Two months, one week, and five days. That's how long it had been since Lestrade's flat-warming party, and the night Sherlock and John spent together in Sherlock's bed. It had been two months since Sherlock made up his mind that he would have John Watson if it was the last thing he ever accomplished, and so far he had made absolutely no progress. It was proving to be the most difficult puzzle he'd faced in a long time.

John had promised him he'd always be there, but how could Sherlock expect him to keep such a weighty promise when he had no foresight to see if he was able to keep said promise. Sherlock was sure it would only be a matter of time before a more enticing offer came in the form of a short blonde with a great smile and personality and John would be gone before Sherlock could say "I'll miss you", and he would do anything to prevent that. Sherlock had heard of Broken Heart Syndrome, and had never believed the phenomenon to be plausible. He knew now though if John were to leave, it would surely end him.

His meetings with Lucy were few and far between, though Sherlock began to spend less and less time in Baker Street. He needed to be away from John, needed to distance himself while he sorted this whole mess out. While he was in Baker Street, he kept to himself mostly, barely speaking to John even when they were in the same room. He could never trust his voice around John, couldn't trust himself not to blurt something out he'd soon regret, and be left with devastated and embarrassed when John up and left because of it.

Either John didn't notice Sherlock's withdrawal, or didn't care enough to comment on it. Sherlock preferred it be the former, but he could never be one hundred percent sure with John. It was something he both loved and hated about the man; He always kept him on his toes.

Eventually Sherlock ceased all communication with Lucy, not bothering to answer her texts or phone calls. He didn't see the point. John would never love him. He didn't love him when he was himself, and he didn't love him when he was trying to be accessible. For the first time in his life, Sherlock had given up. He would keep his feelings hidden and simply enjoy John's company while he still had it. He knew John wouldn't stay forever, despite what he'd said that night.

At night Sherlock rarely slept. He watched John as he slept soundlessly, curled up against him, subconsciously seeking the warmth that Sherlock's body provided. Several times Sherlock had gingerly pressed his lips against John's temple, allowing him a fleeting moment of bliss where he could pretend there was actually something between them, and that John wouldn't kick him out of his own bed should he wake up to Sherlock's lips pressed against his skin. The nights that Sherlock did sleep, he dreamed only of John. He dreamed of John in Afghanistan, in his uniform, saving some lives and taking others like the amazing army doctor he was. He dreamed of John standing by his side, in a church, in front of all their family and friends, sliding a silver ring onto his finger with shaking hands. He dreamed of John sitting in his armchair, rocking and talking to a sleeping infant wrapped in a light blue blanket. Sherlock wasn't exactly fond of children but he knew John was, and he knew John wanted kids. He would make a great father.

One night Sherlock had a dream that John got married. To a woman with blonde hair and a big smile that made John smile every time he saw it. When he woke his eyes were burning and he couldnt' breathe. There was a hollow ache in his chest that wouldn't go away. He climbed out of bed, being careful to not wake John, and went out into the living room. John came out several hours later, and thus began their daily ritual of silence and feigned contentment. John made them both coffee, and Sherlock took it wordlessly. He busied himself with his phone while John did whatever it was he did during the day.

Sherlock's dream from the previous night kept creeping back into the forefront of his mind, and each time it did Sherlock dismissed it with a sigh, forcing himself to think of other things, and not the impending heartbreak of John leaving.

Sometime in the afternoon John stood and went back to the bedroom. Sherlock, curious, followed after him, and was nearly knocked over when John came storming out the room.

"Going somewhere?" he asked, deciding that he should probably be the one to talk. John nodded his head. "Where?" Perhaps Sherlock could go with him. It had been a while since they'd gone out. Sherlock had been too depressed to take any cases recently, and-

"I hardly think it's any of your business." Oh. Very well then. Perhaps it was a date. Sherlock felt his heart drop to his stomach at the mere thought of it. Sherlock forced himself to maintain eye contact with John as he folded his arms across his chest, and tried to make his tone light and playful to mask his true feelings.

"Well, someone's being a bit secretive." John's jaw dropped, and suddenly Sherlock felt worried that he'd somehow said the wrong thing when he saw the look in John's eyes.

