John sat down wearily in his armchair. The soft, comforting embrace of the worn fabric, and the quiet rustle of the fire was enough to lull him into a drowsy stupor. Sherlock was nestled across from him in his chair, with his hands steepled and his head hung low. John knew well enough that it was futile to make conversation while Sherlock was like this, so he closed his eyes and took a sip of his tea. The fire was comfortably warm, and John stretched his legs and sighed contentedly. 

"John."

John started. He looked over to Sherlock, who had apparently not moved.

"Yeah?"

"John."

"Yeah, I'm right here, mate. What's up?

Sherlock was still not moving. His voice was low and barely above a whisper. He almost seemed...afraid? John looked instinctively towards his revolver, which lay upon the kitchen counter.

"What's wrong, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked up, suddenly. He had a peculiar expression on his face. His brows were furrowed in confusion, and his bright, observant eyes were trained inquisitively on John. 

"I am...in need of...advice"

Sherlock spoke slowly, his tone strained and quiet. John stared at him, bemused. It wasn't everyday that the great consulting detective sought advice from him.

"Sure, what's the matter?"

"It is a rather...embarrassing subject. I believe it is related to the...softer emotions. Rather...pedestrian."

John snorted. His eyes sparkled in amusement.

"What, got a crush or something?" 

Sherlock smiled half-heartedly. He looked almost pained when he continued to speak.

"Yes, I believe that is the term many people would use. Although it is quite unexpected, it appears that my refined senses is subject to sentiment and attraction, after all."

John's jaw dropped. Here was Sherlock himself, the most detached human being on the planet and self-proclaimed sociopath, admitting to having a crush on someone. John couldn't help it. He burst out laughing, covering his mouth guiltily and grinning.

"Yes, well, laugh all you like, John. It must be so awfully amusing." Sherlock said bitterly. John almost felt bad.

"Sorry, sorry. It's all pretty strange, though, isn't? So, who's this person? Is it Irene Adler?" John felt just a twinge of jealousy at that. He'd have to think about that later.

"That is where my confusion lies." Sherlock paused, and his face was contorted into something between embarrassment, regret, and...hope? Sherlock continued. "It appears that I have developed a romantic attachment to you , John." 

John choked on the sip of tea he had just taken.

Sherlock's voice was vulnerable and strained. John could have fainted. As it was, he had to blink several times and steady himself before responding.

"Me?" He said incredulously.

Sherlock almost looked annoyed for a second, before the vulnerability returned to his face.

"Yes"

John shook his head regretfully. Out of all the people Sherlock could fall in love with, why'd it have to be him? 

"I'm flattered, Sherlock, but you know I'm not gay, right? You're my best friend, can't deny that, and I trust you more than anyone else, but I don't know if I'd ever see you in... any... other way...

Sher-"

John faltered as the man almost visibly broke. Sherlock staggered to his feet, and rushed out of the room. He heard Sherlock's door close softly a few seconds later. John sat frozen in his chair, his mind trying, and failing, to process this new information.

Suddenly, he realized the gravity of his mistake. John stood suddenly, knocking the tea of his lap. He ran up the stairs to Sherlock's room, and was about to apologize when a sound made him pause, nervously. 

From behind Sherlock's door was coming the sound of heavy breathing. John swore he could hear little whispers too, small words that were too quiet to understand. The sound was restrained, clearly in an attempt to hide from prying ears, but years spent detecting faint noises in Afghanistan had trained John to pick up almost anything. He stood, still, just listening to the sound of his closest friend comforting himself. The lights were off in Sherlock's room, too, and if not for the small noises, John would have wondered if Sherlock was in his room at all. 

It was then John then realized how much effort it must have taken him to admit to possessing any emotion at all, let alone love. He cursed himself for so carelessly handling the situation.

"Sherlock." 

The sound stopped, abruptly, but no answer came.

"Sherlock. I'm sorry."

Still no answer. John knocked twice on the door, leaving his palm outstretched on the wood. 

"Sherlock, come on, we need to talk about this. Did you mean what you said?"

Suddenly, the door swung open, and out stepped Sherlock, a blank expression on his face, dressing gown hanging defeatedly off his shoulders. He straightened himself, and, turning to John, said, stiffly:

"I believe Mrs Hudson required assistance with her roast. I would recommend going downstairs to assist." 

His speech was stiff and formal, and when he finished, he strode off rigidly towards the kitchen.

"Sherlock, wait, about-"

Sherlock paused, and almost sagged a little. He turned his head slightly. 

"Pay no heed to what I said. I apologize for my momentary lapse of concentration."

"But Sherlock-"

"No matter. Do go assist Ms Hudson, I'm sure she would appreciate it."

He nodded curtly, stalked towards the kitchen counter, bent over his microscope, and that was that.