Caress. Syrup. Experiment.
The perfect couple is equal to the human body.
One person is the brain, the other is the heart.
Sometimes they are completely opposite, but they couldn't live without each other.
John Watson still couldn't believe that his best friend had come back from dead's world.
He had expressed that desire in front of his grave when he couldn't see any way out and everything seemed to want to choke and make him weak, but he would never, never imagined that Sherlock would seriously come back to him.
Nevertheless Sherlock did and the proof was on the sofa, with three patches attached to the arm and the eyes closed.
It seemed that he prayed and John asked himself, in a moment of confusion, how would it have been if Sherlock had confided all his thoughts to him, making him understand what was going on his amazing brain.
"You're back." Sherlock opened his eyes quickly and studied him while John still had shopping bags in his hands.
"It's raining." "What a great demonstration of the obvious." John looked up to the sky, smiling slightly.
The great difficulty of his recent return was he couldn't get angry with him.
Of course, Sherlock did irritate the doctor and sometimes John wanted to throw him to the wall, but there was always that morbidity in John's eyes, that hug that there wasn't been, those words that weren't spoken and those action that have never been made by both.
John had always thought that the hugs symbolized the recomposition, the end of the lack of someone and that was what he needed to feel. Sherlock, alive, intact and healthy in his life, again.
"Have you bought the milk?" Sherlock asked from the living room, while John put the dropping bags on the table to shunt the spending. "I have, Sherlock, you sent me messages all the time." "Human memory is very small for ordinary people, you should know. I've only done a gently."
If he called gently harass messages all the way from Baker Street to the supermarket and then from there to the exit of it just for some milk, then there really wasn't hope for John Watson to see their relationship developed in some way.
"Certainly Sherlock, how could I not call it that."
When he had finished placing the dough on the shelf of wood that was salvaged from the flood of bottles, vials and other things that he didn't want to know origin and gender, he made himself a cup of tea and went back into the other room. John put his cup on the table to take the computer and sit in the armchair. When he looked up his beloved cup was in the wrong hands. "You forgot to put sugar, John!"
John forced himself to remain calm and took a deep breath, so as not to release the sarcastic and biting response that resided on the tip of his tongue.
"Sherlock, that's my tea." "It was, John, it was your tea."
He continued to sip it undisturbed, the ice's look that disappeared out the window and then beyond. "You're…you're unbearable, really. I needed something against that damn rain." "I'm my brain, John, and my brain needed tea. It's a simple reasoning for you too." john asked himself if Sherlock liked to say his name because he repeated it so many times.
But he was not sorry for that. The tone in which he called him always had the power to fascinate him like a siren song.
John had always imagined, since their first meeting, Sherlock Holmes like a big brain that remained alert and awake around the clock. Just a brain, a machine.
Nevertheless after all that happened and, he thought with a shiver, after what would happened, he could really understand how his roommate could be brain at one hundred percent.
Sherlock was the left brain. He was a scientist, he was a mathematician. He loved the custom. He categorized, he was accurate, linear, analytical and strategic. He was practical and coldly logical. He loved the control, he was master of speech and language, realistic. Sherlock Holmes knew exactly who he was and he needed not further incentive to give proof of his intelligence.
But John was sure by now, Sherlock wasn't just that. He was the right brain too. He was creativity, free spirit. He was passion, desire, Sherlock was the roaring sound of who laughs. He was the taste. He was the feeling of sand under the bare foot, so nice to give the shivers. He was moving, brilliant colors. He had imagination without limits, art, poetry, intuition. The right brain was all that Sherlock Holmes would wanted to be. And, maybe, John had a vertiginous crush on that half. that one under the layers, that one in his eyes.
When John realized that Sherlock wouldn't spoke for a long time, he stood up and he put the laptop in his place. Lulled by the soothing silence of the house, he climbed the steps leading upstairs and went into his room. He took off his slight shirt and put on his favorite sweater, that black and white stripes, wide and comfortable.
Then he came back down, where he found Sherlock lost behind a chemistry book.
He raised his eyes from the page while John was resuming possession of the computer.
"Do you have to go out?" said Sherlock, after a moment of silence. Probably it wasn't the ideal day to update his blog but the good day to make four chatters with his roommate, John thought, surprised by that sudden desire to talk that rarely appeared in him.
"No, no at all. Why?" "That one is the sweater that you wear when you go out with a girl you like." "I was just cold." "Mh, fine."
John took longer than expected to look away from the figure of Sherlock Holmes or more precisely from his hair, slightly longer than usual. He would have wanted to be able to impress Sherlock with the simplicity withwhich he could the girls. A reassuring sweater, a couple of smiles, beats and niceties.
He still remembered when he convinced himself not to be gay and he didn't feel any urge to his best friend. But there were those looks too long at his shirt and the desire to kiss him at inopportune moments. John Watson, despite not being a genius, knew perfectly to be too ordinary for Sherlock Holmes. A friend, nothing more. Certainly not as the expansive Irene Adler.