"You're not serious." Sherlock, confused, took a step closer to get a better look at John's face, searching it for some sign of what he was supposed to say or do.

"What?" Sherlock was very often genuinely confused, but once again John Watson was proving to be an enigma that he could barely work out. In his momentary incertitude John was able to push past Sherlock by placing hand on his chest, but Sherlock followed John out into the living room, now feeling a growing sense of frustration festering inside of him. He crossed his arms across his chest and watched John preparing to leave with a frown on his face.

"John..." Perhaps if he went the calm, 'good cop' route, John would be more willing to cooperate. John turned to meet his eyes, and Sherlock could see the suppressed anger within the steel grey of his irises.

"Yes Sherlock?" His voice was laced with anger, and Sherlock felt himself wince, starting to think that the next few minutes were not going to be pleasant. Still, he was resolute in his decision to find out what was wrong with John and where he was going.

"John," he said carefully, "what's wrong?" He had tried to keep his voice as calm and gentle as possible, yet somehow he only seemed to upset John even more. His nostrils flared and his eyes flashed with indignation, and his hands balled into fists at his sides.

"Oh, nothing, Sherlock," he said, his voice shaking. "Just that this is the first time you've really spoken to me in weeks and it's just to ask me where I'm going." Sherlock stared at John, struggling to comprehend why he was so upset over this.

"I don't understand," he said, because he truly didn't. How was talking so maddening an offense that it would warrant John's fleeing from the flat and all of this anger Sherlock could see bubbling just beneath the surface. He only wanted to keep John happy, and so he'd kept to himself so he wouldn't burden John with his own troubles. And besides, what was he supposed to say when the only thing on his mind was John and the fact that he didn't love him back, and how much he desperately wished to have not been born without a heart so he would never know the pain of heartbreak. Those things weren't exactly at the top of the list of things Sherlock felt like talking about, especially not with John.

Then Sherlock remembered something he'd been meaning to ask John about. Earlier when he'd been perusing the cupboards in the kitchen he'd stumbled upon some chamomile tea. While Sherlock rather enjoyed chamomile, he hadn't bought any recently, and he hadn't known John to be a fan of it. No one had been over to the flat in forever, so Sherlock knew John had bought the tea, most likely for Sherlock after finding out he liked it, and there was only one way for John to have found out about Sherlock's favourite childhood drink: Mycroft.

"John. There's chamomile tea in the cupboard." For a few moments there was no sign of recognition in John's eyes.

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"You've talked to Mycroft recently. About me." Sherlock saw the look in John's eyes and knew he was correct. John had spoken to Mycroft about him, but what they talked about Sherlock was unable to deduce. It was absolutely infuriating. He watched John as he fought an inward battle with himself and waited for his response.

"Please, tell me."

Either John hadn't heard him, or he was ignoring Sherlock's request. After a brief moment John's eyes cleared and he stared up at Sherlock.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"Tell me."

"Why should I?" John took a menacing step towards Sherlock, but he only felt slightly threatened. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, as did John, and he could feel a strong sense of irritation stirring in his chest. Something suddenly shifted and then John became much more subdued. "I... I think I'll just go now." Sherlock reached out as John made to move away and grabbed his shoulder. He hadn't realized which shoulder he grasped, and when he saw John wince in pain he felt a momentary pang of guilt that was soon replaced with anger.

"Look, John... I don't know what in the world has gotten into you, and I'll let you leave and get fresh air or whatever it is you need to get over... whatever this is. But not before you tell my why you went to Mycroft." Sherlock figured he was at least owed that, since John had basically admitted to talking about him behind his back with his brother.

"Well then," John said, crossing his arms. "Looks like I'll be staying here."

The nerve of him! Sherlock couldn't believe after all they've been through, John would be so adamant to keep what is no doubt a trivial secret from him. He had a right to know, didn't he?

"Honestly John, you have got to be the most infuriating, frustrating, aggravating man I've ever met!" This was far from true, in fact. John was the exact opposite, but in that moment there was no one who frustrated Sherlock more than Doctor John Watson.

