Archive of Our Own ^beta

John has always known that you’re smarter than him. 

He’s made peace with it—the idea of his younger brother just seeming to operate on a separate plane of existence altogether. John is content with what he’s done with his life, even if he sees your name in the byline of articles from The Times and feels his throat burn. 

It’s fine. Really, it is. 

Still, John decides to keep your existence hidden from Sherlock. At least, for as long as he can. Because Sherlock and secrets don’t mix—the man is like a bloodhound, and John has always been too forgiving and desperate to pretend he doesn’t enjoy the attention. The feeling of Sherlock’s eyes on him, studying him like he’s someone important, unpredictable... He looks at John like he’s more than just a traumatized war medic without the battle wounds to show for it. 

It’s almost funny. Despite Sherlock’s clinical aversion to anything close to sentiment… it is remarkably easy to fall in love with him. To fall in love with the feeling of being seen for who you really are. John had felt so awfully disconnected and jumbled when he was discharged. Sherlock’s presence was a blessing in disguise. Because, difficult as he may be, he’s consistent. John can always rely on him to be disgruntled at the most mundane of things; inappropriate by accident, but mostly on purpose; yanking at his violin strings like he wants them to snap and break. 

Yes. For someone like John: alone, unneeded… Sherlock’s chaos is a comfort. 

He supposes it helps, too, that he already has some experience dealing with independent, somewhat antisocial intellectuals—after living with you for nearly two decades. Sure, Sherlock’s isolation often takes on a different form: fueled with frustration or a manic desperation to solve a case. But the stubborn independence; the cleanliness; the firm refusal to share anything, especially clothing? Yeah, he’s seen all that before. 

When John thinks about it, he recognizes that Sherlock and you would probably get along very well. Then again, that’s sort of the problem. John is still struggling to get the man’s attention after years of sharing an apartment—introducing another variable will shove him out of the equation altogether. So John keeps quiet, passively humming or changing the subject whenever Sherlock sees your family name in the paper. It helps that Watson is a rather common last name. John always brushes it off, and Sherlock eventually drops the bit together. 

Still. It’s only so long before Sherlock learns of your existence. John mentions you by accident—because, naturally, you’re important to him. You’re far from someone to be hidden; John is incredibly proud of you and what you’ve done for your life. 

It’s still a catastrophic mistake. Because Sherlock’s eyes narrow, he grows silent with contemplation, and John knows he’s already lost. 

“You have a younger brother,” Sherlock states with a skeptical look. 

“…Yes,” John answers. “I should introduce you sometime,” he continues noncommittally, desperately hoping that Sherlock will maintain antisociality like always and scoff at the offer. 

“Yes, you should,” Sherlock responds detachedly. John’s heart nearly stops right then and there. Because, yes, it was a throwaway remark—likely meant to placate him. But Sherlock still agreed. John has gotten used to his specific brand of sarcasm, and that wasn’t it. 

Foreboding settles deep in his chest.

But eventually, after a few weeks, John bites the bullet. Because, for some godforsaken reason, Sherlock wants to meet you. Sherlock, the brilliant, antisocial detective who would rather take a bullet to the ribs than stumble through small talk. He actively wants to meet you.

Naturally, John is suspicious. But you’re two of the most important people in his life, his brother and his best friend (even if Sherlock doesn’t believe in friendship), so he knows it was only a matter of time. He sets the date, pencils it in on the calendar in the kitchen that’s nearly blurred with Sherlock’s inconsistent scrawl. 

John takes a rattling breath and tries not to feel like he’s already being left behind. 

You and Sherlock get on like a house on fire.

It’s not surprising. John knew it would happen. You two are similar in disposition, though you tend to take the people-pleasing route when Sherlock opts for the people-displeasing route. You’re both clever, witty with senses of humor that can bleed into the macabre rather quickly. 

John sees it. He spots the gleam of interest in Sherlock’s eyes from the moment you enter 221B Baker Street, recognizing his friend’s rare fidgeting as a sign of restlessness. He sees the restrained amusement in your eyes as Sherlock proceeds to scrutinize your entire outfit (with far less venom than normal, but, of course, you wouldn’t know that yet). He sees a rare smile quirk Sherlock’s lips at one of your dry remarks.

