steps between them. He closed the gap between their eyes, and, his hands gently gripping John's shirt, pulled him even closer.

John leaned out of his chair a bit, their eyes meeting, their noses lightly brushing against each other as they stood temporarily still. John's heart beat into his throat as he maintained eye contact out of pure habit, getting lost in the green and gold and brown and blue before him. Letting out an anticipating breath, he asked a thirty-seventh question.

"Are you gonna do anything?" he prompted.

Sherlock watched his lips, his eyelids fluttering as he fought his emotion in his head.

"I might."

And then, finally, he let the emotion win.

Almost desperately, Sherlock's hands roughly pulled his flatmate's lips to his. John let out a small gasp, not sure if he was surprised or relieved, inching his body closer to his flatmate as they became entangled, Sherlock towering over John and leaning over to reach him properly. Eventually, he found himself kneeling on the floor, John's face over his, his hands travelling down John's back and to his waist. One of John's hands cupped the side of Sherlock's face, the other one navigating its way through his hair.

Then they slowly pulled apart, still holding one another close, their faces barely even separated as they looked one another in the eye.

"I love you," Sherlock whispered, his voice soft and penetrable. "I love you so much." He took a breath, barely believing this was even real. "That's how I feel."

John grinned like a little kid. "Good," he whispered back and kissed the side of Sherlock's face.

Sherlock slowly leaned into another kiss. He would go faster if it were different. Perhaps, if this had happened when they had first met, Sherlock would move more quickly. But now, he had to catch up on what they had lost in the time that this hadn't yet happened. He had to take more time to learn him. Reaching up, he cradled John's face in his hand, his thumb tracing his smile lines and his cheekbones that he never gave himself credit for, his round button nose and the bags under his eyelids, feeling the way his lips brushed up against his own. John was beautiful. Everything about him, even the parts he didn't like about himself. Especially the parts he didn't like about himself.

"I hate to admit that we lost our case," Sherlock breathed. "We didn't prove it wrong."

John smiled, his hands moving through Sherlock's hair as he looked down at him. "No," he replied, thinking he might have just felt the happiest he ever has. "And I'm so glad."