It meant nothing, of course.
Plenty of men lived together. It was a matter of necessity what with these times and all. Watson was a doctor and he needed assistance on occasion. Another pair of eyes, another body to occupy an opponent, another mind to stimulate his own. But he did not need John Watson.
It was perfectly natural for men to dine together and to see an opera. It was a gentlemen's pastime, after all. Another to be critical of the acting, the tameness or bite of the wine, deducing what port the oysters came from. How would Watson know these things without him?
There was nothing unusual about the occasional, casual touch. A pat on the shoulder, a prolonged shake of the hand, and pulling a stray thread from the back of a jacket that would have surely gone unnoticed. John was very dear to him, of course. One cannot live that long in the same occupancy without growing some attachment to them. It was a matter of habit.
And it was understandable, in the throngs of a case, that his body would react. To grip onto his friend to keep him from being flung across the room. To hug tightly to his chest whist peaking around a corner to avoid detection. To use his shoulder for support, not that he needed it. And his excitement; all due to the thrill of the chase.
It was almost unnotable when the London nights were so very cold and the good doctor worried. They couldn't very well keep a fire going all night so sharing a bed was an obvious conclusion. And in the morning, if they found their bodies had decided to search for warmth on their own, then there was nothing wrong with waking with another man's arm around his waist.
And at those moments when the rare sun cast perfect shadows along John's face and the wind blew just so and the moment simply called for it,
it was perfectly natural for two brothers of bond to share a kiss.