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Sometimes Sherlock wished he was as blind to people's feelings as everyone seemed to think. If that was the case, he would have been surprised by the conversation he was about to have, instead of dreading it for weeks. But he wasn't. As it were, he had deduced quite fast that, although he preferred to keep it on the down low, John Watson wasn't as straight as he claimed to be - "not gay" was an accurate, but misleading descriptor. For a long while he hadn't given it much thought, as it wasn't any of his business after all. But then came the longing gazes, the charged silences, the dilated pupils, the not-so-casual touches. It wasn't anything he hadn't seen before, and even used to his benefit (he knew of Molly's crush, he wasn't blind, thank you very much), but this was different. This was John, good loyal John, who wouldn't buy any of his usual tricks. Most people, even those who liked him, like Lestrade, were quick to accept that he didn't really care about anyone but himself. But John? He had tried everything: acting as though Moriarty's human bombs didn't rattle him; outright stating that sentiment wasn't something he did in that wretched episode with Irene Adler... His last ditch attempt was a few weeks ago, when he used his friend as a human experiment for the drug in Baskerville without his consent. When even that hadn't made the light in John's eyes diminish, he knew there was nothing left to do but steel himself for what was to come.
And that's how they had gotten to this point. John had the day off at the surgery. He had been twitchy all morning, stealing glances in his direction and generally acting as if he was gathering his courage for something important. It didn't take the world's best detective to deduce what was going on in his head. For a moment he considered feigning an important experiment for a case and bolting from the apartment, but he quickly dismissed the idea. This situation was clearly driving both of them insane, and maybe it was best out in the open. He just hoped this wasn't going to end the most beautiful thing to ever happen to him.
With this in mind, Sherlock sat on the couch and retired to his Mind Palace to decide on the best way to respond to John's imminent confession. And indeed, it wasn't long until his blogger sat heavily on the armchair opposite, a cup of tea in his hands, and sighed.
"Sherlock, can I have your full attention for a moment, please? There's something important I need to tell you."
The detective nodded, his fingers under his chin in his signature pose, not making eye contact. He couldn't. Not now. He couldn't bear to see the emotions in those blue eyes. "Go ahead. I'm listening."
"So, how should I start this..." John racked his hand through his hair, an unconscious movement he made when he was nervous or uncomfortable. Or, in this case, most probably both. He took a deep breath and continued. "We've been flatmates for a few years now, and I know I've said quite a few times that I'm not gay... And I'm not, not exactly, but I'm not straight, either. I think the proper term is bisexual? I've never found the time to figure it out. At first I was in the military, and then you appeared, and it wasn't like my love life was going anywhere anyhow. So it didn't seem important at the time. Anyway, the thing is, I've had feelings for you for a while now, and I think those feelings are reciprocated?" The other man drew a deep breath, straightening to what Sherlock called his 'Captain Watson' stance, and continued. "Would you do me the honour of being my boyfriend?" He snorted lightly. "It's not like it's going to surprise anyone..."
The detective closed his eyes. Well, there it was. The elephant in the room. Everything he had been dreading for so long was out. Now it was his turn to make a move.
"John." he started, looking at the other man for the first time and feeling his heart break at the hopeful smile on his face, and the realization that it wouldn't stay there for long once he started talking. "I'm very sorry. I don't love you. I've never loved you. At least, not in the way you want me to. You know how I told you, when we first met, that I was married to my work? I wasn't joking, nor exaggerating. Relationships... aren't really my area. I don't feel comfortable with the idea of love, never have, probably never will. That's just not who I am..."
Sherlock stopped abruptly when John scoffed. "Oh, for fuck's sake, Sherlock. If you don't want to date me you can just tell me, you know. Don't try to feed me that bullshit about not having feelings. We both know that's a load of crap. You're not a monster, nor a machine, no matter what you like to make people think."
