A/N: Haven't a clue where this one came from. I'll leave it here, and tiptoe my way out. Cheers. -csf
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Sherlock Holmes didn't know Love. Therefore, it was preposterous to presuppose that he could find himself in love. Ever.
Love was a convenient emotion for the fickle-minded, youthful fools, a convenient motive for crimes of passion and a unilateral expediting method to forging a connection for con artists. Love was the summit of all that was wrong with the world. It caused criminal mayhem and state revolutions, numbed into complacency the most intelligent minds of the century, and – perhaps worse of all – love was the sickening basis of the greater part of all creative artwork, inherent into the spirit of the law (and tax collection), and—
'Sherlock, I'm home!'
John's abrupt call out came muffled from Baker Street's stairwell, as the doctor's footsteps were clearly audible, plain as day. Sherlock wasn't about to give his returned flatmate the satisfaction of knowing his forewarning had actually come in handy, given that he had caught Sherlock in a fit of bored abstraction that was possibly pointless. For Sherlock was sure he didn't need to mull it over. Like he had told John himself, he didn't feel the need for Love, the downfall of the rest of humanity.
The detective would be forced to admit to be off his game only moments later, when John walked in to 221B in a state that should have been merited with a quick pre-deduction.
'John, what happened?'
The unfortunate doctor smiled bravely. To say that he was drenched wet was in no way an understatement. Water dripped from the spiky strands of dirty blond hair that sagged under the liquid's weight, rolling down across John's nearly imperceptibly freckled cheeks and down the nave of his neck through the gentle and proud curve of the pale skin, over to the strained and strong shoulders – John often felt he carried the world in them, sometimes Sherlock agreed he really did – down to the soaked through black canvas jacket with the asymmetric shoulder patch.
'A car, speeding up the street. Definitely doing more than 20 miles per hour in this area. There was this big puddle of stagnated rainwater because it's been raining so much that the draining sewage was overflowing and— I'm sure you don't really want to hear this, Sherlock. Why don't I just go and have a hot shower? It's been a long day at the surgery and the underground was jam-packed.'
Sherlock blinked, and in that duration of time he allowed himself the contemplation of a rarity. The stoic soldier wasn't in the habit of complaining about his day. He was efficient in his though process, in that regard alone. Usually he'd arrive at Baker Street and push away the crying children, the demented elderly and the terminal patients he had overly worried about in the surgery, abandoning them in benefit of a more attainable task in hand; he'd worry about Sherlock – had he eaten, had he rested, had he managed to keep from poisoning or electrocuting himself for another day?
Settling for texting Mycroft to have the reckless driver of the car being stopped and questioned by the secret services on account of his excess speeding, Sherlock nodded, unsure, as the doctor dumped a wet shoulder bag and jacket on the floor by the living room door. He'd do a beeline straight to the small bathroom off the kitchen without so much as another word, let alone carrying on his routine of a welcome-home-John cup of tea.
The detective couldn't help but to miss the fragrant warm scent of bergamot of the weekday's earl gray tea pot.
John shut the door behind him, and with a couple more steps the potent jet of shower water filled the small division and leaked through the frail wooden door onto the corridor and living room. Disguised by the continuous pounding of water over the shower cabin, John allowed himself a small groan – a small acceptance of defeat and pain, and sorrow alike, that Sherlock was never meant to discern. He must have been parting the gelid wet jumper from his shattered left shoulder, a souvenir from his time in a war abroad. Sherlock could have berated the soldier for both believing he could deceive Sherlock's ears with a stronger sound of pouring water (Sherlock was a musician, after all, used to discern the smallest nuances of sound and melody) and for not allowing his friend to help him part with his drenched, unhealthy clothes in a futile exercise of prudery.
As John's body multiplied the streamed sound of gushing water, as he interposed himself in its way with a small relieved sigh of contentment, Sherlock was left in his leather and metal armchair to ponder the small soldier that had become such a decisive part of his life.
How had he missed John's entrance through the front door, downstairs?
An intrusive thought permeated Sherlock's obliviousness. He had known John was entering the building, on a subconscious level. It was plain as day. As often, John's proximity changed the detective's thoughts. The homely sound of John's weary footsteps – slightly favouring his left leg, even though all signs of his previous limp were gone the habit remained ingrained in the military discipline of the doctor, just like his tidiness, his punctuality and his trigger-happy finger – had been one of many key signs that declared Sherlock's roaming mind a fit territory for the topic of Love to worm itself in.
Of course Sherlock loved John; he was like a brother to Sherlock. Like a proper brother, not in the least like his real brother Mycroft. No, Sherlock didn't feel for John as he felt for Mycroft, so maybe a different type of love was warranted to define what was going on inside Sherlock. As he sensed John's proximity, his heart-rate went up, butterflies fluttered in his stomach, and a soft smile blossomed in the cold sociopath's lips.
