It wasn't the way Sherlock licked the sub-par tea off his lips in the cold outside the hole-in-the-wall coffee place, nor the way the wind caught his hair, his stance stern and unwavering, the autumn light painting a portrait of a man born to do this. To hunt, search, to follow a scent from the distance until the proverbial rabbit was trembling in his hole.
John followed as the colour of Sherlock's eyes darkened with each accumulating thought, each piece of the puzzle falling into place, how each moment the man spent staring into the distant horizon made his eyes gleam with inexplicable lust, craving for the result, giving the man a bold shine, as if announcing to the entire world it was his oyster.
That was why, here, John wanted to kiss him. Share his own new-found freedom of the endlessness of the mind, the novelty mixing with the seasoned experience, establishing a whole new… Learn how to use it, the flavour of the unimaginable discovered, hoping, that Sherlock would lend him his shine.
If even for one passing moment.