He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

Until Then, Mr. Watson

About an hour or so later John was standing in the yard once more, checking his watch and trying to ignore the white pickup truck still sitting in Mrs. Hudson's driveway. John still had thoughts, he still had sneaking suspicions and his heart still ached, but he was doing his best to ignore it, he was focusing on the road and what was supposed to be coming down the road any minute now. Finally John spotted the big yellow bus coming down the road, filled to the brim with screaming children one of which should be Hamish. John smiled as it approached, slowing to a stop and letting the doors open. It wasn't long before Hamish came running down the stairs, his backpack flying out behind him, with the biggest smile on his adorable little face.
"Daddy!" he cried happily, flying into his father's arms as if they hadn't seen each other in ages.
"Hey buddy, how was it?" John wondered as the doors closed with a hiss, the engine revving up and the bus continuing to the next stop.
"It was amazing! I made so many new friends and my teacher is amazing and Molly gave me a lollypop when she saw me in the hallway!" Hamish exclaimed.
"Really? Wow that's amazing Hamish!" John said happily, ruffling Hamish's hair and walking back into the house.
"It was really fun, we learned about grammar and read some stories about Lewis and Clark and then we talked about multiplication and colored pictures of cats and dogs." Hamish explained as they walked, grabbing his father's hand and swinging it happily.
"If only I could go back to school and do all of that cool stuff." John said with a laugh.
"You can't do that daddy, you're old, you have to go to work and dress in suits and pay taxes." Hamish pointed out, and John just laughed, nodding in agreement.
"You're right, I do." He agreed. "So enjoy it while it lasts."
"What's this on your hand?" Hamish wondered, picking up John's hand and observing the numbers Sherlock had scrawled on there.
"What, oh, it's just a phone number." John shrugged, pulling his hand away and not wanting to explain it to Hamish. He was afraid that by telling the story Hamish would figure out his actual feelings, his son could read him like no other which honestly worried him. Sometimes you just need to hide things from people who don't know what they're talking about, and his seven year old son was a great example of someone who has no idea about anything.
"Who's phone number is it? Did you meet a girl today? Is she nice, pretty? Do you think she'll be a good mommy?" Hamish wondered, bouncing up and down excitedly. John just shook his head, hanging Hamish's backpack on the coat rack and walking into the kitchen.
"It's Sherlock's number, not a girl's." he pointed out, tucking his application away from Hamish's grubby little hands. Unfortunately this answer didn't seem to disappoint Hamish at all, in fact his smile widened.
"Only couples give each other phone numbers like that, writing them down on their hands, you're a couple now, aren't you?" he asked excitedly. John could already feel his cheeks heating up and he started to panic, this would only encourage Hamish more. He needed to keep this a secret, this had to be one of his deepest darkest secrets, no one could know.
"We're not a couple Hamish; don't talk about things you don't understand." John snapped, and Hamish's smile faded. John sighed, turning away from his son and looking through the cabinets for food, already starting to feel bad for snapping. He heard a very telling silence behind him, and immediately John felt a stab of guilt in his heart.
"I'm sorry Hamish, you just have to let daddy find his own partner, alright? I know you think Sherlock would be a good daddy but you need to consider my feelings here as well." John insisted, turning back around to see Hamish glumly looking at his feet.
"We had to draw our dogs today in class, I drew Redbeard. I thought Mr. Sherlock might want it." he muttered quietly. John's face softened when he saw how upset Hamish was, and he sighed heavily.
"I'm sure Sherlock would love to see it, we can show him tomorrow before you get on the bus." John suggested. Hamish nodded, shuffling away towards the staircase and leaving John to lean against the counter, feeling like a horrible person indeed. He just had to lie though; there was no way he was going to let Hamish know the truth, because if John was a terrible liar he couldn't imagine how bad a seven year old could be at keeping secrets. John spent the night trying his best to cook some sort of meal with whatever they had available. Thankfully he wasn't cooking for a guest like Sherlock so he didn't have to worry about it being perfect, but when he discovered they didn't have much else than spaghetti and bread he decided that he should make grilled cheese instead. So he found the frying pan at the bottom of some box and spread butter over some bread, adding a couple of pieces of cheese and letting the sandwiches sit there on the stove, simmering and popping as they cooked. Hamish reappeared when he smelled food, looking a bit glum but not nearly as bad as he had before. John wished he could tell him, he really did, but this had to be one of his deepest, darkest secrets. No one would know if he never said anything, so that was exactly what he was going to do. He wasn't going to say anything.
"What are you making?" Hamish wondered.
"Grilled cheese, smell good?" John wondered, looking over at Hamish hopefully, who just shrugged.
"Did you go look at jobs today?" Hamish asked, perching on the stool and watching as John idly flipped the sandwiches, poking at the browned side with the spatula to make sure they were done all the way.
"I did, some creepy old hospital." John agreed.
"Creepy like old with skeletons or creepy like pink wallpaper with teddy bears?" Hamish wondered.
