It was early evening, and the artificial yellow glow of the lights gave 221B, Baker Street a calming atmosphere.
Sherlock Holmes sat opposite his flat-mate John Watson. Both were comfortably settled into their chairs; John was reading the paper, and Sherlock, as usual, was thinking intensly with his hands together in front of his chest, as though he was in prayer.
In companionship, no silence was awkward, although it was rare. Sherlock did not think at his best without voicing his thoughts, so was often blurting what sounded like nonsense to John. But because Sherlock's mind was always so sharp and fascinating, John did not mind so much. Not to mention that after the whole year that he had known Sherlock, John had become accustomed to his friend's habits.
There was not a sound but the consistent, quiet breaths that eminated from each of the men, and the slow ticking of the clock.
Then Sherlock stirred, and he put his hands upon his knees, tapping as though anxious. John's eyes peered over the top of his newspaper, acutely aware of this small movement and the muffled taps of his companion's long, thin fingers.
Sherlock's eyes caught John's, and then flickered away. John looked at Sherlock for a moment longer, and then returned to his paper.
"John," Sherlock said.
"Mm?" John closed his paper. "What is it?"
Sherlock closed his eyes and brought his right hand up to his chin. "I..." He trailed off, unsure of what to say. John focused all his attention on him. Sherlock was never unsure.
"Sherlock?" he said, leaning forward in his chair. "Are you alright?"
His friend let out a short laugh. "Yes, John. Of course I'm alright." He didn't meet John's eyes.
"Right."
Sherlock leaned to the side of his chair, pulling his legs up to his body, and stared off into apparent space. "John, what is it like to be loved?"
John started back, and his mouth hung a bit in surprise. "Erm... Well..." he stammered, still not recovered.
"Hurry up, John. You know I don't like it when people are slow," snapped Sherlock.
John mentally shook himself. "Well, it's like... Having confidence in someone that they like you for who you are. You know that they will do everything they can to protect you, and they want you to love them in return. They will always be there for you if you need them, just as long as you're there for them."
Sherlock's frowned as he thought. "You're there for me, John."
John's brows rose. "Yeah, I am. But that's a different sort of love. It's friendship, Sherlock. Friends are there for each other, but they're not in love."
Sherlock's face became a mask of complete detachment. Emotionlessly, he said "But what is it to love, John?"
"It's the... Best feeling in the world. How you devote yourself to your work, people devote to one another."
"John?" Sherlock had changed his position so that his face was closer to John's, leaning out of his chair and staring straight into his eyes. "Have you ever loved someone?"
John shrugged. "I don't really know. I have thought that I have, but after the relationships ended, I was never sure that it was love."
"Thank you, John," said Sherlock quietly as he sank back into his chair, to close his eyes once more, but this time, they stayed shut.