Hmm. No idea where this came from, but to hell with it! I had fun writing and plus, my head was about to explode if I didn't get this out. Besides, everyone should be treated to reading/writing at least one fluff a day :)
Written to Ellie Goulding's cover of "Your Song", originally written and performed by Sir Elton John. The title comes from the very last line.
Disclaimer: Ah, Sherlock. I wish I owned you.
Warnings: A 10 on the all-new squee factor scale. Also, one teeny curse word.
Sherlock is not a romantic. That much is obvious. He doesn't have any interest in becoming part of a couple, either physically or mentally. He never had a crush in high school and has never snatched someone out of a bar and gone home for a one-night stand.
So he doesn't understand why John Watson has this effect on him.
A supercomputer does not shut down. Ever.
But around John, that same computer switches right off with just one secret little smile. One sideways glance, the corner of John's mouth quirks up, and Sherlock's brain is reduced to nothing.
Sherlock knew about hormones and reproduction and all those other dull things from Mummy. But they were like quantum physics – things that he knew well, but that he never even considered encountering in his life.
He was pulling John in. He could feel it, every second of every day. He would normally be repulsed by letting someone in this close, but strangely enough, the idea didn't worry him as much as it should. It was John, after all. He trusted John. He cared for John.
Love?
Was it love?
How was Sherlock supposed to know these things? He had no experience.
He wouldn't mind experimenting with John. But at the same time, he hated the very thought of it. He would never hurt John, could never hurt John. To experiment, to try and classify who very well might be his only lover would damage both of them beyond repair.
He was distracted all the time now. He couldn't process data properly if John was next to him. He was paying more attention to the distance between their bodies than the corpse on the ground and that was simply not how Sherlock Holmes worked.
Supercomputers remove viruses from their systems with nothing but a scan. But to remove John…Sherlock couldn't think of it. Without John, he was nothing. A shadow. A shadow reduced to injecting himself with cocaine, using three times the normal amount of nicotine patches, just to keep himself functioning. John cleared his head but then turned around and muddled it right back up again.
Sherlock dropped his head into his hands. He couldn't stand this horrid indecision. He couldn't even think properly. He sprung up from his bed and went downstairs to the kitchen. He needed to move.
And then there he was. His John – yes, his John. Standing there in front of the stove, making tea, the circles under his eyes even more pronounced than usual. He looked shaken and disheveled, so he must have been victim to one of his frequent night terrors. He wasn't standing in military posture like he did after dreams of Afghanistan, so it must have been about the pool. Which was Sherlock's fault.
Sherlock wanted to smooth away those circles that were now there because of him, to pull him close and tell him everything would be all right, to…to…
He crossed the room in three bounds, leaned down, and kissed John. Hard.
Every single synapse in his brain imploded at the sensation of John's lips against his lips, John's tongue slipping into his mouth, both his arms wrapped around John's waist as John's hand tangled in his curls and pulled him even closer.
Supercomputer be damned. This was glorious.