Love At First Sight (A Sherlock Fanfiction)
London's streets buzzed, and they never ceased to buzz, in fact, and it brought quite the quaint grin against John Watson's cold, pale lips as he strolled down the considerably busy sidewalk. It was a beautiful night, if one were to pay much mind; there was not a cloud in the sky, and the sunset was just beginning to reveal a full moon in which had the very likes of a widened, curious eye. It was no longer the crescent that it had portrayed a few weeks earlier, and Watson supposed that it was a fine addition to the beautiful, star-dotted sky. As he stepped forward even further, Watson retrieved a rather small book from the significantly large pocket which was sewn into the far right side of his coat. He slowed down to a complete stop, never once looking up from the small binding of beautiful words. He stood there for a couple of moments, not sure whether to open this book now or possibly another time. But it only took him a couple of seconds before he chuckled silently and thrust the tiny ribbon, in which would play the very important role as one's bookmarker, backwards, and then hooked his fingers into the cover of the book, in which had no title sprawled across it in which one would imagine. He flipped through the pages, finding them filled with familiarity and nostalgia all the same, the scent of dust and ink floating up in small bunches.
They were old pages, though not anything past his time. It was a blank writing book that he had begun a story in; a story about a young man whom had just been released from military service. He began this book when he himself had finished his time in the service, and he never really let the words progress further than his first day away. Watson enjoyed to carry it around, and look through it whenever it may be that he had the hunch he was going to meet another exciting chapter in his life. As if that chapter would swiftly print itself onto the pages as it happened.
Watson had that hunch lately, and he found it quite odd that he would have such predictions in the first place. Nothing has happened yet, and it seemed as if it would stay that way for as long as he would live. He sighed inwardly, shaking his head and, once more, chuckling quietly. He patted the book's very last blank page before he turned to the first page of writing once more. He read it for a second, and then he began shutting the book. Before it could close, though, a man hurried past him in such a rush. As if the business he was attending was practically imperative. He had hit John on the way past, and this made Watson jump in fear, raising his arm and bending an elbow, as if for self defense. He held the book in his other hand.
Watson made a face once the other man had passed, holding the book downwards, the front and back covers still separated, even if ever-so-slightly. He gripped the book in two hands again, and said loudly, before the man completely escaped, "Hey watch where…"
The man turned around, his breath heavy and his hair, though the curled deep brown tinged bangs puffed slightly off of his forehead, marginally matted to his head. His eyebrows indented a little bit, and he looked about ready to say something as he stepped towards him. He was right in front of him now, slowly loosing the hurried attitude in which he obtained moments ago. His eyes narrowed a bit.
Though, John continued. "Oh. Um." He shut the book completely now, shoving it back into his pocket. "Err, sorry," he finished, rubbing his forehead a small bit with his index finger. He brushed it across his left eyebrow, attempting to tend to an itch, and then settled his hand down to his side. He stared up into the strange man's grayish-blue eyes, a bit of confidence ringing through his system, although he wasn't quite sure why this was. The man looked as if he was chasing a crook of perilous felony, although he did not look as if he were a man of malice himself.
The man kind of let his eyebrows float upwards, his face loosening further. He parted his lips and spoke, finally. "Why are you apologizing?" asked he, an amused and curious look filling his face in an almost comfortable way. "I ran into you."
John nodded, his head tilting up. He nodded, tightening his lips before loosening them again and ceasing such bobs of his head. "Sorry," repeated he. There was no hope as of this moment, as John Watson simply stared into the eyes of this strange hurried man. "Excuse me, but what is your name, again? I didn't…"
"The name is Holmes." Mr. Holmes grinned, still staring down at the man in which seemed so very mannerly and poise. He brought his hand upwards to brush his locks of beautiful, lurid-shining hair backwards. He nodded at Watson, and finished his name with a loudness that made the rest of London seem silent at that moment. "Sherlock Holmes." He patted John Watson's shoulder very kindly. "221b Baker Street is the address. You seem like a good man, Watson. There is hope yet!" exclaimed he, straightening his scarf and shoving his hands unceremoniously unto the pockets of his black trench coat. "I'll be off." Sherlock Holmes gazed into the eyes of this curious man for just a second more, before chuckling loudly and running in the direction he had been going. The bustling laugh was loud enough to hear even when he was out of sight.
