John's eyes followed Sherlock feverishly as he came back into the room, the violin in his hands looking familiar as if it was his own, he knew that this moment was going to be crucial, but he could not imagine what he would experience next.
Then the detective was playing, tall and proud in front of him, beautiful, perfect.
As the music started, John felt like he had been stabbed in the guts, but the blood was not rushing out, it was rushing in, the feelings he felt he had always had for Sherlock were rushing back and filling his heart to the brim, even more than before, they were choking him, robbing him of his breath.
It was hot warm love, respect, affection, lust, and it felt like Sherlock was shining in front of him like some sort of God.
And then, just as suddenly, there was the pain, the separation, ripping his heart out and stealing his beat.
He had to step back, he had to reach out his hand to support himself and not fall, his eyes hazy and his head and heart pounding painfully.
"Jesus..." he whispered, how could he have doubted his feelings for Sherlock?
He was made of them, it was like there was nothing else in him.