To Be Happy

To Be Helpful

When John Watson opened his eyes, he found himself face-to-face with Sherlock Holmes.

Well, sort of.

Technically, he found himself face-to-face with Sherlock Holmes's favorite purple shirt. Upon glancing up, however, he saw the face of the man who had just confessed his love.

His eyes were closed gently, his pink lips in a calm, resting smile. His breaths were even and soft, his bouncing curls laying like clouds on his perfect porcelain skin. But every time the doctor looked at his face, he could only see the man from the night before.

He could only see eyes shut tightly, bright red tears down his cheeks. He could only see the man biting his lip in a failed attempt to hold back sobs, his hands pulling his wild hair back with force that must have hurt his scalp. He could only see pain. Pain that was all John's fault.

John Watson looked down again, and buried his head into the detective's chest. It was only then that he noticed their compromising position, noticed that the two men were wrapped around each other in such a way that neither could get up without rousing the other. Surely, the doctor thought, Sherlock would wake up soon. How would this make him feel? Would it be an extra stab to the heart? Was it a comfort? Was John hurting or helping by staying in the taller man's embrace?

It seemed to the doctor that every action he considered was about whether or not it would hurt or help Sherlock. Sherlock was his best friend, and John loved him - but he wasn't in love with him. And that fact alone made the man feel like he had a two thousand pound weight on his chest reading "YOU HURT SHERLOCK."

The doctor decided the best thing to do would be to pretend to be asleep, or at least half-asleep. Then Sherlock would have to decide what to do about their position. Of course, it was a rather cowardly option, but John was out of time - Sherlock was stirring.

John laid his head down on Sherlock's chest and slowed his breathing, attempting to appear asleep. It wasn't hard - having just woken up, the doctor almost fell asleep just by closing his eyes. He listened intently, though, to see what the other man would do.

----

Sherlock's eyes opened to see a patch of sandy hair beneath him.

John.

The night before came to him, but he felt nothing but comfort in the man's arms. He felt safe, like nothing could get to him. Nothing could hurt him, as long as John Watson was by his side.

Of course, the next thing he noticed was that John Watson was by his side. Asleep, or at least pretending to be, but he was still wrapped in Sherlock's arms.

And Sherlock was way, way too happy about it.

All he wanted was to go back to sleep, holding the man he loved in his arms. All he wanted was to stay this way, forever, never letting go of John Watson. Never letting go of this sense of security, this sense of home he couldn't feel anywhere else. 

He never wanted to let go of John Watson.

And that was all Sherlock could think as he stood up and moved out of the arms of the man he loved. He stood still, staring down at John, who stared right back at him, not pretending anymore. His beautiful eyes made contact with Sherlock's, asking a silent question: Are you okay?

Sherlock turned his gaze to the floor. He shook his head a couple times; he wasn't sure if he was answering John's question or just trying to clear his thoughts. Probably both. 

He walked to the kitchen, putting the kettle on the stove before moving back to the living room and sitting in his chair. John, as it happens, was doing the same, and seemed to be waiting for something. Maybe an answer. Maybe an explanation. Maybe an apology.