John Watson stood in the same spot, in stun and in pleasure. That man, that obviously brusque, wonderful man, was enough to leave him wondering if this was the next part of his book. Lo! he had only been there for no more than a couple of minutes at best, the inexplicable feeling of fancy he held for the man's friendship (or, who knows? Perhaps more) was unknowingly strong. He tried to shake off the feeling, as he walked on and towards what he had come to call "home," although the feeling would not fade away. There was something about that man that was just so great to Watson, and he had to find that something out.
Watson tried to recall the address that was given to him so openly. He did not understand the point of such, but he shrugged and attempted several times to come up with the address.
As the air picked up a bitter coldness, the breeze strengthening and becoming a bit more like a frostbitten wind, John shook his head, crossing the road unto the next sidewalk. He strolled down it, and looked around, trying to find things that would remind him of the flat number and address. He finally, looking at a large door with a golden knocker, realized the answer, nodding to himself and stopping his stroll. "221b Baker Street," he whispered under his breath, looking around before climbing up onto the cement step. He reached up, and, gripping the knocker tightly, knocked on the door a few times, as loud as possible. "Is anybody home?" he shouted, putting his arm down once more.
A woman answered the door almost immediately after his words, and as it swung open she revealed herself as a short old woman, her hair knotted up and her lips curled into a pink lipstick stained smile. "Hello, dear," said she, very gently, "are you looking for Sherlock? He isn't home at the moment…"
"He gave me this address," interrupted Watson, very unintended-like, "and I wasn't sure whether it was…Well, right. If it was even a place or…Do you know if he'll be back, at all?"
"Oh, you never really know with Sherlock," the woman said pleasantly, chuckling a little bit through her parted lips. "He could be back in minutes, or days, or years. But I'm sure he'll be back soon enough." She nodded, and opened the door wider. "If you would like to come in and wait…" Her voice trailed off. She nodded her head so slightly, and relaxed her lips.
"No," said Watson, shaking his head but reflecting a kind smile. "Um, no thank you. I'll just come back another time when he's here. Maybe tomorrow. Or in years." He laughed a merry laugh, although disappointed that the man wasn't here. Of course he wasn't, Watson! He had only left your side moments before!
The woman nodded, and laughed with him. "Well goodnight, darling," she ended the conversation with, shutting the door with a wave. You could faintly hear her footsteps as she left the door to enter her own flat.
John Watson sighed to himself, beginning to walk away, but instead plopping down onto the step. He was just going to sit and wait for Sherlock Holmes, not moving this spot he was in for anything.
It took about an hour and a half for Holmes to appear at the doorstep, although to John it took a fortnight and more. He had almost fallen asleep waiting for the man! As soon as Watson saw Sherlock, he hopped up onto his feet, turning red out of embarrassment. He must have looked like quite the fool, waiting for Sherlock like that! "I'm sorry," said he, "I was just making sure that this address was…"
Sherlock let out a solid breath, interrupting, "Correct? Yes, it's legit. I would not give out a false address, you know." He smiled ever-so-slightly, and then nodded, turning and opening the tall door. He left it open as he hopped up the stairs which lead up to his flat.
Watson had no other intention, and so he entered, shutting the door quietly behind him. He climbed up the stairs after Holmes.
And, so, in the flat they went, John's face full of confusion and happiness and fright all the same. What an odd man! What an messy flat! What an unorganized desk! "My god," said Watson, "your flat is quite a mess."
"So I've been told."
"Don't you ever think about cleaning it?"
"That's what a housekeeper is for!" Sherlock said jokingly, chuckling and shrugging his shoulders in a carefree manner.
A voice floated up from beneath the floorboards, in a woman's voice (in fact, it was the voice that had answered the door for John). "I'm not you're housekeeper!" the voice proclaimed.
John smiled warmly, but wiped the smile away. "So, um. Sherlock, was it?" He stepped towards Sherlock even closer. "Why did you tell me your flat number and address? What's the point?"
