Whoever said that it is better to ask for forgiveness than permission never met John Watson.
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John’s reaction to Sherlock’s confession is not one that Sherlock had anticipated. He just quirks an eyebrow and then frowns while giving the detective an increasingly worried once-over. In the second this takes, Sherlock observes that the doctor’s pulse remains steady and his forehead dry. Whatever is going through John’s head right now, at least it isn’t another panicked grab at the security blanket of heterosexuality.
“On a scale of experimenting on one’s flatmate out of boredom to Eurus, how much trouble are we looking at?” John asks, once his quick scan is over, and Sherlock suddenly regrets every misdirection and manipulation in one stuttering heartbeat. John doesn’t believe him, and Sherlock has no idea how to fix it.
“It isn’t any fun if you don’t play along,” Sherlock complains, and walks away, trembling hands hidden in the pockets of his trousers. There’s only a muttered “berk” from behind him as he strides across the living room, but John calls out when Sherlock starts putting his shoes on.
“Hold on, where are you going?”
“Bart’s. I’m bored; you said it yourself. I’d say well spotted, but it was an easy enough guess.” He would much rather try to lose himself in the various experiments scattered about the kitchen, but he’s dressed in his second-best shirt and his most flattering trousers. It will look strange if he simply lounges around the flat now.
“Be nice to Molly,” John cautions, his tone half-chiding, half-hesitant. Memories of Eurus’s machinations, lingering pain on behalf of Molly, conviction that he only needs to throw out a cautionary word. John doesn’t believe - can’t even conceive the possibility - that Sherlock loves him but at least he doesn’t think Sherlock’s capable of such cruelty as to repeat the experiment on Molly, else he would stop him leaving and extract some promise of good behavior. Sherlock makes a non-committal noise and clatters down the steps, trying to breathe.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Five hours, three gallbladders, two coffees, and one surprisingly soothing conversation with Molly later, Sherlock feels calm again. He made the attempt and has only himself to blame for its failure, and really the conclusion wasn’t nearly as disastrous as it could have been. John’s disbelief seems a blessing in hindsight; his opinion of Sherlock is so shot through with bitterness from repeated betrayals that taking the confession at face value would have only driven them further apart. And if John had at all returned Sherlock’s feelings, what chance of success could a romantic relationship have, built on such a shaky foundation?
Having gotten the words out - though they weren’t received either as hoped or feared - is better than never having been able to say them at all. At least Sherlock tells himself so. And things do change after that, though Sherlock is hard-pressed to trace most of the events back to his fruitless attempt at conveying his feelings.
Sherlock still loves, but there’s something to be said for giving up hope; after the initial pain dulls and fades he finds himself able to enjoy the fact that he does indeed love without the distraction of wanting and wishing. Making John giggle, knowing himself to be the reason the doctor’s shoulders come down a few centimeters upon coming home, seeing a pleased sort of surprise every time he hands John an unsolicited cup of tea; these things become their own reward.
Other changes are unrelated but add to the increasing comfort and closeness. They become a little easier with each other. Softer. Time heals wounds, and it also seems to relax the tension that always choked the air after Mary’s…well, after Mary. John goes back to therapy and Sherlock continues his sessions as well. They still speak more in tea and silence, but sometimes they do sit down to talk. To re-examine old fights with clearer heads, to admit to wrongs and wishes for how things might have gone. They both apologize, and don’t keep track of who has more to forgive.
He doesn’t tell John that he loves him a second time. At least, not in those words. He tells John that he’s necessary, and needful, and invaluable. He tells him that he’s brilliant in his own way and a hero in his own right. He tells him that he might believe in God if there were more men like John Watson around. John smiles, and claps him on the shoulder, and once, hugs him for two point six seconds.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Sherlock wakes up in hospital to find John holding his hand and holding back tears. He tries to say John’s name, but his throat is too dry and his tongue feels gummed to his teeth. John shakes his head at Sherlock’s attempt to speak.
“You meant it, didn’t you?” the blond chokes out, and Sherlock frowns in pained confusion.
“When you said you loved me,” John says, and Sherlock’s surprised that his heart monitor doesn’t begin blaring an alarm. John ignores the quickening electronic peeps and Sherlock’s fish-mouthing, and brings their clasped hands up so that he can press a kiss to the detective’s knuckles.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I didn’t believe you, Sherlock. Tell me it’s not too late to say it back.”