The consulting detective looked at his friend, reading easily the defiance in his stance, and the anger that simmered behind it. In all the possible scenarios he had gone through in his Mind Palace to prepare him for this, he hadn't accounted for the possibility that John would straight up refuse to believe him. There was always something. But behind the bravado there was a hint of something more: a man clinging desperately to hope. And it was his place to shatter the remains of that hope. Sometimes he hated himself.
"You are right about that. I'm not a machine, and I do have feelings. Nobody will harm Ms. Hudson as long as I'm alive. I'd probably want to keep hanging out with Lestrade even if he never brought a case around again. Mycroft is endearing, in his own overbearing kind of way. And you... You are the most important person in my life. You make me a better person, a happier person. You're my best friend. Your presence here has probably been a greater deterrent from drugs than any Scotland Yard's raids could ever be. I would do anything to see you healthy and thriving. But love? No, love I cannot do. And before you ask" he added, sending a dark look to the suddenly very worried-looking John, "no, I don't have any trauma, I'm not an abuse survivor, my childhood was just fine and nobody has ever tried to molest me. So spare me the pity, Doctor Watson."
John nodded silently, looking appropriately chastised about it. But Sherlock could already see the older man closing into himself, trying to hide the pain and the disappointment. Doing his best to be inconspicuous about it, the detective snuck a look at his friends' hands. As he expected, they were shaking lightly. "So I suppose this is it, then. God, I made quite a mess of things, didn't I?" he racked his hands through his hair again, more aggressively this time. He chuckled sadly. "I feel like such a fool. I was so sure you would say yes, that that 'conductor of light' speech was Sherlockian for 'I love you too'. That's what happens when you get cocky, I suppose." He straightened from the slouched position he had fallen into, looking directly into Sherlock's eyes. "What now, then? I'd understand if you don't want me around anymore, I can ask Mike for a place to stay while I hunt for a new flat..."
Even though his heart was shattering at the sight of his friend so sad, it was now Sherlock's turn to scoff. "Do try to keep up, John. One, I'm the best detective in the world..." ("and the most humble" added John with a small smile) "did you honestly think I didn't have an inkling of what was going on until now? If I was uncomfortable about you loving me, I would have asked you to leave a long time ago. And two, have you not heard anything I've just said? You're the most important person to me, of course I want you here. Nothing you could say or do would change that." Something hard and cold settled in his stomach as he realized the other man's eyes were getting suspiciously shiny. "Unless you don't want to..."
At this, John sent him a warm, but brittle, half smile. "You're mad if you think I'm giving this up just because you rejected me. Where else would I get my adrenaline fix then?" But the teasing felt flat and forced. "That said, I think I would appreciate if you could give me a few hours to have a good cry and maybe rant to Harry for a bit? I promise I'll be okay afterwards."
Nodding silently, Sherlock put on his Belstaff and mumbled something about a trip to the morgue and visiting Ms. Hudson, and "I'll be late, don't wait up for me". Now it wasn't the time for more speeches; it was the time to let John lick his wounds and go have a good cry of his own. And, most of all, pray to every divinity he didn't believe in that their friendship would survive this.
Two and a half years later, Sherlock watched his best friend's smiling face when he sat at the table of his wedding, a beaming Mary by his side. The road here hadn't been easy: those first few weeks after the confession had been tense at best, full of awkward silences and relearning of boundaries. And just as they started getting better, Moriarty had reappeared and thrown everything out the window. But if there was a silver lining to the whole ordeal, it was clearly this. The consulting detective wasn't blind enough to ignore the fact that he was sad that John was moving away from him, but that sadness was overshadowed by the joy he felt at his friend's happiness.
"John, you have endured war, and injury and tragic loss. -So sorry again about that last one.- So know this, today you sit between the woman you have made your wife, and the man you have saved; in short, the two people who love you most in all this world. And I know I speak for Mary as well when I say we will never let you down, and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that."
And, he swore to himself, he would keep that promise. For John.