"Well." Sherlock smiled back down at him, then turning his back and walking across the room to the fireplace. He picked up a violin that was laying neatly next to it. He retrieved the bow, and situated the violin against his shoulder. He then turned back to John, and swung the violin and bow downwards. He then inspected John closely. It took him a moment, but he responded very particularly. "Because you are obviously lonely. I can see that look in your eyes, one of a long term loneliness. There are several more slight bags under your left eye than your right, which suffice as permanent, from resting it on your left hand, and I can tell that because there are extra wrinkled marks in your wrist. Your fingers look strained, more strained on the right than the left, and I almost would have said it was caused by too much time looking through old photographs. But it is safe to say that I realized differently when I bumped into you on the sidewalk.
"I saw slightly the inside of the book you were reading. It was one of lazy handwriting, tired handwriting. Those facts led me to believe that the handwriting is yours, from the trembling in your fingertips when you closed the book up for a final time. There are not as many wrinkles in your right wrist or below your right eye, but more strains in your right fingers, particularly on the very pad of your thumb and on the left side of your middle finger. You must have been gripping tightly to an ink pen. You were writing with that hand. You, Watson, are the one that is writing on the inside of that book. A novel, perhaps? Or memories? Nonfiction, or fiction?
"I caught glimpse of a few words. 'Fear' and 'war' were a couple of them, and 'lost' was another. I was pondering my next theory when I noticed your arms and how they shook. They're doing it now, you see. And the crooked way you walk? I have noticed that as well. You must have used a cane. The reaction you gave me was also a clear hint, and a dead giveaway; the way you raised your arm towards me, the self defense mechanism. I have concluded, my dear Watson, that you were in the war. The words, and the way you process, they were both easy to deduct.
"War can cause one to be lonely, and I can see that quality in you. However, I can also see that you are trying to avoid showing that you are lonely. That you are constantly scared, and mentally scarred for the rest of your days." He set the violin back in its place again, and stepped closer to Watson. "My dear Watson, you are simply an old war soldier. I can see it so clearly now. Crystal clear, in fact. You need a friend in the world, and now you have found one. Or, at the very least, a companion."
Mr. John Watson stared at Holmes in utter shock. No, it was something more than shock. It was more of a frightful disdain. He turned crimson red, and he said, "That is completely impossible." He approached the man further, his blond hair falling messier than it already was. "Now tell me where the hell you figured out about all of that."
"It's the beauty of deduction, Watson…"
"No, it's the beauty of stalking. Or whatever you did to get the information that you did." John shook his head, and he headed for the door. "It was a pleasure," he said sarcastically, "Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock simply laughed, picking up his violin once more. "As it was," replied he, with an amused expression, "John Watson."
John left the man with an irritated sigh and a slam of the door behind him.
It was late when John returned home, and as he removed his coat he sighed to himself, the only thoughts that were coming to his head about Sherlock. The man had to be clinically insane! It was the only option! He straightened his hair out with his fingers, walking over to his bed and plopping down onto it. He took his shoes off and slipped them under the bed frame, curling his legs upwards and then extending them once more on the surface of the mattress. He reclined backwards, pulling his coat with him.
It's the beauty of deduction, Watson.
No, thought John, shaking his head and reaching into his coat pocket. There was no way that Sherlock knew anything of "deduction" with the way he came out with his words. With the state of his attitude and the state of even his flat! There was just no way. He pulled out his small book and placed his coat onto the floor. Then, he opened the book up. He began to read the first paragraph:
"The fear the young boy had during the war was a strong fear, and nothing could quite quench it. He found himself falling desperately lonesome, and quite lost in what his beliefs were afterwards. Although, who did not find themselves at least a small bit lost after the harsh reality of a war at hand?"
Watson shut the book, his stomach nervously feeling as if it were floating. He shrugged slightly as he set the book by his pillow. He stared up at the ceiling in a hopeless fashion.
So what if Holmes knew what the very first paragraph said? It did not take a genius to read that sentence! But what he made of it was fantastic, John had to admit.
