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The scent of chemicals gave the air in 221B Baker Street a familiarly bitter tinge and Sherlock breathed it into his lungs like secondhand cigarette smoke - calming, but tasting of death. John's soft humming from the living room filled Sherlock's mind, seeping into the cracks of his shell and relaxing him into the easy evening routine - experiments and John's tea.
If you asked John to tell you the smell of Sherlock Holmes, he would tell you he smelt of the sour gas you get when you mix chemicals and body parts and set it on fire. He would also tell you that it was his favourite smell and he loved coming home to it. He hummed through smiling lips as he extracted a book from the shelf and settled into his chair, ready to get lost in a world that was not his own.
And then, blackness. Hazy disorientation surged through John; head to toes, back again, until he couldn't have told where he was if it hadn't been for the smell. Panic rose like bile in John's throat - he swallowed it. It came back. He gripped the edges of his chair, book forgotten on the floor, trying to root himself back in reality. Sherlock's experiment clattered to the floor, and it sounded like it came from the other side of the clouds - indistinct and too quiet.
A flickering of orange light and shadowy shapes. Shallow breaths. Sherlock's voice. A break in the clouds.
"John, are you okay?" Sherlock clutched a Bunsen burner, the yellow light casting strange, angular shadows across the contours of his face. His features were twisted in concern and almost, almost, fear.
"Yeah," John said, with not quite enough breath to be audible. He cleared his throat. "Yeah, I'm fine."
"No, you're not, you're panicking,"
"I am not panicking, Sherlock."
"You are. Your breaths are shallow and you dropped your book. I'll make you some tea."
Sherlock pushed off John's chair to the kitchen before he could protest. John balled his hands into fists and focussed on the flickering light in front of him, trying to steady his breath. Sherlock would be making tea in the dark. To be honest, he could do anything in the dark, being so bloody brilliant, but still. It was these moments where John could see the human in Sherlock, and where he could see that he was not only vastly intelligent, but compassionate, and, if you're lucky enough, caring.
Sherlock emerged from the kitchen in a cloud of steam that billowed from the mugs he was holding. Even in the dark, when he was as good as blind, he moved with the mesmerising grace of a blizzard. He handed a mug to John, fingers colliding softly, before sitting opposite him and extending his legs.
"You're afraid of the dark." It was a statement, not a question, and didn't leave any room for argument.
"Yes." Sherlock studied John. John felt a shiver of ice down his spine from Sherlock's diamond blue eyes.
Sherlock watched storm clouds clear from John's eyes. His irises shifted from almost black to a silver grey with slithers of blue. Silver linings. Painted gold with dappled light from the flame.
A thick silence fell over the pair, gathering pressure and momentum between them. The air grew damp and heavy as they watched each other. Tension stretched like an elastic band. And, snapped.
"Are you in love with me, John?"
Another shot of ice down his back and John was more alive than ever before. Heart beating rhythmically, blood pulsing in his fingertips, the rush in his veins. The bubbling of something in his stomach. The flush of colour across his skin. The sudden heat of the room. He should say yes, this is as good a chance as he's going to get. Just say yes. Say yes. But then the fear of Sherlock's reaction set in.
"What?" He said instead.
"Your pupils should have returned to their original size by now, it's been 16 minutes since I turned on the Bunsen burner. Not to mention the fact that you've been watching me for four minutes."
Had it really been that long? Four minutes? That was a long time for a heterosexual male to be staring at their male flat mate. And yet it didn't seem enough, because John didn't yet know the exact shade of Sherlock's eyes, and hadn't yet memorised the angle his lips curved at.
Sherlock waited, fingertips pressed together beneath his chin, hoping his expression wasn't showing his nervous anticipation. John wasn't as moronic as the rest of the human population and was bound to make the connection. Because weren't Sherlock's own pupils the size of the moon? And hadn't Sherlock been watching John back for four minutes? All the evidence he had given John pointed towards the obvious. Sherlock Holmes was in love with John Watson.
John studied Sherlock again. Blown up pupils, breath coming fast and shallow between slightly parted pink lips.
"Are you in love with me, John?" Sherlock's voice was small, and timid, and afraid.
His eyes shattered, fragments being swept into the breeze. And John wanted to replace those fragments of diamond with wisps of cloud and weave the two together into the strongest of clouds and the lightest of diamonds. He wanted to fill Sherlock's broken pieces with everything he could offer.
And that's why he kissed him. Took his face in one palm, and his hand in the other, and leaned in, connecting them together in a fusion of elements.
And everything was amplified. The pounding of blood in his ears, the reds and oranges bursting into a vibrancy John had never seen before. He closed his eyes and focussed on the colours behind his eyelids- swirling scarlets and marine blues, and felt every bump in the skin of Sherlock's hand as he held it.
And Sherlock kissed him back, face lit up brighter than any diamond, any sun shining through clouds. His hand found John's jaw line and he ran a thumb over his cheek, pushing away any remaining storm, revealing the silver lining eyes in their entirety.
John's head spun with the giddy surprise. Sherlock was kissing him back. He grinned and mumbled into Sherlock's lips,
"Yes, Sherlock. I am in love with you."
Sherlock's eyes widened momentarily, surprise splashed over the pale skin of his face, before he grinned into John's lips as pink washed over his cheekbones.
"Marvellous."