"Yeah, well, right back at you!" John's words stung, and Sherlock felt as if he'd been stabbed in the heart with a butcher knife hearing John say those words. Of course, Sherlock had heard much worse, but never from John. John had always been the one to defend him, to praise him, to make him feel like an actual human. Had that all been for show? He pondered this while John continued to berate him. "You act like me going to Mycroft once will bring on the next world war, yet for the last few weeks I've sat here in the background of your life while you run off to God-knows-where doing God-knows-what with God-knows-who and you've never heard me complain! Not once!"

So that's what this was about. John was upset that Sherlock was spending his time elsewhere and not telling him about it. How ironic, John was upset that Sherlock was 'keeping secrets'. If only he knew that each time he'd left the flat or left the room to answer a phone call that it was all for him. Sherlock wondered how John would react if he told him he'd been talking to Lucy trying to sort out his unrequited love situation. Sherlock didn't imagine John would take it very well.

"Oh? Is that what this is all about?" Sherlock couldn't resist the urge to taunt John, now that he knew his argument had no ground to stand on. "You're jealous, aren't you?"

"You wish."

"Maybe I do." Sherlock felt his breathing become shallow and hoped John was too cross to dwell on his slip up. Luckily, he was.

"No, Sherlock. Just, stop. I refuse to stand here and listen to you while you demean me by saying how irrelevant my concerns and worries are."

"Then sit down," Sherlock tried once again to use humour to diffuse the situation, but John only grew more livid, and Sherlock decided that he wouldn't be trying that again.

"You've got to be kidding me, Sherlock." Sherlock took a step closer, his lips just about to begin forming some sort of apology, but John cut him off. "No. You stay back. I'm done with this. I'm done with all the secrecy and indifference."

"What are you talking about John?" Sherlock asked, his heart sinking down past his stomach as he made another attempt to approach John. Suddenly the situation became much more dire than John simply heading out for a bit and not telling Sherlock where. He was being way too defensive.There was some sort of serious secret being kept from him, and Sherlock didn't like it one bit. And John still had the nerve to be angry at Sherlock for keeping secrets.

"Honestly John, you act like I"m the only person who has secrets! I mean, I understand that we're flatmates and friends but you must understand that I am not required to share every part of my life with you. You've never asked me to, so you have no reason to be upset. I, however, have tried to be nice, and-"

Sherlock didn't get to finish his rant, because at that moment John Watson grabbed both sides of his face and brought their lips together with enough force to nearly send them toppling over. Sherlock's mind began racing, a million thoughts racing through his mind in the several seconds before John pulled away,ranging from 'God, this is amazing' to 'what the hell is happening?'. John tore his hands away from Sherlock's face and stared at him with wide eyes.

"I- I'm sorry. I-" John pushed past Sherlock and went to the door, and Sherlock, still attempting to process what exactly had just happened, couldn't even find his voice to speak and call John back, to say that he didn't need to apologize, to say that he would be amenable to him doing that again.

John had made it all the way down the stairs before Sherlock trusted his legs enough to move, and even then all he could manage was to get to the door and say John's name. John turned and looked at him, and when Sherlock saw how broken he looked he felt as if his heart had literally ceased beating. John turned away and disappeared, and Sherlock for some reason didn't go after him.

Well, he thought, this is a rather interesting development in their relationship. First of all, Sherlock had always thought John simply refused to accept his bisexuality, or was somehow unaware of it. The man was just short of climbing onto a rooftop and shouting 'I'm not gay!' at the top of his lungs, so why had he kissed Sherlock?

Was this somehow connected to the chamomile tea in the cupboard? Was this why John's pupils were always slightly more dilated than usual, and why his breathing rate had been elevated for the past couple of months? Did John actually feel something for Sherlock other than just friendship? How could Sherlock have been so blind?

No wonder Lucy's advice hadn't helped. He'd had been trying for months to either get over his feelings for John or get John to fall in love with him, because he thought those were his only options.

He had severely miscalculated. He had never imagined that John Watson was already in love with him.

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Whoop, long chapter yay! Sorry for any grammar/spelling mistakes or anything funny in this chapter. I am the world's worst proofreader. Also, I'm thinking there will only be one more part to this, and I'll try to have that up sometime in the next seven days. Thanks to everyone who's been reading, voting, and commenting! You guys are awesome! :)