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Summary: Sherlock had always prided himself on being the true master of his emotions, but what if a certain former army doctor changes that?
Disclaimer: I do not own any part of Sherlock Holmes or the BBC series.
He had always prided himself on his reason. His logic and deduction skills were trophies he flaunted whenever he could. He was never irrational; he was always in his right mind, a true master of his emotions.
Why was it then that he found his self-control slipping as of late? It perplexed his shrewd mind, the subtle change in his thinking, the shift in focus. He could not pinpoint why he had altered, or how, but he had a suspicion as to when it had begun.
The day Dr. John Watson walked into his laboratory was by no means an out-of-the-ordinary day. Simple, cloudy, a little rainy, bad traffic, such is London.
And such was that day.
He had glanced for a total of 3.2 seconds, but that had been enough to deduce where the sandy-haired stranger had come from: military, Afghanistan, (or was it Iraq?), psychosomatic limp. Sherlock saw words attached to certain body parts as he gazed: the way he carried himself, tan-lines around his cuffs, his cane and leg.
He had been brief in his introduction, careful to drop just enough information to intrigue the gentleman into meeting him at 221b. He really needed a flatmate, and this man had…something about him that made Sherlock trust him almost instantly.
That bothered him. He did not trust most people and he definitely did not trust at first glance. There was just…something there that he found he liked. Maybe it was the military stance, authoritative and screaming of "good Samaritan?" No, Sherlock knew many other military men, and none had held his attention for this long. In fact, many of them just irritated him. He leaned back in his armchair, staring into the fireplace.
Perhaps it was the fact that he had taken his bait so easily. John had swallowed his every clever word. But, no, that could not be the reason because plenty of people reacted that way to his admittedly impressive deduction skills, but he did not allow all of them to live with him.
There had to be something, some reason for the distraction. He shifted in his chair, and his eyes fell on the one opposite him. The one John always sat in. His mind wandered a bit to the night before, when he and John had been bantering and laughing in their chairs next to the fire. John's hair had looked like gold in the light, his skin looking almost rosy and utterly touchable in that moment. Sherlock had almost wanted to lean forward and skim his hand over John's, just to see if he was as soft as he looked.
Sherlock generally filed his life experiences away according to whether or not they would be useful later. Sometimes, however, in would slip one or two that had no particular use but came with their own flicker of emotion.
That night happened to be one of them.
Sherlock pulled it forward, replaying the event in his mind. He allowed himself to relive the emotions he had felt.
Purely for science, of course.
He had like the way John had laughed at his jokes, how his eyes would light up as he listened to Sherlock ramble out his opinions. John had a crooked smile that made Sherlock feel symptoms akin to a heart attack, and he had used it on Sherlock a lot that night. Sherlock remembered feeling warmth radiating through his skin when John brushed his hand while handing him a cup of tea.
Warm was how Sherlock had felt. Not just outside, which the roaring fireplace and his sweater had caused, but inside. He had felt…well, the only word that came to mind was absurd. Sherlock had never felt "loved" before. Not like that. He had felt kinship for his brother, appreciation for Lestrade, protective over Mrs. Hudson, and a small flicker of alliance with Molly Hooper, but never warmth like what John gave him. This…fire, so to speak, that John had created within him consumed him whenever he so much as passed a thought across the doctor.
It was starting to change him.
The world had shifted, grey bleeding into brilliant hues he never dreamed to see, the sun felt just a fraction warmer, his heart a little lighter. He smiled openly, laughed more, and melodies poured out of his violin whenever he played, which was often now. Composing was becoming easier, and in every note he penned into the page, he found John. He found him in the dips and curves of the eighteenth rests, felt him the in the trembling bow, heard his essence dripping off every note Sherlock threw into the air.
This particular evening he was not playing his music, however. He was sitting in front of the fireplace in the manner that John called "perching", with his arms wrapped around his knees.
Sherlock was so lost in his thoughts that he heard the front door open exactly 5.6 seconds after he should have. John walking through the door was not a surprise, but the sudden flare of the warmth was. It started when Sherlock met his eyes and travelled down the base of his spine, spreading to his solar plexus and making his heart jump erratically. He made a mental note to get that checked.
"Hello, John," he said, keeping his dialogue simple. The sooner he eliminated causes and got to the root of his problem, the better.
"Hello. How was your day?" John replied, sitting across from Sherlock, in precisely the same position as that night. Sherlock shoved the memory back in its box, noting to take it out later for further examining.
"It was unproductive, unfortunately." Sherlock left it at that, suddenly afraid of saying something that would tip John off.
"Mine was entirely too productive," John sighed. Sherlock had already deduced that from the slump of his shoulders and the sheen of oil on his face, but he bit his tongue. Now was not the moment for that.
"I wish we could have traded," he said instead, smiling a little. John echoed the grin and relaxed in his chair. Sherlock read the sentences of his body language: I'm home, I'm safe, my best friend is here.
Safe. Sherlock tried to stop the rush of satisfaction and pride that welled up inside of him. John felt safe around him. Sherlock had made someone else, another living being, feel something akin to happiness.
As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Sherlock's mouth arched into a smile. John looked content, leaning forward toward the fire, elbows resting on knees. From his "perch" Sherlock could see the curve of John's spine. Graceful, his mind supplied.
He wondered whether this was the cause of poetry. When people feel real affection for one another, they try to make sense of it in colourful words that supply their minds with sensory pointers. An emotion tends to make more sense to people if they are able to relate it to something tangible. For Sherlock, no emotion ever made sense. They just got in the way. He managed to make it through most of his life not succumbing to the power they held over logic, but this time it seemed, his hormones had betrayed him.
He did not want to like the way John laughed; he did not want to feel so warm and comfortable around him. He wanted his world to make sense again; cold, hard facts and logic. Why did this feeling have to get in the way? And why did he have to not only like it, but want to feel more of it?
"Sherlock, are you listening?" John said, effectively snapping Sherlock back into reality.
"I'm sorry, what?" came the reply as he locked eyes with John. Something about the way John's eyes looked made Sherlock's heart jump around like before. He sincerely hoped it wasn't a sign of an early heart condition.
"I asked you about the case you were offered." John repeated, rubbing his hands together. "Did you take it?"
"No. I informed them that there was currently a pressing matter to which I had to attend, but I thanked them for their time." Sherlock curled his arms tighter around his knees.
"You haven't had a case in ages. What could be so pressing that you had to say no?" John's eyes widened as he spoke.
"I am currently undergoing a study into human interaction." Sherlock managed. There, not exactly a lie.
John merely looked perplexed. "How could you possibly study that? The only humans you interact with are me, Mrs Hudson, and half of Scotland Yard."
"Self-interaction is not necessary, John. I wish to study how society works by observing humans interacting with each other." Sherlock's eyes narrowed.
John leaned back and picked up his paper. "You'll have to get out a lot more for that to work," he replied scathingly.
Sherlock's brow furrowed, "I get out plenty."
John just turned back to his paper and snorted.