And John pretends that smile is for him instead. 

“I read your most recent article,” Sherlock states, apropos of nothing. John is sitting in the kitchen sipping some tea, sitting across from you as you catch up. It’s been a few months since John has last seen you—and he swears Sherlock was actually getting antsy. Sherlock. The man who can look at the goriest of crime scenes without so much as blinking. 

John watches on as you look up from your own drink, glancing over your shoulder at his friend. 

“Sherlock, hello,” you respond. “That’s… good?” you say uncertainly, clearly expecting the worst. 

“It was…” Sherlock breaks off, face tightening in a scowl. He averts his eyes. John stares in disbelief. Is that a blush rising on his cheeks? “...adequate,” Sherlock finishes. 

You blink owlishly. “Thanks,” you respond. 

Sherlock gives a curt nod and promptly leaves the room. 

“What was that about?” you ask John. 

He looks over at you, swallowing the words. That was Sherlock’s version of a compliment. He isn’t impressed by anyone or anything, but he’s impressed by you. 

Instead, John just shrugs affably. “Not sure,” he responds, the truth settling into the pit of his stomach. You are already far more interesting to Sherlock than John is. It’s already too late. It’s been too late from the moment John slipped up and mentioned you in conversation. 

He doesn’t know how to feel anymore. Perhaps a small, foolish part of himself thought he actually had a chance with Sherlock. That the man would somehow wake up to the fact that John’s companionship is valuable, and not given out nearly as easily as he thinks. Perhaps one day he would wake up in the morning and be the one to make breakfast, the one to hem and haw when he isn’t wearing enough layers for the cold weather, the one to greet him in the morning with a fond smile. 

No. That was never going to happen, was it? 

John takes another sip of his tea, the hot drink doing little to soothe his tumultuous feelings. 

“Hey, John,” you greet him weeks later, giving him a hug as you step into their apartment. John responds instinctively, holding you there for a selfish moment. You notice his silence immediately, pulling back after a moment to frown at him. “You okay?” you ask. 

You’re always perceptive, and you have been for as long as John remembers. But you don’t weaponize it like Sherlock does. No, you just… care. You’re not malicious, you’re a good person. A great person, a better man than he is. 

Yes. Sometimes John looks at you and is reminded of all he could’ve been, if he hadn’t gone off to a foreign country to prove himself in a war he never particularly cared about in the first place. 

You repeat the question and John is dragged back to the present moment. He nods. “I’m good. Thanks.”

“Are you sure?” you question, unconvinced. You look genuinely worried for him and John wants to bask in that concern. It should be enough. Why isn’t it enough? Why does he keep trying to get validation from Sherlock, a man who will never give it? Why does John want that from someone who has never even cared to get to know him in return? 

“I can come back some other time—” you offer, breaking through the unsteady silence. 

“No, no, it’s fine,” John says, if only because he can feel Sherlock’s gaze burning into the side of his face from the kitchen. If only because he knows the man has been anticipating your arrival since yesterday. If only because Sherlock spent three whole minutes fidgeting with his shirt collar in the mirror this morning. 

If only. 

“Hello.” Sherlock’s voice breaks John away from his thoughts. He looks over to find the detective standing a short distance from you, his eyes boring into you like you’re the only person in the room, the world. 

“Hello, Sherlock,” you respond with a polite smile. You turn your attention back to John, a concerned frown on your face. You don’t notice the persistence of Sherlock’s attention, as he watches you speak. John does. 

Somehow, the fact that you don’t notice Sherlock’s growing interest makes things worse. It only prolongs the pain. But John is nothing if not a committed masochist, so he locks eyes with you and assures you he’s fine through gritted teeth. 

“May I show you something?” Sherlock asks you after a moment. (Politeness. Exceedingly rare from the detective.)

