John was a practical man. He didn’t go in for the whole fate or destiny thing, didn’t believe in love at first sight or love in general really. He’d learnt the hard way witnessing his parents and then his sister’s marriages break down that the kind of love that the stories and songs are written about probably didn’t exist or at least didn’t for him. So by the time he realised what was happening to him, what the tingling in his chest and butterflies in his stomach really meant, it was far too late.
He was in love with Sherlock Holmes and a fat lot of good it did him.
He should have realised something like this would happen. Why else had he moved in with the madman so quickly, allowed him to become so ingrained in his life that he just couldn’t – wouldn’t – dream of a life without him.
He was so thoroughly, completely screwed.
Sherlock would never know of course.
For all the amazing things the genius knew or could deduce he had no clue about matters of the heart, so John knew if he didn’t act any differently, didn’t give Sherlock an excuse to poke and pry until John just cracked and it all spilled out in a life shattering tumble of words and panic, he would be fine. All John needs to do is keep it together and all inside and he would be fine.
It’s easier said then done of course to keep it all bottled up.
Sometimes he’ll look over when Sherlock is peering through his microscope at some fragment of something or other or when he’s examining some poor woman’s body the long pale column of his throat is exposed and so so tempting (and wasn’t it just like John to get himself worked up at a bloody crime scene) that it’s all he can do to force his eyes away and ignore the ache somewhere in the region of his breast bone. It probably didn’t help that Sherlock had no clue about personal space so he could vividly picture what it would feel like to bridge that miniscule space between them to lean up and … he tried to keep thoughts like that to a minimum but they still surfaced and he was starting to get slightly worried Sherlock may start to think it odd the way he was always staring. Of course Sherlock probably thought he was just awed with his genius or something equally ego driven, but he couldn’t take the chance.
So he set up a new folder on his computer, titled it ‘Things I Should Say But Won’t Say’ and funnelled his feelings into the emails and locked them away never to be seen of thought about again.
The notes ranged in length, from full-page essays on his eyes, his hair; the shape of his lips and how John thought it would feel to kiss them, to only two words of a sentence he couldn’t quite bring himself to finish but that he couldn’t delete.
you loved me too )
There where poems he’d found that summed it all up and stupid rhymes that’d he’d come up with himself.
(Roses are red,
So is my blood,
I wish you realised,
It’s you that I love)
He kept everything gender ambiguous. As much as he didn’t think Sherlock would have any interest in what was contained in the folder, he didn’t trust the detective not to snoop when he was bored in between cases and having love letters for a man saved on his computer that could only have been written by John was not conducive to keeping his secret.
(Sometimes I want to loose myself in your eyes and see things the way that you see them, surely it would be wonderful. I want to run my hands through your hair and whisper all these things I will never say in your ear. I want to kiss your lips, your cheeks, your nose, your everywhere. I think I would let you consume me, if only you would let me love you.)
He never mentioned people or places, never gave any indication of whom he was writing these things for. Tried to make sure that if for some strange reason Sherlock did read these thoughts he would never be able to deduce that John’s words, his feelings, were meant for him.
Then Irene Adler happened.
He’d walked into the room prepared to offer aid to the ‘mugged’ Sherlock and he’d been conversing with ‘The Woman’ in all her glory and just like that Sherlock said the words which confirmed that he had been stupid to ever have hoped – wished – that his feelings could ever, would ever be returned.
“If I wanted to read poetry, I’d read Johns emails to his girlfriends. Much funnier.
Hang on… What Emails?
The ones in the folder on your desktop, under “Things I Should Say But Won’t Say”. Between you and me, you’d be better off not saying them.
Don’t worry. I won’t.”
And that was that.