Title: After Lunch
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Summary: Again a little drabble that was inspired by a poem. John realises that he loves Sherlock (no names used). This may be the beginning of a longer story
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to BBC and this fiction is what I did for homework in my English class.
The day it changes is just like the others, a normal one. It's cold but that's all right in this time of the year. We walk side by side; he's talking of meaningless things just as he had at the café. Well most of them would say it's meaningless as they won't understand their significance, but I see how that knowledge of details makes him what he is.
The cold paints a red blush on his pale skin and he pulls his soft blue scarf closer around his neck. I ask him whether he ever goes out at all, he shakes his head and tells me I should know. I do in fact; he only leaves home for work and for our lunch breaks; I know he doesn't like doing it.
He hates being among people but it was he who proposed to eat lunch together. I have the feeling he did it because I told him off for his eating habits; he rarely eats when he has a case. He had smiled and said: "Well then you shall have the opportunity to watch me, mum."
He walked me to my work; well not right to the hospital. My colleagues don't like him. It's because he told him things they were sure no one would notice, his deductions brilliant as ever, his behaviour rude. I am one of the few who don't mind.
I can already see the bridge where we usually part ways; we've nearly reached it. We slow down a little and he turns to say goodbye. It's nothing special, really, just like all the other times, but somehow this is different. His narrow eyes look down at me, for a few seconds I am in focus of his attention. He smiles, he says my name…
My heart skips a beat and it's as if someone had turned on a song inside my head. He will notice I'm different, oh god he will notice, but he doesn't. We say each other goodbye. He waves and turns around in an elegant swirl.
The icy wind bites in my eyes but I try not to think of what just happened. Because there is no way that this friendship had turned into love.
On Waterloo Bridge, where we said our goodbyes,
The weather conditions brought tears to my eyes.
I wipe them away with a black woolly glove,
And try not to notice I've fallen in love.
On Waterloo Bridge I'm trying to think:
This is nothing. You're high on the charm and the drink.
But the juke-box inside me is playing a song
That says something different. And when was it wrong?
On Waterloo Bridge with the wind in my hair
I'm tempted to skip. You're a fool. I don't care.
The head does its best but the heart is the boss -
I admit it before I am halfway across.
by Wendy Cope.
A/N: This little fic is what I did for homework ^^' It is the situation before the poem.