You blink in surprise, evidently not expecting the offer. You look over at John, as if needing his permission to go. John gives you a quiet smile that still hurts his lips to produce. Sherlock hasn’t so much as acknowledged his presence, now that you’re here. 

“Sure,” you then say to Sherlock, following after him as he leads you into his study. 

John stares after you both, watching the door slip shut behind you. 

…He’s never been allowed in there. 

It is very painful, watching the two of you grow closer. 

It’s almost cruel. Because nothing has happened yet. John is trapped in this limbo of helplessness and desire and yearning and— and self-loathing. 

The worst part? John knows that, if he ever even hinted at his feelings for Sherlock, you’d back off. You would distance yourself, you’d stop speaking with Sherlock altogether. You’d allow John that chance, because you have always put the desires of others before yourself. That’s something John has admired about you his entire life, something he wished he could emulate. 

Ironic, he thinks. Now that he’s finally learned how to put others first, it’s for the one decision that will break him. 

“What does your brother like?” Sherlock asks on a rainy afternoon, when the two of them are lounging in the sitting room. He has his nose buried in some sort of text, an attempt at sounding disinterested. But his knuckles whiten slightly at the edges of the cover. “Books, specifically.”  

John doesn’t even have the energy to come up with a joking response. His eyes burn with tears that will never come. His fingers tighten in the pockets of his trousers as he takes a rattling breath… 

…and gives Sherlock exactly what he wants. Like always. 

It was equally inevitable, John thinks, that Sherlock fell in love with you. As much as he thinks about his roommate, his friend, his partner, whatever the bloody hell they are… John knows you are also extremely easy to love. You’re his brother, after all. Of course he loves you. Of course he wants the best for you. 

John just didn’t realize the best meant you shaking off stray drops of rain upon entering 221B, only for Sherlock to make a convenient appearance and usher you off to the bathroom—without so much as a wayward comment on the water you tracked through the hall. He didn’t realize it would mean that he would suddenly become the odd man out, despite feeling like he was finally starting to understand Sherlock. (Or so he thought). 

John supposes… he wants the best for you still. He’ll keep quiet, he’ll watch Sherlock and you from across the room of this warm space, trying and failing to convince himself that he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that Sherlock is finally taking his advice, finally dating someone and shedding his cynicism… just to choose John’s own brother. 

Did John expect it to be himself? No. 

Did he expect it to be you? Absolutely not. But Sherlock and you suit each other so well. It almost makes him feel even worse. 

John looks down at his drink and tries to remember why he came today. Oh, that’s right. Because you asked, and Sherlock had been hovering over your shoulder, and the detective was actually looking at him for the first time in what must have been months and John just couldn’t say no, to the one man who has always made him want to just throw his boundaries out the window, all for a fleeting scrap of his attention—

“You have been hopelessly in love with my brother for nearly five years.”

John feels like he’s been plunged into ice water. He turns to find Mycroft, Sherlock’s older brother, regarding him with a calm expression. The man has never been the social type, in typical Holmes fashion. Yet here he is, standing next to John at a party he clearly doesn’t want to be at, holding a drink and staring at his brother and you. 

Hopelessly in love. Yes, that would be the proper phrasing. Hopeless. John has always been hopeless; this has always been a doomed venture. Yet he held on for five years, hoping—hell, praying—that something would change. 

“……Yes,” John admits in a single exhale of breath. God, it hurts.

Silence.

Even Mycroft Holmes, who never fails to have a cutting remark or grim statement ready, doesn’t seem cruel enough to find the words. John hears them regardless: You’re wasting your time. Wasting your time decaying in the shadow of someone who has never once stopped to glance back at you. 

His eyes find Sherlock and you again. His best friend is leaning in to kiss you. John’s throat feels tight. He wants to look away. He should look away. But he feels frozen, trapped and forced to watch as you so effortlessly command the affections of a man who has claimed to never have them in the first place. You have once again succeeded where John has failed. 

“Writers really do love tragedy,” Mycroft continues. 

John laughs. It feels like he’s choking on shards of glass. 

“Yes,” he agrees, the remark feeling like a concession. “We do.”