Sherlock Holmes was lovesick, and it wasn't the 'butterflies in the stomach' type illness most commonly associated with what an adolescent girl might call a "crush". His ailment was characterized by a gut-twisting pain, occasional light headedness and heart palpitations whenever he was in the company of a certain doctor.

Since their return from Fiji, Sherlock had been going through hell. He refused to take any cases for fear that his mind may wander to thoughts of John and cause him to lose focus while at a crime scene again. He didn't know if he'd ever get over the incident with the bank robbery and the crisps. He was almost afraid to show his face at Scotland Yard again.

Still, though Sherlock found that while his mind was constantly tormented during the day, at night he was able to find solace in his violin. Every night poured his heart out on the strings, using his bow to give a voice to his lament. Some nights he stood by the window and played, some nights he sat on the couch. Very rarely did he play while sitting in John's seat, partially because he didn't want John to come downstairs and see him when he was searching for a late night snack, but also due to the fact that the lingering scent of tea mixed with John's cologne coupled with the song he was playing often lulled him to sleep. Usually he woke shortly after falling asleep though and was able to abscond himself in his room before John came downstairs.

However, one morning Sherlock woke up to the sound of something shattering, followed by a series of expletives coming from the mouth of John Watson. He stood and walked into the kitchen, staring down at the broken tea cup on the floor, then up at John, whose face was slightly redder than usual. His face was tired; He hadn't slept well the previous night. His eyes looked guilty; He felt bad for having woken Sherlock up.

Sherlock realized he was holding his violin, but not the bow. He turned and went back to the sitting room in search of it. He found it lying on the floor beside John's armchair. He picked it up and began playing a simple tune while John cleaned up in the kitchen. After a while John came in with a new cup of tea in his hand. Sherlock decided to finish the song for John, because he knew he enjoyed the violin and he wanted to show him that he had no hard feelings towards him for waking him up.

Sherlock's phone rang when John stood and went to wash out his cup. He answered it without looking, something he regretted as soon as he heard the voice on the other line.

"Have you heard about the Allston case?" Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. Mycroft was referring to an old kidnapping case he'd assisted Lestrade with several years ago that was now being brought back into the spotlight following the discovery of the victim's body in a shady motel room. Nineteen year old Carrie Allston had long been found and returned to her family, and for the past few years had been living a normal and peaceful life until she apparently committed suicide three days ago. He'd gotten an e-mail from Lestrade about it but had yet to open it.

"Not interested," he muttered, placing his violin into its case and putting the bow beside it.

"Well, what if-"

"No." Sherlock ended the call and walked into the kitchen where John was leaning against the counter. He stood beside him, and John shifted slightly before smiling up at him. Not fully understanding why John was smiling at him but appreciating it anyway, Sherlock attempted to smile back. He saw John's gaze shift downward repeatedly and he became slightly uncomfortable. Was there something wrong with his lip, or was there some other reason for John's current fixation with his mouth? Their eyes met and Sherlock was reminded of the last time they'd been this close. Though the memory was slightly fuzzied due to the alcohol he'd consumed then, he could still remember the racing of his heart and the clamminess of his palms when the thought of kissing John had crossed his mind.

Of course, thinking about thinking about kissing John was enough to elicit the same response now, unfortunately. Sherlock tried to keep a straight face as he stared at John and he managed to maintain his cool, but then John began to lean in, and Sherlock was sure he went into shock. His entire body went numb, and he wasn't even aware of his phone falling from his grasp until it clattered on the floor. Sherlock reached down and immediately began inspecting the device for any scratches, almost forgetting the fact that his lips had been a centimetre away from John's mere moments ago.

John hurriedly left the room, leaving Sherlock alone with his phone and his thoughts. He stood frozen in place for a moment while his mind attempted to process the influx of data it had just received, and failing miserably in doing so. Frustrated, he turned on his heel and disappeared into his room, not caring what state John was in as he sat in the armchair where Sherlock had slept the night before.

It would take several days for Sherlock to sort out his thoughts, and when he did, he decided that the best course of action would not be to confront John up front about whatever it was that had happened between them. Instead, he wouldn't mention it at all. He would give John a chance to bring it up, and if it was of any importance to him Sherlock knew he would. They walked on eggshells around each other for several days, and Sherlock began to wonder what that was supposed to mean. He prided himself on the ability to read people, but he found that now, even when he read John like a book there always seemed to be some pages missing.