Oh, lord! the way that madman spoke, the way he moved around, the way he unfolded a situation and a life story as if it were a slip of paper just out of the envelope! It was absolutely amazing! John could not help but think about him, the entire time he laid there awake, and the entire time he was asleep, once he had become such.
Watson's dreams were only filled with that strange Holmes man.
Sherlock Holmes frantically ran his bow back and forth against the strings of his wonderful violin, the brightness of morning spilling through his window. He was trying to think about the current case at hand, one of a dangerous spread of murderous actions, but the only thing that came to his mind was the name "John Watson."
"It has a ring to it," said he, sighing and continuing to play his violin, a soft tone yet so filling to the seemingly vacant room. "'John Watson' is a fantastic name, indeed. And that confident attitude of his…" He chuckled loudly, ceasing his string-playing and letting the echo ring. "…he was obviously bluffing."
Sherlock put his violin and bow down. He could not get that Watson man off of his mind! He had remained in his memory the entire night, and it had gone so far that he had dreamt about him in addition. The way he spoke, and the way he insisted. The way that man even moved. It made Sherlock's insides…warm, perhaps? Or was the feeling one of overwhelming helplessness to Watson's actions? He wasn't quite sure, but he was positive all the same.
He was a remarkable man, indeed, that John Watson was. There was no doubt about that. And Sherlock, now beginning to walk around the room gracefully, was going to remark that aloud. Alas, he only got as far as, "John Watson! He was a man of beauty, of obvious intelligence, and of loneliness enough for the both of us! Of…" before there was a loud knock on the door.
Holmes's face grew dark red, as he shouted, "What is it?"
The door swung open, and John Watson stood in the doorway, a look in his eyes that was one of curiosity and awkwardness. He said, "Was that meant for me not to hear, or…" He laughed.
Sherlock tightened his lips, speechless and bright red all the while. "Why are you hear, Watson?" asked he, approaching him with an intrigued expression. "Is it because you had a hunch to follow back this morning? Or because you had dropped something?"
"What?" John looked stunned for a moment before shaking his head. "No, no. I came to apologize, for walking out so rudely last night. Um." He shrugged a small bit, and awkwardly looked up at Sherlock, leaning against the door after stepping inside and shutting it.
"It was no problem," replied a calm Holmes.
"Good. Because I am moving in with you tonight, Sherlock."
Sherlock's face became suddenly stunned. His eyes widened, as if both were imitating the moon from the night before. His neck tightened as his lips moved in hurried motions. "Well that was quick," said he, his voice one of joking matters, "you haven't even met my parents, or come to terms with my dog!"
"Do you even have either of those things right now?"
"Ah. Good point, Watson."
John nodded, putting his hands on his hips. "I'm moving into your flat for one reason only."
"Oh? And what is that reason?"
"To see how you figure all of this out. I mean, you couldn't have just figured out about me. I would have noticed if you were stalking me, Sherlock." Watson grinned, knowing that the way he said that may or may not have been misleading. "You must be a genius or something."
"A proper genius." Sherlock smirked alone with him, a laugh following such actions. He extended both arms to both sides, nodding to John. "The place is yours as much as it is mine. Go gather your things, Watson. I will see you in forty six minutes, and not a minute later or earlier."
"I'm not gonna follow that ridiculous timing."
"Of course you aren't."
John laughed a bit as he made his way out the door once more, second thoughts about this "Sherlock Holmes" man.
He seemed all right, for the moment.
As said, John did not follow that "ridiculous" timing. He instead came forty five minutes later, suitcase in hand. He simply barged right into Sherlock's part of the flat, grinning brightly and shutting the door when he emerged. "Where do I stay?" asked he.
Sherlock looked up from his lap, moving his hands a little, which were pressed together, his fingertips resting against the bottom of his chin. He responded, "You sort of invited yourself, John. Next to the sofa."
"Sherlock, there isn't a sofa."
"Then put it anywhere. Next to that armchair."
"The one you're sitting in?"
"No. The other one." He smirked.