"You think teddy bears are creepy?" John asked with a laugh.
"They're creepy when they're unnecessary. I mean sure, they're cute, but if you see one at your window in the middle of the night I'd definitely classify that as creepy." Hamish decided.
"An excellent point Hamish, man you go to school one day and here you are, already proving me wrong." John pointed out with a laugh.
"I'm not trying to prove you wrong daddy, it just happens to be that you're obviously incorrect." Hamish insisted, and John just rolled his eyes.
"Now you're digging into your vocabulary reserves, trying to impress me." John decided, and Hamish shook his head once more, swinging his little legs on the stool and waiting for the sandwiches to be ready. John wanted some sort of vegetable with the meal but he couldn't find anything in the cabinet except carrots, so he peeled then and chopped them up and put them on a plate, looking rather sad. He knew that he would end up being the only one eating them, considering Hamish wouldn't eat vegetables without some sort of incentive. Finally when the sandwiches were done John put them on two plates and put the plates sitting next to each other at the counter, pouring them both large glasses of milk and sitting down to eat.
"It looks squishy." Hamish decided, the only proper observation he could come up with.
"Squishy?" John muttered, poking at his sandwich with his fork. Hamish had a point, it might be a little bit soggy, but he was going to play it out like nothing was wrong. John had never done the cooking, it had always been Mary's job to cook and clean and do all the housework. That was probably why it was necessary to hire Sherlock to keep the yard in order, not only did John not have time but he had no idea where to even start with gardening. They started on their dinner and it seemed that once Hamish tasted the grilled cheese he forgot about its rather disturbing makeup. John was able to convince him to eat a couple of carrots before he left the table, but in the end Hamish scrambled up to his room to finish his homework and John was left eating two or three carrots on his own, not to mention the dishes. He sighed, finishing the last carrot and washing the dishes the best he could before walking over to the living room and sitting down on the coach. John sighed; squinting at the smudged numbers scrawled across his palm and tried his best to make out the phone number. It would be a real tragedy if John had to make Sherlock rewrite it, he knew how terrible it was to have Sherlock's soft, smooth fingers around his hand...John shook his head, blinking a couple of times before pulling his phone out of his pocket and adding Sherlock's name in his contacts. It took a lot of self-control not to add some little heart emoji's next to his name, but John was strong, and he just left it with the very traditional Sherlock Holmes. John pulled open a text message as soon as the contact was made but he hesitated, his finger hovering over the message bar without actually pressing on it. What could he do, what did he say? Hi this is John, just texting you because I'm bored and I love the idea of you thinking about me as well? No, he needed to have a reason, a good one, to text Sherlock. Otherwise he'll look like a girl who's got a little crush. John sighed, racking his brain for something to say, anything, gardening, yes, that was the reason he got the number in the first place, wasn't it? Gardening, what day would be good to start? Was that a good question or did it sound like he was assuming Sherlock was going to go through with it, did it sound too pushy? John sighed heavily, but typed that question into the message bar thingy, hovering his finger above the send button and taking a deep, concerned breath. Well, what did he have to lose? John hit send, and watched as his little message got engulfed in a blue bubble, sitting there innocently in his otherwise empty conversation with Sherlock Holmes. John had just decided to turn on the TV when he saw the three little dots on the other end of the message, Sherlock was typing. John stared at the screen in anticipation, holding his breath for what seemed like hours until finally a message appeared on the other side of his phone. I'm good whenever, what works best for you? John just smiled, imagining Sherlock on the other end of the phone, typing this response in while petting Redbeard surrounded by bouquets of beautiful flowers. John thought for a moment, what did work for him? Tomorrow would work fine; I could help with any questions about the house since I still don't have a job. John frowned, looking at that message and deciding that it made him sound like a deadbeat without a job, no, Sherlock would pity him, insist on working for free. John erased the part about a job and replaced it with I'll be home. That sounded a lot more innocent and besides, John was going to be handing in his application at the hospital any day now, it was just a matter of time before he got some money coming in. It took Sherlock not twenty seconds to reply, it seemed that as soon as his message appeared Sherlock answered right back, as if he were sitting on his couch and watching the little dots on the other end of his screen as well. Were the same thoughts going on in Sherlock's head right now? John didn't have time to answer that question because the next text came in, that made two! Oh god, John felt like he was back in middle school, watching the phone and hoping that it would ring. Alright, I'll come over before lunch, if that works for you? John smiled and nodded to himself, feeling like a bit of a loser considering no one was around to see his facial expressions. That definitely worked for him, heck, Sherlock could show up at one o'clock in the morning and John would still meet him with open arms. John sighed, texting his reply in the box. Yes, that sounds wonderful, I'll see you then. He sent that happily, smiling at the fact that he was going to be interacting with Sherlock in no less than twelve hours or so. Oh that would be great, he gets to stare into Sherlock's eyes and watch his beautiful face when he wasn't expecting an audience and...oh dear this was getting a bit obsessive. Until then Mr. Watson, was Sherlock's reply. Mr. Watson, John knew that he hated that name, honestly he hated being addressed formally it made him sound like his father. But still, it was almost like a nickname from Sherlock, considering he was the only one John would ever let address him like that. Mr. Watson, it almost had a bit of a ring to it, didn't it? John got up from the couch and made his way up to his bedroom, making sure that Hamish was still doing his homework before curling up on his bed and continuing on with some book he had started before they moved. It wasn't the most interesting of stories but it would do, for now John's life seemed more interesting than any book on the shelves. He was a grown man and yet he wanted to draw Sherlock's name with little hearts all around it, he wanted to Photoshop himself in a wedding picture with Sherlock and stalk his Instagram until twelve at night and blackmail all of his previous girlfriends. Maybe half the reason John felt so in love with Sherlock was because he made him feel like he was a teenager again, someone who had nothing other than grades to worry about, who didn't have an ex-wife or a motherless child or mortgage payments and an application as thick as his wrist to fill out. Maybe John loved Sherlock so much because he felt something other than dread when he thought of having a partner, because god knows all Mary provided was a black hole in his life, sucking up all of the happiness and satisfaction in the world. John had a weird feeling that Sherlock would be the exact opposite; he had a feeling that the sun would seem dim when compared to Sherlock's loving smile.  

