A/N: And yet another drabble. This one takes some place between A Scandal In Belgravia and Hound of Baskerville. Johnlock through and through. Enjoy~?

Observing people is what I do. It's the best way to correctly make deductions about them, to learn their life story as quickly as possible to lessen the possibility of surprise. I dislike surprises, especially when it comes to people. They say, as a turn of phrase, that it is best to know your enemy. And so I do; I learn all I can about every person I come into contact with, because, as far as they are concerned and I am involved, everyone is an enemy. They need to prove themselves otherwise before I will risk considering them an ally, someone to rely on, even for the smallest and most insignificant of things.

However. However.

There is a great difference between observing and watching. And then there is something else entirely: studying. You can use both to study someone or something; you can observe or watch. To "observe" would be to take in information increments to add to one's study. But to "watch" would be to simply stare, not taking in very much information; only build up minutes and hours of watching to add later on, in retrospect and reflection, to one's study.

Observing is more efficient. It's quicker. It gathers more accurate information in the time span which I need it.

– Which is why I don't understand why I continually find myself blatantly watching my flatmate, (Doctor) John Watson. I've observed him time and time again, and I feel that I know him well.

And yet. And yet.

With John, there is always room for (pleasant) surprise. There is always chance for (welcome) change, moments in which he will do or say (usually say) something that will enrapt me for a moment, blanking my mind (not an easy feat for even myself, let alone anyone else to do to me). And because of this, I find myself watching him, staring at his every breath, every move, during the quiet moments.

I will be playing my violin, him listening while reading the paper or a book or paying bills, and he will think I have my eyes closed or am looking out the window (but always thinking. He knows how I play while I think, especially about a case or something my brother has brought to my attention, as much as I dislike it when he does so), but I am not. I am looking at him, thinking about him. About John. My only friend, my best mate, my one true ally.

I will watch the way he lifts a teacup to his lips. I will watch the way his fingers idly themselves with something, be it a page end or a hem on his pants, I will watch. I will watch as he speaks, lips moving, words a buzz, ears moving in time with his jaw with a slight tug of skin. I will watch very carefully to the way his tongue lightly touches his teeth when he speaks, or the way his eyes subtly move across a page he is reading.

These are little things I would not bother to watch if anyone else were doing them. If anyone else lived with me. It wouldn't matter; it would be unimportant, foolish, and strange. I wouldn't. Except ,with John, I do. I watch these little things, these everyday actions, and tiny, unusual things flit across my vast mind when I do.

Tiny thoughts like: what would it be to touch his cheek, his hair, while he carries out one of these calm, normal actions? What would it be to touch his lips with mine, to graze his chin with my fingertip? What would it be to feel the rumble of his voice beneath my hand, my cheek, fingers lightly on his neck, head on his chest? What would it be? How would I feel? How would it feel to me?

Intimacy is not one of my strong suits. I have never had a desire for it, never a need for it. The most intimate I have been with someone close to me is with my mother, while she was holding me as a child, her lips on my cheek, my hair, and her fingers brushing back my fringe when it got too long. The most intimate I have been with a near stranger is with The Woman, Irene Adler, when she was naked before me on first impression, when she touched her lips to my cheek later on, when she touched her hand to mine (and I felt her pulse for measure).

One could argue that I have been intimate with corpses during autopsy or study, but that isn't affectionate or romantic, clearly. That is for science, and the person is not alive to be aware that I am touching their innards. No, I mean with living people, with human beings with enough in their heads to be considered human beings still. With that sort, I am inexperienced.

So why, then, I wonder, do I find myself staring at John, thinking these things of him? I have no right to. No reason to (or perhaps I do? But what reasons?).

I lick my lips and lift my head, eyes lowering to my laptop. I have been staring at him again this entire time, not even paying attention to what I had been typing onto my website. I read it over; it's perfectly normal, free of thoughts or references to John (save for one or two of his diagnosis that were helpful to me, medically, for a case study), and had bee composed almost entirely subconsciously. I post it without another thought, fingers stilling their rapid movement across the keyboard.

I shut my laptop lid and place my elbows on either side of it. I make my praying hands (my thoughtful hands), and lift my eyes to John again. He is on the sofa, dozing, book still in hand over his stomach, one leg propped onto the coffee table.

I stand and move into the kitchen, get a glass of water. Think.

I am careful. I am methodically careful, and perfectly cautious. I could test a theory while he sleeps, the theory I have on my feelings toward him (an alien subject, one I dislike pondering, but must get out of my system if I want to focus on more important things).

My hands tremor around my glass. I look down at them, puzzled. Am I… tense? Only concept alone of what I think I should experiment?

(I want to peck a kiss on his cheek. Just a brush of lips, nothing more, to see how it makes me feel, physically. If it changes anything, then I will have proof to my theory. If not, then I can carry on as per usual.)

My breath hitches at this thought, heat on my neck, crawling to my face. I'm… flushing. Odd. (Don't think I like it.)

Clear my throat, raise glass to my lips for another sip of water. Steeling myself (for what? This is only a test, an experiment for my own knowledge), I set down my glass on the counter and make my slow, silent way over to the sofa.

John is still dozing, lips parted and eyes shut, face utterly relaxed. His head is tilted toward one shoulder, lying back on the cushion. I feel my eyelids flicker, lowering slightly, and I nearly hold my breath as I approach him. With a short breath (for courage, some small voice informs me), I lean downward (stomach flipping minutely; what an odd sensation that is) and feel my eyes flutter shut momentarily as I press the lightest of kisses to his soft cheekbone.

I pull away immediately, fearful of waking him. But I can't seem to make myself move form my standing spot before the couch.

John jerks awake, rubbing his eyes and setting his book off to the side of his body. He blinks and peers up at me. "Sherlock?" he asks, as if saying, 'what are you doing here, so close?'

I blink, force myself to respond. "Nothing. You should sleep more at night, that's all."

I turn and head for my room. I'm still trying to sift through the flood of thoughts and emotions suddenly racing not only through my mind, but my body. I can feel it like a hum of adrenaline in my veins, and I can only conclude what it means, but I dare not believe it.

(Me, in love with John? Who would have thought such a thing? And yet, there it is. People have made incorrect assumptions, have had their thoughts and guesses, but little did I know they might be proved correct in the end, foreseeing an outcome I didn't realize was a probability, and such a high one at that.)

"I'll try, I suppose," John murmurs mostly to himself. (He can't control his dreams, when it becomes a nightmare and wakes him. I know that, but I said it anyhow, as if to criticize him for falling asleep whilst reading.) I hear him rise from the sofa, feet padding softly in his socks over to the kitchen. "Care for a cuppa?"

"No," I answer, half a mumble. I shut my bedroom door, crowd into a corner, and put my face in my hands.

This… can prove to be problematic. Quite problematic.