It was surprising how little Sherlock had seemed disturbed by John’s sudden profession of love – clearly it wasn’t something the detective had anticipated in any way, considering he was the one to invite Maggie over for dinner. With a genuinely good intent. For somebody who claimed to be married to his work, his reaction had been mild to say the least. Of course he had looked stunned for a second, but then he hadn’t asked John anything. Not what he meant by that. Not what it meant for them. Not how they should be dealing with this, if at all.
Clearly they weren’t dealing with it. John now realized that he should have been the one to address all those issues. Sherlock had been honest, this wasn’t his area. When they had met he’d made it clear that he wasn’t interested in any kind of relationship and felt fulfilled with his job. What he had offered was a flatshare, which had turned into a friendship. Nothing extraordinary there. Except that this friendship had taken more room in their lives than either of them had ever intended.
There was the rub. They were friends and flatmates. They investigated together. They spent a lot of time together. And they enjoyed it. All of this was fine. But then John had to go and confess. It had seemed so right at the moment, so limpid in his mind. I am in love with Sherlock. He had said it just as he’d accepted to acknowledge it and come to terms with it, not realizing the long-term impact such a revelation could have on their relationship. They should have talked about it. They should have–
"Oh, look Alicia! A cat!"
For an insane second, John thought: a cat? Where? Then he was picked up from the ground by small hands and yelped.
He had just been abducted by a five-year-old; he would never live through this.