Author: tigersilver
Pairing: S/J
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 300+/-
Warnings/Summary: As the tin says, a definition.
Shorts III 'Definitions, Liquid'
There is Love. A gratuitous concept.
There is love, soft-sweet and simple.
There's Sherlock and he's not that. At all. Ever.
If Love is yellow, curious, if it's only bodies brought together and smiles exchanged over coffees, then Sherlock is aubergine and burnt umber and the coffee's Ethiopian and is had scalding in a hole-in-the-wall during surveillance and, well. He doesn't get so much as a kiss after but he does have the benefit of Sherlock's real smile cast quickly in passing and that's precious. Fuck, but it warms him.
If there's Love and it's, say, Harry and Clara, then John has seen it; been a witness, and this is nothing like.
Harry and Clara, for all their finery, for all their matching china, are history. He and Sherlock live history—no, they make it, blog word by blog word, painstaking. He records it. He knows how history goes.
If there is love, then it's Sherlock's nose beaked into his hair, dislodging it, and burrowing down to the heat he can offer. So simple, body heat. Primary colour: red. He tilts his chin, cracks his neck and Sherlock finds the way in, poking like a curious budgie. And John would no more say a word against it then he'd renounce Queen and Country. It is his duty—his joyous duty—to give this to the man.
His man, as clearly Sherlock is no other's. His man, to care for and treasure. His man.