Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A/N: Just a bit of fluff written for the prompt "Drawing." Friendship/pre-slash. Set between "The Hounds of Baskerville" and "The Reichenbach Fall." Enjoy.
The images were beautiful.
As John swept his eyes over the many works, he wondered when Sherlock had done them all and why he hadn't known his friend was an artist. It wasn't terribly surprising…after all, Sherlock excelled in a great many things. However, John couldn't understand why it was a secret.
He found the artwork completely by accident. Sherlock had gone out and had taken John's computer for whatever reason. Therefore, John decided to simply use his. So he went into Sherlock's room and somehow ended up knocking over a book and a pile of paper. It was during his efforts to clean up the mess that John realized exactly what he was picking up.
The loose pages were charcoal sketches of almost everyone that meant anything to Sherlock. There were many of Mrs. Hudson performing a variety of different activities, some of Lestrade, Mycroft, even some of Molly…but none of John.
It wasn't until he picked up the book that he realized the reason for this supposed exclusion. The sketchbook was full of pictures of John, all of which were in bright, vibrant color. There were portraits done in paints, oils, and colored pencils, but none in the simple charcoal of the other images.
Sherlock had captured him in practically every conceivable activity, whether it was observing a body at a crime scene or sleepily drinking a cup of tea in the early hours of the morning. John had the sudden thought that all of these images must have come from either memory or imagination and shook his head at the inconceivable talents of his friend.
John was so engrossed in the art that he didn't hear Sherlock return. And although he knew he should probably feel bad for the discovery, John couldn't muster anything but fascination until he looked up to see Sherlock in the doorway with an unreadable look on his face.
"Sherlock, I wasn't…I didn't mean…"
Sherlock cut him off, his face blank and his voice composed.
"What do you think?" He asked, seemingly disinterested.
"They're fantastic. Why didn't you tell me you could draw?"
Sherlock brushed off the praise. "It's not important. Just something I do when I can't sleep sometimes."
And then before John could say anything else, he continued with, "Your computer is in the kitchen. Also, the case is over. It was the husband. Dull."
It was a clear dismissal, and so John left the room, guilt beginning to creep into his consciousness as he realized he had likely intruded on something very private.
They didn't talk about the drawings for several weeks. John had a lot of questions, particularly about the ones of him, but since Sherlock didn't seem terribly receptive to any discussion about the art, he certainly wasn't going to bring anything up. So, he tried to let the thoughts go and things mostly returned to normal around 221B.
Surprisingly, it was Sherlock who finally brought it up again. They had just finished solving a particularly harrowing case during which John had gotten shot. He was fine, but he knew Sherlock was still worried about him. Even after John's return to Baker Street, the consulting detective watched him constantly.
After about a week of this, John finally called him on it.
"Do you need something, Sherlock?" He asked good-naturedly, feeling eyes on him once again.
The genius looked slightly abashed at being caught staring, but his face quickly turned serious again. Instead of answering the question, Sherlock responded with one of his own.
"Do you know why the pictures of you are the only ones in color?"
John was surprised. "Um…no. I had been wondering about that."
"There are many parts of my life that are dull. I am difficult to deal with, I get bored easily, and many people simply can't stand me, which is just fine since most people are idiots anyway. I'm sure you've realized by now that in spite of my opinions on the world at large, there are some people that I…care about."
His eyes flicked over to John as he continued.
"But there are times when even those people can be dull, can fail to inspire, are simply ordinary, like charcoal. Do you understand yet?"
Several thoughts were moving through his mind, trying to put together exactly what Sherlock was saying, but not quite able to grasp the meaning.
"No. I still don't understand." He replied.
Sherlock jumped up from the couch and crossed the room so he was standing in front of John. He leaned down so they were at eye-level, his hands resting on the arms of his chair.
"I've told you before that I don't have friends. I've just got one. And you, John, could never be dull or ordinary. You are the light that inspires genius. You are color. And you will always…matter. To me."
With that, he stood and walked out of the room. John watched him go, pondering his final statement and realizing that there was even more to Sherlock Holmes than he had previously thought. He could feel their relationship shifting, but he didn't know yet how it would change or what that would mean. For now though, that uncertainty was just fine.
And the next morning when John found a small painting outside his door, he smiled and went to go make a certain detective breakfast.
A/N: Review?