Watson looked around, and spotted a different armchair from the one Sherlock was relaxed into. He nodded, and strolled over to it. He plopped down into the seat, placing his suitcase on the floor next to it. He studied Sherlock as the man closed his eyes again, obviously attempting to think very deeply. John watched him for a while, just gazing at how perfectly his eyelashes curled over the bottom of his eyelids, and the way his hair swooped gently over his forehead. The perfectly broad way that his cheekbones were structured almost made John want to point it out, although he didn't, for the sake of his dignity. Watson looked down to the floor, noticing no moquette in place, but rather hard wood flooring. He nodded to himself before speaking once more to Holmes. "What, um. What are you doing, exactly?" asked he to Holmes, who did not make a flinch or any movement otherwise.
"I'm thinking," responded Holmes, rather quickly. He did not open his eyes, nor did he move from his current position. "If you will allow me to," he mumbled in finishing statement.
He could not help but be distracted by that beautiful voice, that Holmes. The smooth and confident way that John let his words tumble out to a set of rye and ready ears was almost too natural for Sherlock to bear. And though he attempted to drown out that voice with his own thoughts, it was impossible to run away from it.
Holmes opened his eyes, only to look towards the shorter man that had made his way into his flat for a stay.
It was going to be a long trip for that Watson, oh yes it was.
Months went by, and John Watson felt a pit of impatience bundle up in his gut. Sherlock Holmes was doing exactly as he had with Watson when he had first met him: he deducted.
Oh, yes! This man, this proper genius, deducted several cases by a mere one piece of evidence! He could pick up the pocketbook of a murdered family man and retrieve the history of his life simply by opening it up. Simply by glimpsing at the details, and speaking about it as if it were his own life that he had been speaking about, that he had been practically foretelling.
Also, as the months flew by like a spring's warmth, John began to notice the beauty and formality of Holmes. He noticed that he was beginning to fall desperate to see Sherlock's eyes brighten up after deducting the final accords of a case. He noticed that he was starting to have to see the way that Sherlock's hair swept to the left side of his forehead, only to curl up once more in that place. He would sit and listen to Sherlock ramble, and he would ask questions about the cases just to hear him speak a bit more.
John, however, was not alone.
Sherlock began to feel some different fervent for John as well.
You see, Sherlock was becoming to grow dependent on Watson. He would drag him along with him to the crime scenes, he would have him take part in them, and it seemed that he did this out of sheer impulse. He would just throw his cases left and right until John would ask about them, and that was when Sherlock would snap into action and take the case a bit more seriously. Sherlock began to think that he couldn't go on without this marvelous man.
Mutual feelings, although not one of them would speak about such.
"John!" proclaimed Holmes, one cold winter day in which a case was irrelevant. There was snow outside, covering London in a quiet white blanket. It didn't snow very much in London, truth be told, and Sherlock happened to find it quite interesting that it would do so now.
John, too, found intrigue in such an event. It was a plentiful snow shower indeed, and unlikely as well, but he did not question it. "Yes, Sherlock?" answered he, as Sherlock approached him from the other side of the room.
"It's snowing outside," Sherlock said to John, grinning and grabbing himself a chair. He pulled it towards the window, placed it down, and plopped right into it. He held his own hands firmly, just watching the snowflakes falling down. Why, that man was most likely counting them! There was no way to be sure.
"Yes," repeated John, an eyebrow intending, "and?" He lowered the newspaper that he was browsing through and let it into his lap, turning to look at Sherlock with a shocked look plastered on his face. "You're surprised, Sherlock?"
Sherlock shook his head and laughed, placing the tips of his fingers against his chin, flattening his hands carefully. "Not at all," he said with a hint of poise. "It's such a rare occasion, though, that I might as well watch it." He shrugged pointlessly, stalking a particular snowflake as he added, "I might even see if the snow is suspicious somehow."
"You have…Don't you have cases, to look through?"
"John, I do." He pulled his legs upwards, and crossed them. He closed his eyes, tilting his head back and trying to breathe as quietly as possible.
Watson had no idea of what intentions Holmes could have now, and this of course was much out of the ordinary for Sherlock. Why wasn't he inspecting the case of the unknown suicides right now? Why wasn't he checking every possible place for evidence? It was just snow!
