Something about Sherlock

If you'd asked John Watson, he would've told you that he was straight. He would've told you that he'd always been straight. That is, until he met Sherlock Holmes.

John Watson never gave much thought about what his feelings for the detective meant for his sexuality. To John, it didn't necessarily matter that Sherlock was a man, and that John was (supposedly) straight. It didn't matter to John if he was gay, straight, or bisexual. It wasn't about labels and boxes. It was about Sherlock. There was an endless list of John's favorite things about his detective that he could probably recite to you right now. Call him crazy, but it was the little things about Sherlock that John fell in love with.

There was something about Sherlock's tresses in the morning, his inky curls every which way in a manner that was purely Sherlock.

There was something about the way Sherlock looked over John's shoulder as he was doing his writing, analyzing sentence he ever wrote, making sure that his blogger only ever spoke nice of him.

There was something about the lazy fingers that trailed John's spine every morning as they woke up, basking in the pure bliss that only came with waking up next to your soul mate.

There was something about that damned coat that followed Sherlock everywhere, stuffed with that blue scarf that John loved so much. And there was something about the way that scarf smelled. Like secret cigarettes and tea and cologne and sometimes even like John.

There was an ever calming aura about the world's only consulting detective that fallowed him all around their little flat, a soothing atmosphere that John could only ever associate with home.

There was something endearing about Sherlock's instinct to protect and comfort his blogger every second, even when all was well.

There was something about Sherlock's colorless (and yet colorful somehow) eyes that widened every time he made a groundbreaking discovery, that narrowed every time he made a deduction, that lit up whenever John said something funny.

There was something adorable about the effort and love that the detective put into the breakfast he made John when the blogger wasn't feeling the best he could.

There was something graceful about Sherlock's stride; how he always kept his eyes off the ground and still manage to keep upright, how he crossed a room in two easy, lanky steps.

There was something about the way Sherlock sheepishly made John tea and homemade biscuits whenever they've had a nasty and admittedly foolish row.

There was something breathtaking about the passion that was in every kiss that Sherlock stole from his blogger; something knee-buckling about the detective's ability to sweep John off of his feet at the drop of a deerstalker.

There was something about the way Sherlock dauntlessly and unconditionally loved John, the good kind of passionate love you felt like you didn't even deserve.

Ask John Watson now, and he'll tell you: he's not gay, there's just something about Sherlock.