John returned to reality, moving between an update and the other and reading the last comment that left his sister, Harry, under a post many months before: "There is no one which isn't allowed to love another person". At that moment he had taken as a joke of poor taste because, damn, he wasn't gay at all, but then he thought more that it should and he was stuck with his own hands.
"John, can I ask you a question for pure scientific purposes?" John returned to give attention to Sherlock, hidden in the darkness that was growing space out of the window.
"Tell me…" The questions that Sherlock used to ask him to the befit of science were the most embarrassing and childish at the same time that John had the pleasure –or bad luck, to hear.
"How would you define the feeling of affection?" Sherlock was deadly serious, the clasped hands that touched the nose and the eyes steady of John.
"Definition? It isn't a formula of physical, you can't give a definition to the feelings." Sherlock wrinkled his forehead, annoyed.
"There is a definition for everything. Feelings are just chemical effects so they must contain logic and definition." John snorted, impatiently by the obstinacy of the other.
"You can't buy love, you can't sell it and you can't enforce it with the threat. You can't avoid it…love just happens." "I find it hard to believe." "Because you are a living paradox, Sherlock. You can't accept that there are things that don't need of explanation, they must be lived and nothing else." He seemed to think carefully of John's words, or so he hoped. The only desire that he've had since his reappearance was to be able to finally make him understand what he felt. But John was in front of a wall and he was damn afraid of trespassing it.
When he came to write on his blog, John gave up all his feelings and his confused thoughts about Sherlock, taken from a detailed description of some events on unsolved cases. John didn't even notice the silence shift of Sherlock until he felt his hand through his hair.
He couldn't understand anything, there was only one feeling that overwhelmed all others.
In total black out John asked himself how could a simple caress give him that effect and, then, how would being kissed by him be.
The sweetest death, probably.
As it arrived, however, that moment disappeared very quickly, leaving an empty feeling in John's stomach.
That emptiness made him decide to move his eyes from the screen until he saw his back covered by the blue robe of Sherlock.
He was divided in half between the morbidity curiosity that made the gesture and the fear of a brusque answer.
"Why that... -he cleared his throat, almost certainly he wanted to stop that inappropriate question- …endearment?" "I need the syrup."
It was his reply when he vanished into the kitchen in a swirl of blue and curly.
Syrup.
John still couldn't understand him after nearly two years of living together and he saw very remote possibility that one day he could actually succeed in that undertaking.
"S-syrup? Are you sick?" Shouted John, feeling his doctor's heart overtake him. "Don't be silly, John! It's an experiment!"
Caress. Syrup. Experiment.
John couldn't understand anything. This is new!, John thought sarcastically.
"Is it an experiment that concerns me?" "John, seriously, you're being paranoid. It's for science! An illuminating experiment, absolutely." Sherlock kept muttering, in and out of the kitchen and smiling to the air. A crazy sociopath, here's what he was. "Yes, but…Sherlock? Sherlock!" John managed to grab his arm in his crowds coming and going. He seemed to remember just at the moment the presence of someone else in the room. Those eyes so blue and so close and those cheekbones so pronounced, damn it should be illegal!, all Sherlock took him aback, sending him completely adrift. "I would like an explanation." Said John, trying not embarrassed to excesses. "There isn't time for explanation. I need syrup and coffee. Have you bought coffee? I need it." John shook his head, trying to curb the enthusiasm that pervaded Sherlock in an almost comical way. "No, not that. I want an explanation of that before." Sherlock's furrowed brow make John intend that he didn't understand the point of situation. "To the caress, Sherlock. On my head." "Oh, that!" That.
John didn't know if to be hurt, confused or pick him punches. He decided for a dazzling silence. "I thought you could like it. Well, it doesn't take a brain like mine to get to a deduction so trivial." "For God's sake, Sherlock, speak!"
He kissed him. Without why, how or what. He lightly snorted and placed his lips on John's ones as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And it was, it really was. He pecked on the lips, nothing more. A children kiss that was like an adults kiss and much more. Because it was a kiss from Sherlock and John knew what could alleged.
When Sherlock fell from his lips, a time that John couldn't count, he returned with a frown of freak consulting detective of ever.
He began to open all the lockers until find the coffee and carry dozens and dozens of grain on the table. John was still standing, the hand at heart level, hang in the air as to capture that moment to make it concrete.
Caress. Syrup. Experiment. Kiss.
"Sher…lock?" "Mh?"
John felt the emotion throbbing in the ears. "Can I stay here with you?"
Sherlock seemed to weigh John's question, perhaps realizing the true value of those words. "Sure, you can stay here with me."
John smiled, feeling to the door of a new beginning. With Sherlock, together with Sherlock, belonging to Sherlock, in all the ways in which a person can feel attached to another.
Caress. Syrup. Experiment. Kiss. Sherlock and John.
Hi! I'm an italian girl and I'm really exciting to do that experience. It's my first time and I ask you forgive for any mistake in this story. So, I hope that my story enjoyed you!
A big kiss from Italy!