And yet, John sighed, and folded up the newspaper upon his legs. He set it on the coffee table before standing up and stretching, releasing a tiny yawn in the process.
Sherlock heard the yawn, and grinned wider at the sound.
John picked his chair up and made his way over to the incongruous man. He placed the seat down next to Holmes's. "You're bloody mad, Sherlock," said he, chuckling a bit and sitting down next to Sherlock.
He felt a bit of comfort sitting next to him, rather than talking to him from across the room. Somehow, he liked it better. He looked over at Sherlock, noticing that his eyes were closed again and his hands were situated. He was thinking, and John decided that he should just stay as quiet as he could be. There was nothing in the world that would make him want to break Sherlock out of his Mind Palace (even if he wanted to talk for a little while). He loved how Sherlock looked when he did that, though; that pose was just so brilliant.
"You can speak, you know," said Sherlock, a laugh escaping his lips carefully. "I can tell by the stagger in your breathing that you are holding yourself back from a conversation with me. Go on, John, tell me how your morning was."
John's eyebrows indented, and his eyes wandered up to the ceiling. He trailed them towards Sherlock curiously. "Okay, um, my morning was fine, Sherlock." He tightened his lips and nodded, turning to the window to watch the snow. "And how was…yours, exactly?" asked he, his voice heightening in pitch at the word "yours."
Sherlock opened his eyes, and he looked out the window along with John. "Decent, if you weren't to count the extra crease in my bedding when I woke up this-"
"Sherlock," said John, very noticeably blinking a couple of times, "I really don't want to hear about your bedding, to be honest."
"Are you sure? It really is quite interesting how-"
"Sherlock."
The two shared a smile, gazing out towards the whiteness of London on this special day. John Watson was bouncing his leg, trying to shake off some of the nervousness in his stomach. He didn't want to say anything wrong to Sherlock and make the conversation any more awkward that Sherlock's bedding (although at that thought, he almost laughed aloud).
"I still am beat, though," John said, tilting his head a little bit and pushing back an expected yawn. "It was a late night yesterday, between Mrs. Hudson's kindness and your cases. Sherlock, do you ever sleep?"
"Sleep isn't relevant." Sherlock let his hands free, looking over at John with a soft and welcoming face. His hair was pushed further back than usual, showing a bit more skin around his forehead than one would normally see. There were perfectly lined bags underneath the crescents of Sherlock's eyes, and he made sure John noticed all of these things as he smiled. "Speaking of which, does that mean you are still tired, John?"
John spent a short moment just staring at Holmes, a small amount of surprise and hesitance growing obvious. He kind of flinched as he replied, "Not so much? Kind of, but-"
"Ah, kind of." Holmes chuckled. "In other words, yes, but you are too proud to admit it. Correct?"
"Shut up, Sherlock."
"Well," said Sherlock, his chuckling wavering off. He shrugged slightly. "You can lean on me if you'd like." He turned his head back to the beauty of the nature outside of the thin-glass window.
Holmes's statement flew across John Watson's mind so quickly and so clearly that it made John's face begin to redden. He shook his head a little bit, processing the words and trying to find his own words to speak again. Finally, he answered, "I think I'm all right, thanks."
Although, that was not what he wanted to say.
The offer was so tempting, and he was beginning to grow a bit drowsy after such a long night. He agreed to Sherlock, in the thoughts of which were nervous and quite embarrassed. He began to shake even more, just staring at Holmes in suspended intrigue.
I will not take that offer. I will not take that offer. I will not…
And, against his thoughts' will, he leaned over and rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder, closing his eyes very promptly.
Sherlock, a bit surprised to say the least, narrowed his eyes down at John. He honestly did not think that John was going to actually lean on him. But he did, however, and this brought ultimate joy to Sherlock in so many ways. In a low tone, he asked playfully, "Comfortable?"
"Decent."
"Ah." He nodded, leaning his head on John's lightly. "Exactly the quality I would expect."
"I'd hope not. I'm still cold."
