Eyes glowing in the soft infrequent light as taxis and buses stumble past the downstairs windows and glowing up the stairs of 221b Baker street. The voids of bullet holes in the wallpaper and walls seem unnoticeable as the two men are completely focussed on only one thing. Each other.
The homely armchair of John Hamish Watson, is draped by an old friend of the detectives, his coat. The coffee table covered in files of new investigations of murders and suicides and things less dramatic. A missing person with the only clue of a poster from a crime show she used to watch and some old woman's cat's death in central London. Mr Holmes had found no interest in most of these cases and had found himself so bored he counted the eyelashes of John's forever changing coloured eyes. They were a dark bluish grey at the time but almost green by the time he had finished. This long time of eye contact only confirmed Watson's feelings for the strong jaw structure of his companion. Of how he longed for his friends sharp cheekbones to cut the wire separating them and let the explosion of emotion erupt. He longed for the slender yet muscular body of Sherlock William Holmes to be resting on his own. Watching his chest rise and fall and feeling his warm soft breath against his skin. He thought of how Sherlock would have already deducted his feelings and knows what was spinning through his mind. John had agreed to himself long ago to accept how things were and not fight the unwinnable war of love and sex and life.
He was right is some senses and Sherlock had deducted the strong emotional bond between the two men but as the social piranha he is he decided to leave it be and not muck things up like he usually did with his friend. So the two boys sat in silence watching and noticing and taking in every drop of each other they could.