So, obviously, John's importance in Sherlock's life was more than just a brotherly sort of love.
The unflappable sidekick's importance at the crime scenes, keeping a cool head and a devious smirk when Sherlock double-crossed the Yard and forced the two of them into trouble, solving the crime on their own, was also a matter not to be disregarded.
A dangerous sort of attraction filled the air with a magnetic static energy between them, as they chased criminals and solved crimes, saving lives on the process.
Every once in a while, the adrenaline-high soldier would stare at Sherlock from some dirty alley corner as he caught his breath after a midnight rooftop chase across London, and his eyes were darkened and bright, as if lusted for that thirst of life that Sherlock could elicit out of him on cue. Sherlock would usually part his eyes from their engaged staring first. Too much. John's uneven, gasping breaths and the musky warm smell of his perspiration were oddly tantalising, confusing the genius.
John would usually blush and look down, at that point. With a conscious effort he'd control his breathing and heart rate, as he coughed awkwardly, clearing his throat into the night.
Once that small sound actually got the killer they were chasing to double-back and attack them.
John shot his faithful browning straight through the serial killer's heart as he was about to jump on Sherlock. There was almost an animalistic, feral protection personified in the usually mild-mannered doctor that revealed the inner soldier.
Maybe it was just residual love, born out of a shared attraction to danger.
That hardly explained all the times John would care for Sherlock, though. Generous, without possibly seriously expecting retribution, John gave all his free time to Sherlock. He cooked them dinner, he got the groceries more often than Sherlock bothered to have them delivered through an online service, looked after Sherlock when he was poorly with a bad migraine after too long exposure to smelly chemicals.
Sometimes, John's love for Sherlock was a sort of devotion.
And the lucky detective guardedly felt the same for John Watson.
Damn it. Sherlock was in love. A quiet, pondered love that the silly doctor had germinated in Sherlock's fickle mind.
There was no more going back.
'Sherlock! I forgot my towel! Could you possibly get me a towel?' the strained call came from the bathroom, now the shower water had stopped running.
Five minutes longer than John's customary frugal showering time. John's shoulder had needed some soothing, then, in order to loosen the stiff joints that life had mistreated before the detective had even the chance to meet the soldier.
Towel. Sherlock could get John a towel. Of course he could. It was a simple task to be carried out by one of the most brilliant minds in the century. Then why were Sherlock's hands trembling in anticipation? Why was there a blush creeping to his face, a secret hope to see John without all those disgraceful – too many – layers of clothes that John favoured?
Too many; because London wasn't generally that cold, as a recently returned soldier from warmer climates might perceive it.
Sherlock definitely meant that.
Of course he had.
John was his flatmate, his blogger, his personal assistant.
John was his—
John was his.
Sherlock had to force himself to dislodge from where he stood rooted, from that armchair that had supported him well as he pondered fickle minded love.
'Coming!' he answered in as he got up. He hurried to his own room, gathering an Egyptian cotton bath towel from his closet and, not bothering to return through the corridor, he used the bedroom door to the small bathroom.
John was standing by the mirror over the sink, staring at his bleary reflex on the foggy surface. He started as Sherlock came in and immediately enveloped his smaller frame in the oversized towel.
John snuggled in the soft cotton for a moment, before acknowledging, awkwardly: 'Silly me, I forgot a towel or clean clothes. Just wanted to warm up before I got hypothermia from those wet clothes, sorry. You could have got me one of my towels from my room, Sherlock, but I suppose yours was nearer.'
Sherlock cursed himself for having chosen that particular towel. Midnight blue. John's eyes were accentuated by the rich, deep colour of the fabric. His hair was still spiky, this time from the hot water that dripped and rolled down the side of his neck towards his clavicle. Sherlock caught the errant water droplet before he could help himself, like a feline mesmerised by the movement. John's eyes narrowed as he shuddered deeply. Sherlock's fingers lingered above John's warm, scented skin for a second longer. It was madness. There was no meaning, they were family, they were danger, they were home to one another. Why should Sherlock's treacherous body react to John's proximity? How could John surprise him again and again? John was the fly in the ointment, the emotion that disturbed reason, the mystery that was never solved. John was the depths of unexplored oceans that dwindled in his irises, and that Sherlock wanted to solve. John was...
Close. Very close.
Sherlock shut his eyes, forsaking the one unsolved mystery he truly cared for. He didn't want to see the end of this case. The case of the intoxicating soldier.
He tasted the delicate intricacies of John's taste, he sensed the accelerating heartbeats and cursed the time that flowed beyond their conscious recognition. Sherlock would stay like this forever, kissing John, holding the doctor and soldier in his arms to keep him warm, giving as good as he got. Sherlock could feel the gentle smile that John eased into their kiss, so natural, so easy.
John was the exception to the cold-reasoning detective. And, at times like this, Sherlock didn't mind a little exception.
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