A/N- I don't know, OK.
And I don't own anything.
Sherlock smelt like leather and coffee and dark spicy aftershave with the faintest hint of something chemical underneath. He smelt like the stars and the sky and the chilly air of London at night. Like rain and clouds and footprints on the pavement.
Sherlock smelt like adventure. Like long nights of not sleeping and not eating. Running on adrenaline.
He was a hundred memories and a thousand secrets and a million dreams. Memories of running and jumping and quick smiles shared over not-a-dates. Secrets of crimes and criminals and police files. And dreams of doing it all again.
He was bizarre thoughts and wild theories and ideas so crazy they just might work. Long words and random facts and astounding deductions. Too-fast words that spilled out of his mouth and couldn't keep up with the thoughts and logic and data that raced through his head.
Sherlock was curly hair and cheekbones, suits and blue dressing gowns, green eyes so pale they were almost transparent. Skin that didn't see enough sun, hard lean muscles that concealed a wiry strength. Contemptuous glances, blunt statements, and every now and then a smile so genuine you couldn't help but smile back.
He was emotions hiding behind derisive glares. Fierce loyalty, unwavering courage, boundless pent-up energy that exploded like a slinky. A total conviction that he was right and no one else could persuade him otherwise. Toe-tapping and not sitting still and violin playing that always seemed to calm him down like nothing else. Quirky little half-smiles and eyes that followed you everywhere, seemed to look right through you.
A blur of colour and sound that you couldn't give up if you tried but it didn't matter because you wouldn't want to anyway. Not for long, at least. Sometimes it would get to be too much and you'd want out but then you'd wake up the next morning and wonder why because he was a whirlwind of trouble and adventure and adrenaline that left you blinking and wondering how you could have possibly lived without him, how you could have lived a day-in-day-out routine where you knew what was going to happen and you actually had time to breathe.
He was a mix of disagreements, an endless contradiction. Self-obsessed but at the same time so utterly selfless. Callous and unfeeling yet so incredibly human. Frustrating and complicated intoxicating.
Sherlock was annoying and infuriating and the most childish grown man you'd ever meet. He was up and down, moody and temperamental, sulky and lethargic one day and then full of energy the next. He was the worst kind of genius, the kind who assumed everyone else was on par with their racing mind and got frustrated when they weren't. He made you feel inferior and stupid. He made you feel like strangling someone, and you couldn't believe anyone could be so blindingly egotistical.
But John wouldn't trade him for anything.
A/N2- Apparently I have a problem with full sentences today.