Untitled
This is just a very short story, inspired by my exceptionally keen interest in the new T.V. program, Sherlock that recently aired on BBC1. Not mine, just borrowed and hopefully lovingly treated.
It had been an interesting few days. For Sherlock, the world was only ever interesting sporadically. The matter at hand required some serious thought.
Chinese food cartons lay scattered among the laboratory equipment on the kitchen table. His new flat mate snored softly in the chair by the unlit fire. It had started to rain outside and while it wasn't heavy, it could still be heard through the old sash windows.
It was at times like these that Sherlock would normally be putting his mind to a much better use than the simple, pedestrian, BORING act of sleep. But he was tired for a change and in a much more contemplative mood than usual.
Life had always been a desperate need to learn everything. His experiments in this pursuit had led him blindly down the wrong path. A distraction from the ultimate piece of knowledge that would lead him as close to his answer as it was possible to reach…That no one could possibly know everything.
So information had been categorised. Things he should know, needed to know and things that simply weren't worth knowing.
Fingerprints? Most certainly worth knowing.
Slow acting poisons from Peru? Why certainly. You never knew when someone might decide to kill an estranged lover in a ridiculously agonising fashion.
Paint? 19th Century china patterns? Cars? Lipstick? Fungi (Especially the fun, poisonous kind)? All worth knowing about.
Relationships though?
He gazed again at the sleeping man. Dr. John Watson.
He knew of relationships. He had one with his brother. Not the finest in the world, perhaps, but one they both seemed content with. After all, what kind of consulting detective would you be if you weren't aware of hate and love and the fine line that separated them from one another and drew them together into murder? And he was human, not in itself a flaw, but nevertheless…
Dr Watson snorted in his sleep, the streetlight highlighting a look of derision that lasted only a moment on his face.
He abandoned his vigil at the window and lightly walked across the room to examine this new person in his life in further detail.
Sherlock could see the wrinkles, the laughter lines around his eyes and mouth. A sense of humour then. Sherlock wasn't so detached from the world that he couldn't recognise that John was probably going to need one of those in his dealings with him.
Care lines. A worrier. Someone who thought and could be scared. But that did not mean a coward. It was a brave man who recognised his fears and stood up to them. Not just a soldier but a Doctor in Afghanistan. A brave, smart man. A warrior who fought for Queen, country and his friends. Who knew when you would have to watch your friends die as you fought to save them. Who knew how many times you would have to do that? Over and over again perhaps?
Sherlock flinched in surprise as John grinned in his sleep and for a second he thought he had been discovered in his analysis.
Oh, this was a terrible kind of torture. To see that smile and never to know the cause of it.
He stared thoughtfully once more at John, the smile gone, the face once more relaxed and at peace.
John Watson was a likeable man. An old sensation rekindled as he looked at John's face. It had been a long time since there had been someone to like in his life. Not many people where willing to put up with a personality like his. An easy deduction from the amount of times he'd been told to piss off. No, here was someone who was worthy of being liked and who, quite possibly, from all the empirical evidence he had gathered, might like him back.
He was almost nose to nose with John now, and could feel the slow breath of sleep on his face.
For a second, for a brief moment, Sherlock stopped thinking...
John awoke with a start, his instincts suddenly screaming at him that someone was too close to him.
Puzzled and disorientated, it took a moment for him to realise just where he was and why he was there.
Sherlock Holmes!
It all came back with a heady rush and he turned to see the man in question lying on the sofa, his back to him as he slept.
John was too tired to get up. He realised that he had just been imaging... whatever it was that had woken him. He smiled as he rubbed his face. Life had become interesting again. At least for now. All thanks to Sherlock Holmes. Tomorrow he would go back to his flat and get the rest of his stuff. Calling Harry could wait a few days. He wasn't in the mood for any of the bickering that usually occurred at their meetings and he wanted to enjoy this new situation he had found himself in.
Plumping up his pillow, John made himself comfortable once more in the chair and was soon snoring peacefully once again.
Sherlock turned to look at him once more and spent the rest of the night looking at him. And thinking…
The End.