Ultimately deciding that John would never be the one to initiate the conversation they so desperately needed to have without any sort of incentive, Sherlock found himself dressing up for the first time in weeks. John was just sitting in his armchair trying to find a television program to watch, but Sherlock still found him very difficult to approach. He busied himself with fixing the sleeve of his shirt while he asked the question, and fought hard to keep the joy he felt upon hearing John's answer from showing on his face. He still failed, but he didn't care. He was going out with John. John had agreed to go out with him.

They soon left the flat and within no time Sherlock was sat across from John at an Italian restaurant, silently and patiently waiting for John to say something, anything, about their near-kiss in the kitchen. Surely if John wanted to say something he would have by now, and yet his mouth remained closed, except to ask Sherlock why he was staring at him. Honestly, Sherlock found his question to be quite foolish, because what else would he look at when he's out to lunch with a handsome doctor? Of course, he didn't say this, sticking with his resolve to let John be the one to bring up anything between them that might not be considered 'platonic'.

Sherlock noted the way John's face pinkened when the flirty waitress assumed they were a couple, and catalogued his response for evaluation at a later date. Sherlock took his eyes off of John's face for a moment to collect his thoughts, wondering what it would take for John to say something. He tried to ignore the dull pain in his abdomen when the thought crossed his mind that John wasn't going to say anything. That it hadn't meant as much to him as it had to Sherlock. That it hadn't mean anything to him. He looked back to John, who was staring at him with a concerned look on his face. Sherlock noted that it was only concern showing, and nothing else. He could already begin to feel his heart shatter, and he hated himself for getting his hopes up. Suddenly he didn't have much of an appetite anymore, though he hadn't really had much of one to begin with.

He watched John as he ate, trying not to let any pain show on his face. He noticed John's empty water glass, and wondered what that meant. Dry mouth. Was that a sign of nervousness? What was John nervous about? Was he nervous about bringing up a sensitive subject like almost kissing your flat mate? Was he going to do it despite his trepidation?

Sherlock's phone rang, and for some reason Sherlock found that he had lost the will to fight against Lestrade. The case was simple from the information he'd been given, and if John came with him he knew he'd solve it in no time. After a weak attempt at a denial, a reluctant acceptance, and a timid request for John to join him, Sherlock found himself back on a crime scene for the first time in weeks. He had to admit, he missed it. As he suspected, the case was basically transparent, and he had solved it in no time. John had remained in the background as he usually did, save for one moment when he and Lestrade shared a few words and it was all Sherlock was aware of.

They returned to the flat and John began rifling through the contents of the fridge. Sherlock attempted to start some sort of conversation by making a joke, but John had only laughed and the silence was continued. Sherlock sat on the sofa and waited for John to enter the room, still holding on to some small shred of hope that the day's events had sparked some sort of desire for John to talk. Instead, he brought out his laptop and began typing away on his blog, and Sherlock couldn't keep his frustration hidden. He sighed, hoping for John to talk to him, to make some sort of indication that it was alright for them to talk, but all he got was an aggravated pounding on the coffee table and a few harsh words from John.

Sherlock rose from his seat and stormed out of the room, not bothering to look back, not caring that he'd upset John. He stayed in his room for the remainder of the evening, and as Sherlock settled into bed that night a dismal thought crossed his mind: John never brought up the almost kiss. That just meant he didn't care about it enough to want to talk about it. He'd had plenty of opportunities, but never took one. The almost-kiss had not affected him nearly as much as it had Sherlock, if it had affected him at all. This thought actually broke Sherlock's heart. He could feel the organ cease its rhythmic beating as he lay paralyzed in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He could feel the life slowly draining out of him as the realization hit him that John did not and would never love him back. He ran his hands over his face in an unsuccessful attempt to wipe these depressing thoughts from his mind and sighed. Sherlock was certainly lovesick, and he feared this case was terminal.

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First of all let me say how terribly sorry I am for not updating. My life hasn't exactly been very sedate as of lately, and high stress levels do not make for good writing. However, I've had a few days off of school recently and after working like a mad woman to finish some assignments early, I found time to write! I have no beta so all mistakes are my own, sorry if you caught any. Thanks for reading, and sorry again!