"It was obviously her mother. Look at how her fringe is pushed back, how her clothing wrinkles so subtly around-" Sherlock stopped mid-deduction and for once, he observed.
John Watson. John Watson was listening quite intently, eyebrows raised at the unexpected pause. His hands joined neatly behind his back, fingers fumbling, patiently waiting for Sherlock to continue. But Sherlock just stood there, his grey eyes catalouging every detail of John's. Blue, the brightest, bluest and most electrifying of blues.
Sherlock cleared his throat and spoke slowly. "She loved her. Brushed back her hair to see her eyes and gave her a slight hug after she died. She loved her and that was her disadvantage."
Sherlock had taken up his usual position, spread out gracefully on the couch, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The soft taps of fingers on keys gradually came to a stop and John turned to face him.
"Sherlock, what you did during the case. What happened?"
"Nothing, John." Sherlock continued to look at the ceiling.
"Hey. I'm not bloody Anderson, I know you. What went wrong?"
Sherlock hesitated, then sighed. There was no point hiding it now.
"John, I think I love you."
John sat there again, listening quite intently, patiently waiting for Sherlock to continue.
"You. You're a disadvantage. You're my painful, dangerous disadvantage... and you're beautiful.