A pair of trembling hands moved frantically over the keys of a laptop, closing and opening tabs, searching for something with a fervor. They danced over the keys of their own accord, not obeying the commands-- or, rather, hesitations-- of their owner. Sherlock almost couldn't believe these hands were his.

He'd rarely seen them tremble like this before. Certainly, there were things he was afraid of when he was rushing into danger, but the adrenaline was always his accomplice, never his enemy. Or so he liked to think. On a case, he  carried himself in a self-assured manner, with no hesitation. But in the privacy of his room, or in the moments when he was left alone on an outing, unpleasant things sometimes surfaced. Things he did not like to face, nor could he easily put a name to.

As his hands finally stopped typing, Sherlock saw one of these such things staring right up at him from the nearly-too-bright screen of his computer. Taking his eyes away from the words for a moment, he turned down the brightness a touch. Forcing his gaze back to where it belonged, he prepared himself to face the only kind of problem-solving that he had no clue where to start.

Sherlock took a deep breath and began to scroll through the LGBTQIA+ Wiki, the website his unruly fingers had apparently guided him towards. Sitting cross-legged in his green armchair, he rested his nose on one hand while scrolling with the other. His breathing was coming faster than normal, and he could feel a tumult of instability threatening to erupt from his chest as he considered each term he came across.

He had always felt like an outsider among other people, but he had never thought that had anything to do with this. He knew that there were many other reasons why he didn't belong with "normal" society. No one seemed to understand how his mind worked, save for him and maybe Mycroft and Eurus. And, in some significant portion, Jim Moriarty. Well, there also used to be the people who commented on his website, The Science of Deduction, before he had become well-known enough to have fans. Back then, he was able to answer questions and discuss fascinating matters with like-minded people for hours on end. He wasn't sure he liked the changes. No, he knew he didn't.

Sherlock interrupted his inner monologue and turned his focus back on the screen. The terms began to blur together, the flag colors mixing in his mind's eye. Sherlock had never let himself wonder if he was gay. First of all, the term never spoke to him. He had never seen himself in anyone he had met who had used that term. Second of all, there was his work. It all seemed too big of a distraction to let himself get carried away in. He couldn't let anything interfere with his detective work, because if he was no longer able to do the thing he loved most in the entire world, he didn't know where he would be. Lost, probably.

And there was the third reason. He supposed he was afraid.

Yes, that was what this sensation must be.

His hands were still shaking. He didn't think they had stopped since he had gotten home to the flat from a night out with John. John had paid Rosie's babysitter, then gone upstairs to bed, and Sherlock had sat in the armchair and pulled out his laptop. He had sat there for what felt like an eternity without doing anything with it, and then his hands had begun moving of their own accord.

During dinner, he had tried to push down his feelings with logic, but it hadn't been working. John had been right across from him the whole time, talking his ear off about some new drama at work or something he had read in the parenting books he'd been getting into lately. None of the topics interested Sherlock in the slightest, but he was willing to listen, even if it all went in one ear and out the other, because it was John.

Sometime around when they were about to pay for their meal, a thought came into Sherlock's head that was not new, but that he had never acknowledged until that moment. What if this isn't how normal friends feel? He had thought it consciously for the first time, and immediately had begun feeling this strange sense of... unease. All the while they were walking back through the slight drizzle, Sherlock had been avoiding the glow of the streetlamps so that John wouldn't be able to see his face and tell that something was off.

Sherlock didn't like thinking about his emotions. Sherlock didn't like having emotions. They were so inconvenient. And they always had to come with frustrating physical sensations, like the palms of his hands sweating with a cold, wet film.

Still scrolling through the list of terms, Sherlock saw a link that caught his eye. The asexual spectrum. Catching his breath, Sherlock clicked on it and scrolled through to get to the definition.

"Asexual refers to people who do not experience sexual attraction toward others. They may experience other forms of attraction--"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, his entire life's memories flashing through his head as he attempted  to dissect his connection to the words he was reading. He began clicking on other terms, falling faster and faster down a rabbit hole that seemed to never end. He came across the terms demisexual, aromantic, grayromantic, and kept going to other websites for more information. He digested the terms with an intensity usually only reserved for forensic science, hungrily taking in every definition, his eyes tripping over words and rereading, stumbling and recovering, until he landed on a page on another website labeled "Types of Attraction."

He scrolled down the list, carefully taking in each one, until he found one that stuck out. He swallowed a lump in his throat and murmured the definition out loud. "Queerplatonic attraction refers to the desire for a relationship with a specific person or people that is neither strictly romantic nor platonic in nature."

His breathing calmed some and his hands finally lessened their trembling. He wasn't sure about any of the other terms he had come across, but this one gave him that satisfied feeling he felt at the end of a case, when he knew he had put the pieces together. He supposed it felt... right.

Closing his laptop, he steepled his hands in front of his face like he did when he was thinking, and soon enough the thoughts turned into blurs and he fell asleep.

* * *

John found Sherlock in the morning when he came down the stairs, holding Rosie on his hip. Even now that he was the father of a small child, he was still usually not awake before Sherlock, so it surprised him to find that the man who was once again his flatmate was asleep in the armchair with his laptop on his lap and his face resting entirely on one of his hands.

John set Rosie down and went to go make breakfast, taking a glance at Sherlock's face on the way. Although he was sleeping, a small bit of drool slowly dripping onto his hand, his eyebrows were slightly furrowed, and his other hand was resting protectively on his laptop. John gave a puzzled "hmm" and went into the kitchen to get Rosie her Cheerios.

When he returned, Sherlock was opening his eyes and stretching his legs. Rosie was trying to climb onto his lap, so he leaned forward, yawning, and picked her up. When he saw John, he seemed to startle, and when their eyes locked, John saw a tinge of fear hidden behind Sherlock's.