John was leaning against the side of the house, letting his foot tap aimlessly against the siding as he watched what looked like a hasta with legs approach him, the big green leaves hiding the identity of its carrier. Of course John knew who it was before he dropped the plant, and Sherlock's smiling face was revealed. It was a misty sort of morning and yet Sherlock's forehead was already beaded with sweat. For some reason, even though he was working, Sherlock was dressed in his slacks with a purple button down shirt, dropping the plant and walking over to John. As soon as he started his way over John could feel his cheeks heating up, his foot tapping even faster against the house. He wanted to look at Sherlock but he knew that he couldn't let Sherlock know he wanted to look at him, so instead John kept his attention focused on the hasta, very aware that the gap between the two was closing. 

"You seem a bit distracted this morning." Sherlock decided, peeling off his gardening gloves and smiling down at John. John dared to look up at him, suddenly not able to look away once their eyes locked.
"Distracted, no, not distracted." John muttered. Technically it wasn't a lie, he was supposed to focus on Sherlock for gardening tips, so he was focusing on the right man, not necessarily for the right reasons.
"There's a mist over your eyes Mr. Watson, I know that even when you look at me now there's something going on in that head of yours." Sherlock decided.
"Nothing you need concern yourself with." John muttered, shaking his head and looking away. John was pretending to look at the empty flowerbeds once more when he felt soft fingers brush against his chin, ever so gently moving his face so that he was looking once more into the face of Sherlock Holmes. As soon as they made eye contact John's cheeks heated up, so hot that he was sure Sherlock could feel the heat radiating through his skin.
"No need to look uncomfortable Mr. Watson." Sherlock muttered, taking a small step closer and not letting his hand drop from John's chin. John could barely feel his legs and he was suddenly thankful for the house he was leaning on. If it had been up to him to keep himself up right he was sure he would've fallen right over.
"I'm not uncomfortable." John muttered, his words feeling forced and unnecessary. With Sherlock so close what use did words have anyway? They both knew what was coming; they both wanted it...
"You don't seem distracted anymore." Sherlock decided, his fingers brushing up against John's cheek, his thumb tracing over John's lips with an electric touch. John couldn't mutter any explanation, any sort of word to justify what he was feeling at the moment, it seemed like everything had gone numb, it felt like the world had blacked out, had ceased to exist, time had stopped and the only thing that mattered right now was Sherlock Holmes and just how close he was getting.
"Was I the one distracting you in the first place?" Sherlock wondered, stepping a little bit closer and starting to lean down, getting ready to place a kiss on John's anxious lips. John could only nod, trying to stand up taller to make it easier for Sherlock, but his toes gave out and he could only lean against the house, waiting as Sherlock closed in... The alarm clock rang so shrilly that it seemed John's ears would start to bleed.  He didn't hesitate to let out a groan of annoyance, hitting the snooze button as forcefully as he could before letting his head sink back into the pillows, forcing his eyes shut and trying to finish up his lovely dream. Come on, they were going to kiss, they were about to kiss! But no matter how hard he tried John couldn't fall back asleep, and it seemed that even in the dream world this crush remained impossible. Maybe he was just going to have to kiss Sherlock in real life, just for future reference in his dreams. John wondered just how it might feel to kiss him, would his lips be soft, would he be gentle? It seemed like Sherlock would be a real smooth talker, really romantic and not afraid to use his beautiful looks and kind words to get someone to give him a kiss. Not that Sherlock needed to do anything to make John want to kiss him; he only ate Chinese takeout once at John's house and already he was head over heels in love with him.