People are disposable. A simple fact but nevertheless one many do not wish to acknowledge. They are a necessity. They provide food, physical contact and crimes. Ah the crimes, the little riddles that, aside from drugs, make this unbearable existence bearable. I diverge from my point. They are necessary, useful and once you have finished with their usefulness, a terrible annoyance. Much like disposable tissues, they are handy to keep upon ones person and have many uses however one used, once they have served they're purpose, they are something you wish to dispose of almost immediately. This is where we reach the conundrum that is one John Watson. I had used up his usefulness. I was sure of this and then another situation and another use. Not just cases but also food, physical contact and certainly most confusing the slow trickle of a feeling greater than amusement and the steady desire to own this man and refuse to share. How very childish and possessive and so annoyingly new.
I stood from the bed and began to pace. Second story, given the angle of the sun and the width of the street... pointless to close the curtains, the glare and angle will do enough to ensure no calls of indecent exposure are made. So this bring the final question, the pinnacle of this riddle, what is my John Watson? Oh, oh that is marvellous.
I dash from the room certain that John cares not for my odd, or so I've been told, behaviour. I grab the gift Mrs Hudson had left off the side table and smile. This was it, this was it, the answer. Something that at the briefest glance could be mistaken for a tissue, the same as all the others yet at the same time something you own, keep and take care off enough that it can be used again and again. This is what John was. John's was his handkerchief.