The light falling through the glass vials on the counter created a brief moment of stunning beauty amidst the sterile, white world that was the lab, and the suddenness of it brought up a surge of emotions in John Watson. He was not a man used to such experiences, and becoming emotional in the middle of dissecting a corpse was just absurd. But something about the way the light danced off the glass made him remember the previous night—it was one of those nonsensical associations that likely had a thousand-step chain of connections that happened subconsciously and almost simultaneously—and that memory made him blush faintly.
He felt Mike watching him from across the room and knew that his friend (could he still call him that? What were they? There was no precedent.) would comment on his sudden blush after class. John flicked his eyes in the other man's direction and saw what he already knew was there: a little smile, eyes gleaming behind glasses knowingly. Teasingly.
The vague fluttering of emotional mess inside John solidified into something distinctly more physical, and that only made his blush a deeper red. Unable to focus on the lesson, John fumbled through it, knowing that he'd pay dearly for the loss of knowledge later. Maybe Mike could help him study—but now he worried that they'd end up doing something other than studying.
He was going to fail his next exam. Watson was suddenly sure of it because all he could think about was Mike's thin wrists, the delicate curve of his face, those beautiful eyes sans glasses, and that body—
The class was over; it was a miracle. John left the room quickly, the first one out the door, his face blazing with heat along with other certain parts of his body. He was confused—that was the only way to put it.
Am I gay? he thought as his feet led him on the correct path to the exit. I don't think I'm gay. He imagined a naked and attractive woman. Hot. Okay, so I'm not gay. Bisexual? I guess I have to be, because I really enjoyed last night. Does this mean we're together? John didn't know if Mike would want to revisit the events of the previous night, which had been sparked by alcohol but had by no means been dictated by it.
Just a few beers, not even a full six-pack between them. Things had gotten strange, but in a nice way, a pleasant way, and they'd—what? Experimented? He supposed that was the best term for it. People always talked about sexual experimentation in university, but they probably meant undergrad. But he was only in his first year of medical school, so it was practically the same thing.
And he'd enjoyed it. The doctor-in-training felt the tension flow out of his muscles, felt the embarrassment and slight hint of shame bleed away. They'd both had fun, so what was there to be embarrassed or ashamed of? The look Mike had given him earlier made it clear that the man didn't feel awkward about it, so why should John?
Smiling, the redness in his cheeks fading, he walked out the door and into the dull, overcast city.
Over the course of their time at Bart's, he and Mike had a casual friendship that often involved shagging, but it never became complicated. Then John Watson went to war and Mike Stamford stayed to teach.
The war broke him and remade him, but badly, half-heartedly. He was incomplete, a stranger to himself. John Watson was just a vague idea more than a human being, and while Mike was gaining weight and living a happy life, John's face became lined and his hair lightly brushed with grey, and the bullet through him was almost a blessing because it made him realize he wanted to live—to live, damnit!—more than anything.
When John passed him that day in the park, he honestly didn't recognize him. Gone were the almost-frail lines of Mike's body, replaced by an older, well-fed man. His eyes were still the same, though, and it was those eyes that made John ask Mike if he wanted to grab some coffee and catch up. They didn't speak about what they'd had in school because it didn't need saying. Their friendship had been fun, but they'd always known it wouldn't last forever, not as it was.
John Watson had come to believe, with his whole heart, that no bond could ever last indefinitely. There was no such thing as soul-mates or destiny, and people who stayed married to the same person for their whole lives were just lucky or hard workers or both.
There was no other half out there waiting for him, he reasoned, man or woman. Life was ultimately something he'd have to get through alone, with perhaps brief moments of intimacy with others.
"—get a flatshare, or something," Mike was saying, and it pulled John back from his dark musings into the present.
"Come on," he answered, only half-joking, "Who'd want me for a flatmate?"
Then Mike said the words that changed John Watson's life.