John held his breath. Sherlock had stopped talking, he voice failing him as that oh-so-significant word fell out of his lips. It seemed like the world was ending and beginning all at once, and every fiber in John's body seemed to be waiting for that final place of no return, that tipping point after which all would be either lost or found. In the silence, John's mind went back through all the years of friendship that existed between him and the man across from him.

He remembered how it felt to hear Sherlock spout his deductions. How it felt to see that look of eagerness on his face when a crime got particularly interesting. How it felt to see excitement thrown across Sherlock's face when a new clue presented itself. How important he felt when Sherlock looked towards him proudly after solving yet another case, how happy he felt when 'fantastic' and 'amazing' brought honest smiles to Sherlock's face.

John remembered all the times when he feared for Sherlock, pitied Sherlock, fumed at Sherlock, treated Sherlock. All those breathless minutes spent chasing criminals through the narrow byways of London which this great mastermind of a man knew so well. All of the days spent laughing, and running, and hunting, and panting. All the hours after a case that were filled with tea and biscuits and recollections.

All the friendly conversation.

All the times when they were mistaken for a couple.

Everything.

And John just breathed. Slowly. He could still feel those things. Could still feel every emotion that filled his memories and made them that much more real.

And as John let out a huge breath of air, a thought came to him.

They were real. Really real. They were real, and impossible, and amazing, and all of it, every single moment, was spent with the man who now looked at him with round, hopeless eyes. With Sherlock.

So John broke the taut silence, as he spoke in hushed tones.

"Maybe, love can be curiosity too. And maybe, love can be friendship, and wonder, and..."

Sherlock finished quietly.

"Everything at once"