"We can fix that, John." Sherlock hopped up to his feet at that moment, and walked away for no more than a minute. He returned with his trench coat. He slipped his arm into one sleeve, and then sat down, offering the other sleeve to John. "Put this sleeve on," he explained, "and you'll have a sleeve too."
John smirked, nodding and taking the other part of fabric from Sherlock. After stretching it out for a moment, he slipped the sleeve over his arm. Since Sherlock had the opposed sleeve, their bodies were scrunched together from the sides, causing both of them to turn a bit red.
"You couldn't have just gotten a blanket or something?" asked John jokingly. Truth was, he didn't want Sherlock to get a blanket. He was perfectly fine like this. When all he got in response was a smile and a nod from Sherlock, John smiled as well and looked forward at the snow. It had lightened up a lot, and it sort of disappointed him. He liked watching it sprinkle down harder with Holmes; it was fun, and they were having a quietly good time.
John began to think, though, as they watched out the window, as he laid his head down against Sherlock's shoulder once more.
He began to think about his feelings towards the brilliant man. Over the months he had been there with him, he had grown such a liking to him that it was almost more than that. It was more of a loyalty with special grounds, and only Sherlock could cover them.
"Sherlock," said John, raising his head and looking up at the dark haired man, who already had a fixed look back towards him. He took a breath, one that was quick but all the same steady. "Sherlock, you are an absolutely brilliant man. I think it will take the death of you to realize that, I do. But you really are great."
"Yes, and?"
"And I wanted to tell you that, for months, I…" John stopped speaking, his mouth left open and his stomach fluttering. He was no longer able to these words that he was about to speak. It was as if a barrier was keeping him from broadcasting his emotions.
Yet, John broke through that barrier within a moment.
He continued, "Ever since I ran into you in the street that one night, I thought you were just great, Sherlock. Flawless. And. I think you already know where I am going with this, don't you?" Watson shuffled nervously in his seat, breaking eye contact with his friend. "You got any logical explanations?"
Sherlock Holmes stared at him yet, surprised and flattered, and even knowing. He nodded, placing a hand on John's chair, and then took his turn to speak. "Yes," he told. "I knew from the start that this was going to happen. It was impossible to dodge it, really. With our connection being how it is, John, it's unbreakable. We were going to-"
"Oh, shut it already." John shook his head and reached up, grabbing a few locks of silky hair from the back of Sherlock's head. He chuckled under his breath before placing a kiss upon his lips, his face blushing crimson unashamedly and his eyes fluttering shut. His other arm fell around Sherlock, and he looped it around his neck as well, so it could be symmetrical to the other arm.
A wave of unexpected feelings hitting Sherlock, he kissed John back, his hands trailing over to rest on John's lap. He was tempted to pull away, but he just couldn't. The softness of John's lips caused him to sink in further, and the kiss grew deeper as Sherlock let his eyes close. He was not sure what to think about this kiss, other than the words irresistible, perfect, and passionate. Was it a kiss of lust? No, it couldn't be, he decided, as they both took a breathe. They went back into the kiss as Sherlock began to brainstorm again. It wasn't a kiss to regard friendship, and that was already quite clear. As Sherlock slid his hand up to John's waist, holding it against his bare skin (as he had accidentally pushed his shirt up when he glided his hand upwards), he decided that it was one of passion. Of love.
John felt perfect at this very moment, the warmth of Sherlock's hand hitting his cold skin and flying through the rest of his body. He knew that this day would come, and though it took months, it was here and now. And, frankly, John could not ask for more.
A couple more seconds passed, and soon a couple more. It had been nearly two minutes since the kiss began when John decided to break it, sighing inwardly and feeling the sustain of Sherlock's lips against his. He could still taste the tea flavor that lingered on Sherlock's lips, as well, and this made him grin.
Sherlock breathed heavily, though he tried to muffle it a little bit with his teeth. It did not work, but he did not honestly care. He instead laughed, and said, "I knew it, John."
"Knew what?" replied Watson, his head cocking just slightly.
Sherlock's face brightened, and he let his words become visible through his eyes. He did not have to say the phrase for John to figure out what he knew.
He knew that it was love at first sight.