Sherlock Holmes is not an emotional man by nature; anyone who had known him for more than an hour could confirm that. However, throughout the course of their friendship, Watson had learned that there were times when, despite his extreme dislike for his own sentiments, there were times when they happened to escape through his carefully constructed barrier.
Most often, this happened only when Holmes was forced to realize that he was, in fact, more than just a brain. In the most challenging of situations, he would strive, calmly accepting on difficulty after the next with such an aloof disposition, one might think he were made of stone. However, when seriously injured, Watson had the opportunity – if one could really call it an opportunity – to see frustration brew in Holmes' eyes, and often turn to outright anger, when the doctor attempted to, as he so put it, 'mollycoddle' him. His eyes would burn, his teeth would clench, his nostrils flare – at the worst of times, there would even be a faint pink flush on his alabaster cheeks. The reminder that he had a body and could indeed feel pain, just like every other human being, was enough to throw him in a fit at times, particularly when such injuries required weeks of recovery.
While touching, just as unpleasant for Watson to see in his dear friend was concern. This rose up in Holmes' eyes particularly when Watson himself was injured, when he was reminded that he also possessed a heart. Normally bright gray eyes would dull into a fog of pain, gentle endearments – most often spoken in French, though the doctor had, on occasion, heard a few other languages – would pass his lips as elegant fingers stroked through his hair. Sometimes Holmes would take up his violin and play for him, the most sad and haunting tunes. Watson adored the attention he received, knowing how deeply the other cared for him, but he would rather have Holmes angry with him than to see him in such pain. And yet, somehow, he would always rather share in Holmes' pain than to be shut off from him completely.
The detective's emotions were so rare and fleeting, Watson often forgot they existed, and when they did rise up, it was far more common for them to be these negative feelings that were more harmful than they were fulfilling. He had begun to believe that there would be no joy for Sherlock Holmes, save for those evanescent moments at the height of a case, when he was able to exert his full mental abilities. Only days later, he would find the other in a slump of depression, cocaine pumping through his veins.
Watson was surprised, then, when he was finally allowed to see something more. It began with their first kiss. Holmes had been in those melancholy spirits between cases, caught in one of his chemical experiments, though even from across the room, the doctor could see that he was only going through motions, nothing truly catching his attention.
It had been months since Watson first realized his feelings for his flat mate, and day after day ticked by at an agonizing pace, watching and yearning. It was only a week ago that he had begun to contemplate actually revealing his feelings to his friend. Holmes despised all of society with his whole Bohemian soul, and Watson knew for certain that he would care little that he was in love with a man. He had even known his friend to sympathize with inverts, pointing out a pair of them to Watson once and stating with a gloomy temperament that one man was leaving the other in order to get married, for fear that they would someday be caught, and that it was their last day together.
No, it was not that Watson feared Holmes would be disgusted by him – he feared that any such feeling directed at the detective specifically would cause him to withdraw, for his extreme distaste for such things. Sherlock Holmes wanted to distractions, and knowing that your closest friend of so many years was in love with you, whether you felt the same or not, was certainly a distraction. But then, what could Watson do? It was eating him alive to keep these feelings to himself.
"Watson," Holmes spoke with what sounded like an extremely exasperated sigh. He turned in his chair to face the doctor, setting his chemicals aside. "You have been deeply considering this matter for nearly two hours, and I am truly in no mood to listen to this any longer."
"Holmes, I haven't said a thing-"
The detective put up a hand, silencing him. "It is written all over you Watson, you may as well be screaming it to the heavens. Now, if you are going to speak, speak. If you are going to act, then by all means, act, but if you are simply going to continue wallowing in your own self-pity, please take it to the next room so that I may continue my experiment."
Watson stared for a moment, unsure exactly, of how to react. It was insensitive and cold, and entirely Sherlock Holmes, but the way he spoke implied that he wanted Watson to do something. So he did. He banished the hesitation from his mind and stood, sweeping across the room, taking the detective's face into his hands and pulling him up from his chair into a deep kiss. It was as if Holmes had expected it, leaning into the kiss immediately, his fingers curling around Watson's biceps.
When he pulled away again, a little dazed, and his heart pounding in his chest, Watson saw it; just a little glimpse, the excitement in his eyes, not for some strange case, but for him.
It was only when Holmes became completely aware of himself, when he was an entire whole – mind, body, and heart – that Watson had the chance to see deeper into his friend's emotions. Since that day, he had the privilege to slowly draw more and more out of him.
A kiss in the morning caused a little smile to turn up his lips. A brush of fingers when he passed him something – a book, a cigarette, a glass of tea – cause a faint flush of pink in his cheeks, and a slight turn of the head. A shoulder massage caused him to tilt his head back, peering up at Watson with eyes fogged over not with pain, but with lazy contentment. The longing when Watson announced he would be gone for a few days to care for a patient.
The anticipation he saw when he kissed his way down Holmes' bare chest; the awe when he took him into his mouth, drawing sensations from him he knew the detective had never felt before; the delighted ecstasy brought by the joining of their bodies. The moments that Watson enjoyed most, though, was after their shared release. Holmes would be hovering over him, or lying beneath him, depending on how the night progressed, still panting to catch his breath. It was then that Holmes would look straight into his eyes, and everything would be open to him.
Holmes never said those three little words to him that Watson had once believed to be most important in a relationship, and he likely never would, but he didn't need to. It was in those moments, when the other bared his soul to him through those silver eyes, that Watson saw love.