Concerned, John decided to leave the scrambled eggs he was planning to make till later, and sat down in his brown armchair across from Sherlock's green one.

Sometimes John felt like he and Sherlock were a bit of an abnormal pair. Despite his assertions that the two of them were not romantically involved, he sometimes wondered if there wasn't more to the story. He had thought about it before and didn't know whether he was repressing his feelings or genuinely didn't feel anything for Sherlock in a romantic sense. John knew he was bisexual, but it wasn't something he was comfortable sharing-- the thought of anyone finding out had sent him into what certainly felt like a panic attack several times.

He didn't think he was attracted to Sherlock though... but in moments like this, he couldn't help thinking that there was some kind of other thing he wanted with Sherlock. Some type of love different from the kind he felt for Mary, or for Greg Lestrade, or for Stamford from St. Barts. Not quite romantic, but not quite platonic. The way he connected with Sherlock was distinct from the ways that he connected with everyone else.

John watched Rosie stand on Sherlock's lap and play with his hair while Sherlock let out a small laugh and held his hands up to make sure Rosie wouldn't fall. John opened his mouth to say something, but any words he managed to think of died in his throat.

* * *

Sherlock spent the day in a constant state of hyperawareness whenever John was in the room. It felt like John could see right through his skull and parse out all of the thoughts that Sherlock would prefer to keep safely tucked away. He never really knew just how much John could see from the surface. Sherlock may be able to read someone's life story in their physical appearance, but he had observed that John could read people in a different way, a way in which Sherlock was not comfortable being read. John seemed to think that Sherlock was missing something obvious, which, Sherlock conceded, was probably fair, as he often stated that John was missing something obvious.

He had avoided talking to John as much as was possible, given that they lived in the same flat and it was a weekend. A boring, unfortunately mystery-less weekend. He just couldn't deal with the constant reminder of the impossible situation that he wanted, even under the risk of making John think he was mad at him.

He continued this way, quite successfully, until the afternoon waned and the sun began to set. Rosie was about to be put to bed early because she had thrown a little bit of a temper tantrum earlier for no apparent reason, which John had said meant she was tired and had been awake too late last night. He vowed to give the babysitter a piece of his mind, to which Sherlock replied, "Is that really necessary?" and John's sharp look quickly silenced him.

After Rosie was in bed and both Sherlock and John had said goodnight to her, the flatmates were sitting in their customary chairs in silence. Sherlock's stomach growled, but he didn't want to eat anything because he didn't feel like he'd be able to keep it down. He had been on edge all day, and his body had been betraying him throughout. His hands would start to tremble again and his palms would sweat when he thought, every once in a while, of what would happen if he simply talked with John about what he'd figured out. What scared him, he guessed, wasn't that he didn't want to tell John-- it was that he did.

Desperately.

But if John wasn't able to grasp what Sherlock was trying to say, everything would be ruined between them.

And if he did... so much could change.

Sherlock steepled his hands in front of his face, trying to make what he felt was likely a lose-lose decision. After a few minutes, the matter was forced when John spoke up.

"Sherlock, what's gotten into you?" John's words were accusatory, but his voice was oddly soft. Sherlock wasn't entirely sure what it meant. "You seem... out of sorts. What's wrong?"

Ah, yes. That contradiction meant concern.

Sherlock looked off to the side, alarm bells ringing inside his head, his inner monologue arguing the pros and cons of his options. What came out of his mouth was a calm "Erm..."

Apparently assuming that Sherlock wasn't going to say anything, John continued, "I know you don't like to tell me things unless they pertain to a case. That's alright. I was just asking." His tone sounded mildly frustrated. Why?

John started to get up, and this action caused Sherlock's inner monologue to come to a sudden decision. "John, wait!"

John looked at Sherlock quizzically and sat back down. "What is it?"

"Erm--" Sherlock searched for the words. Usually, this wasn't a problem for him, but then again, usually he didn't say anything about the more emotional things that went on inside his head. "I was doing some research last night about a topic concerning me and, well, you, and... the two of us."

That didn't seem to be what John was expecting. He shifted in his seat and furrowed his eyebrows. Sherlock didn't know whether that was a good sign or a bad one. He tried to think of something else to say, but couldn't find any words to adequately express what he wanted John to know. He sighed and got up to grab his laptop from where it was charging on the table.

"Sherlock..." John quietly called him back. Sherlock retrieved the laptop and sat back down, opening it up to the page where he had found the word "queerplatonic." He couldn't believe he was about to do this. He looked down at his hands again, and found them shaking slightly.

Trying to quell his nerves, he handed John the laptop, not wanting to explain this to him out loud. He watched John's eyes scan the page, widen, and come to some realization.

It took what felt to Sherlock like an eternity for John to speak. When he finally looked up from the laptop, Sherlock was relieved to see a faint smile on his face. "That... makes a lot of sense."

Sherlock found himself able to give a short chuckle. "Yes, my thoughts exactly." He let out a shuddery breath, hoping for his body to let him go back to normal now that the moment had passed. But it seemed to need a little more time before it would obey his wishes again.

John looked at Sherlock ever so slightly differently now. He closed the laptop and handed it back to him. Sherlock took it and put it on an end table. He winced as his stomach suddenly growled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten lunch or dinner. This usually happened when a case was over and the surge of adrenaline he had been feeling subsided. Sherlock supposed this was a sort of case, in its own right.

Apparently, John had noticed, because he looked at Sherlock with an amused smirk. "I think we've got some things to, er, figure out over takeout. Dinner?"

Sherlock grinned. "Starving."