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For John, it was after a case. Just an ordinary case. It ended with a chase, a little scuffle, handing over the perpetrator to Lestrade. It was a sudden thought, something he hadn’t expected. I love him. It gave him pause, a moment of clarity where he caught his breath. Everything, at that moment, fell right into place. He wanted to stay here, laughing in Baker Street, right by Sherlock’s side. He knew better than to say anything, though. It was likely Sherlock didn’t feel the same. They were friends. They were likely to only remain friends. And John knew he could live like that. He didn’t need anything else.
***
For Sherlock, it came much later. Like John, it came after a case, but this time there was no laughter. No smiling. Only the quiet beeping of a heart monitor, the soft sounds of the respirator. There had been a new gunman, one Sherlock hadn’t atdicipated as they chased the criminal down, through the back streets of London, down along the Thames. John had seen him, but Sherlock hadn’t until it was too late.
Even now, the sound of the gunshot echoed in his ears, the absolute terror that crawled through Sherlock’s stomach at the sight of John going down a familiar feeling. His companion had fallen, fallen far, into the Thames, hitting the surface of the river with a sickening splash. Sherlock couldn’t get to him fast enough. Sirens were echoing up and down the alleyways and streets, boucing off the buildings. He should go after the criminal, he should track him down… But John. John was his priority. And John had been shot.
Most of what happened after that was a blur. What he remembered the most was getting into the river, wrapping his arms around John’s limp body, panicking when he realized that he wasn’t breathing, that he was bleeding, that he was dying. Lestrade came, at some point, along with an ambulance. There was a ride to the hospital. Then John was whisked away from him. And Sherlock knew. It was then that he knew.
I love him.
The new knowledge nearly bowled him over, overwhelmed him with a mass of understanding and fear. He was late. So late. What if John died now? He never told him… He never let himself understand… Sentiment. A chemical defect that affected even Sherlock Holmes.
***
The days passed slowly in the hospital. The doctors told him that the surgery went well, they’d removed the bullet and that John had been lucky. No major organs were directly hit, though his lung and stomach had been nicked a bit. But John was still asleep. John still hadn’t woken up. Sherlock hardly ate and barely slept. He wanted to be there, he wanted to be aware when John woke up. He had to tell him. He had to tell him he loved him.
Why wasn’t he waking up?
Sherlock refused to leave John’s room. The nurses had to look after his nicks and cuts and scrapes in there. Mycroft was barely able to convince Sherlock to change into clean clothes. Lestrade struggled to get even the simplest of statements from the detective. They caught the criminal and the shooter. Sherlock wanted them executed. Lestrade told him no.
In the middle of the night on the third day, John woke up. Sherlock had been staring at all his monitors, recognising signs, indicators that maybe… Maybe…
When those blue eyes cracked open, Sherlock was immediately at his side.
“John!”
“Mm. Sherlock?”
“Yes. Yes it’s me. I’m here. I’m here, John.”
“What…”
“You were shot. The smuggler had another shooter. I didn’t… I didn’t expect him. He shot you.”
Without even realizing it, Sherlock had joined their hand, clasping to John’s as if his life depended on it. Lazily, John cracked a smile. He was on some pretty good painkillers, he had to admit.
“Yeah? He must have been trying hard to get at you then.”
“What?”
“He was aiming for you.”
“… I know. You got in the way.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I love you, you daft idiot.”
Sherlock froze. He…
“You do?”
“Of course I do. And I know, you don’t do sentiment. You’re married to your work. I know. I just… You need to know that someone loves you. No matter what.”
“Oh.”
John grinned to himself, knowing that Sherlock would probably need a good long while to figure that one out. But he didn’t mind. He would wait. See if anything ever came of it. It probably wouldn’t. Sherlock just needed to know that someone cared about him. No matter what. It didn’t take John very long to drift back off to sleep, warm in the comfort of the pain medication and knowing that Sherlock was there with him.
It was late morning when he woke up again, turning to see Sherlock spinning a paper cup of coffee in his hands. He shifted somewhat, wincing softly at the tug in his abdomen from the stitches, looking over at Sherlock to greet him, but the detective spoke up first.
“I love you, too.”
The grin that spread across John’s face was probably enough to crack it in two.
“Then get your arse over here and kiss me. I’ve waited long enough.”