All this pale skin underneath his neatly tailored clothes. The curly hair tickling his neck. He is all long lean lines and muscle. Every movement unnaturally graceful. The looks people give him as if he was some kind of alien infiltrating their normal little lives. Too good looking, too clever. He hates it. Hates looking at himself in the mirror. What he hates the most are his cheekbones. Too prominent. They emphasize how skinny he is, drawing even more attention to his eyes.
His eyes. He can't remember how often they have been scrutinized, even by strangers. Has overheard people whispering about them. His body is everything his personality is not. All this unearthly beauty his transport displays doesn't even hint at his innermost self. The cruelty and rudeness. The lack of emotional depth and his inability to understand social conventions.
He has nothing to offer. Nothing that makes him proud of himself. Except for his brain. His unconventional mind. His intellect is a gift he can appreciate, he even supports. He learned a lot, studied what seemed worthy and deletes everything that lost it's importance. His mind is what gives him value. The only thing that allows him to be a part of normal life.
His intellect is the one quality his being possesses. He knew that from childhood on. Has always known that he doesn't deserve to be part of society.
It starts slowly. So slow that it is already too late when John notices it. But when he does, there is no turning back. He touches this perfect milky skin, letting his fingertips slide over the soft surface of Sherlock's neck. He didn't mean to but he doesn't stop either. His fingers are calloused and short. Too thick for his taste and not even remotely as beautiful as the ones caressing his cheek right now. He stares into those eyes he has come to love. Those unblinking silver eyes that have him trapped right now in their expression of wonder and surprise. The stunning lips are parted in mild amazement. He stares unabashed at that wonderful, gorgeous face while he lets his other hand glide through thick dark curls. The moment is made magnificent, not by all this beauty in his hands he is blessed with.
It's the expression on Sherlock's face. The astonishment in his eyes, brows and lips, as if he can't believe how lucky he is. That huge intellect caught off guard by genuine feelings. John kisses those lips once, twice, leaning his forehead against Sherlock's, just breathing him in. Sherlock asks him why. Wants to know how that could happen suddenly. He doesn't understand, looks confused and incredulous. So John tells him. He tells him how intelligent, funny, loyal, honest and creative he is. Tells him that he is impressed by his inventiveness, his hunger for knowledge and progress. Uncertain what else to say, he kisses Sherlock again. He won't confess his love, yet. Not yet.