Sherlock sat on his bed, looking over some evidence bags from his most recent case. Clothed in his blue robe, his careful fingers opened the bag and lightly gripped a small Japanese figurine between his index and thumb. There were speckles of blue paint over the doll's poorly manufactured blushing face. But what was the significance of this blue paint? Why was it placed purposefully next to the body? Things started to blur out of focus as he stood and paced around his room. At least, he thought he stood. He must have if he was pacing. Why couldn't he remember?
Insignificant. The paint. Why the paint?
He looked at his watch briefly, but the hand was difficult to focus on. He looked again, staring intently. Had he been drugged?
Paint. Blue. Traces of lead in the paint. Was the figurine old?
When did he ever test the paint?
Panic rose in his throat, his breathing escalated as his head whipped around the room.
Robe. Color? Blue.
Name? William Sherlock Scott Holmes.
Why was he here?
That was the question that left him baffled and confused. Sherlock confused is a disaster within itself.
He looked at his walls, trying to focus on the Doctor Who poster across from his bed. Man in a suit, big blue box, a show for fools.
But...but...he had never watched the show...why was there a poster...?
Sherlock noticed that the walls began to move like water, everything became unstable.
But then he remembered.
John. Where was John?
On cue, the man himself strode in to his room. Everything became stable and still, physically and mentally.
Everything stopped shaking, the air became calm and silent. The chaos had died.
All of the questions of why had been forgotten, he had been engulfed in those dark blue irises, unable to look away.
He had a coy smile on his face, knowing within Sherlock's void of unknown.
It was extremely irritating.
He tried to focus on what John was wearing, trying to center himself, but was repeatedly distracted by that glint in his eyes as he walked closer to Sherlock.
All of a sudden, everything was fuzzy again.
As John held his head in his hands, stroking Sherlock's face thoughtfully with his right thumb. It sent shocks of energy running up Sherlock's spine and into his lungs. Since when was air so hard to come by? The thump in his chest grew louder and stronger as John grew closer. With a swift tug, Sherlock was pulled down to John's height. The doctor leaned in, smiling, and lightly pressed his lips against-
*Gasp*
Sherlock awoke with a start, breathing wildly, his eyes wide open.
He lightly pressed his own fingers to his lips, reliving the sensation he had felt only a few moments before.
He closed his eyes and remembered John leaning into him, causing his heartbeat to falter.
He and John had...he was...he was attracted to John.
The signs were obvious. Escalated breathing, nerve reactions, anticipation.
The realization hit him full blown as he sat up in bed, running his pale fingers through the damp, black ringlets popping out from every direction.
He predicted the possibilities of a relationship and the probabilities of a returned attraction in three minutes and fifty-six seconds.
The probability was most surely in his favor, John was not a very difficult man to deduce.
As for the possibilities for a relationship, things got increasingly complicated. Sherlock wasn't very good with other people's feelings or just compassion in general. John would be hurt unintentionally on a daily basis. Would this new, tender finding make up for the heads in the fridge and toenails in the tub? Would making John happy finally make him happy?
The theories raced around his mind until something stopped him directly in his tracks.
It was the unknown, that dark gaping hole staring at him from every direction.
It was that 13% chance that John would become disgusted with him, pack his bags and leave 221B after an emotional confrontation.
That 48% chance that a relationship between them would not be satisfactory for the both of them, especially his doctor.
He could not take any chances, not with John.
John was necessary to life, needed like air.
Sentiment is for the losing side.
Mycroft's harsh words cut across his throat, causing him to choke a little.
It was a motto he had lived by all of his life, he would not end that pattern now.
He had to forget.
Sherlock slowly and shakily placed his finger tips to his temples.
Feel nothing.
He let his eyelids flutter close.
He murmured under his breath, with regret laced within every quiver of his voice:
"Goodbye John."
Delete.
Sherlock re-opened his eyes, his face no longer in a grimace. He did not acknowledge the tears running down his cheeks, for he assumed they were from a bad dream he must have previously deleted.
Irrelevant.