Glory
A/N: My little dabble into a 221b. I'm bored at work; this is the result.
If the might of titans could be funneled through the mind of a single, impossible man, the result would be Sherlock Holmes. This uncontrolled flame wrapped in human skin, this is the man John Watson was loathe to be without. There was a time, which he in his mind called Before Sherlock, which he knew he cared about things that people should and shouldn't do. People shouldn't enjoy being woken at unsociable hours, with the hope in their throat that someone had been brutally murdered. They should learn when it's best to just walk away from someone who frustrates them at every turn.
And yet, here he was; in the wee hours of the morning, feeling like he had swallowed an illuminated lightbulb at the words "Triple homicide." Here he was, telling his mad, brilliant, insufferable flatmate that bile-swollen livers should not be kept in the crisper drawer (yet he knew his arguments would go ignored). Over and over the tiny voice in the back of his mind, the little voice chirped well-intentioned advice about how would he ever settle down at this rate, he was going to give himself an aneurism, that this would be the death of him.
The rest of John Watson ignored that voice. If he didn't, would he know just how bright Sherlock's light could blaze?