Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me. They belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and these particular versions belong to Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat and the BBC. I am merely borrowing them.

Enjoy.

It's hard, being in love with someone.
Or at least, that's what he thinks this is. He wouldn't know. He hasn't loved before.
Not like this.

He doesn't know what it is, what to do, how to think or feel. This is... different, new, uncategorisable.
He doesn't like things that can't be categorised.
Everything in his Mind Palace is sorted, compartmentalised; with everything being placed carefully behind marked doors for future reference.

People have doors too.

There is a door labelled Lestrade - first name Greg, likes football and coffee and donuts and Mycroft and secretly prefers cats to dogs and always has the briefest dustings of orange fur on the cuffs of his pants from where his neighbours' cat winds around him in the mornings because it knows it'll get a scratch behind the ears, he only has three pairs of shoes that aren't trainers, doesn't like too much cream in his coffee and doesn't love his wife but still gets upset when she sleeps with other men.

A door labelled Mycroft - hates to disappoint, insecure, has always wanted children even though he says he hates them, cares too much about things he says shouldn't be cared about, like feelings or people, like Greg, and he likes his tea sweet, and doesn't enjoy sport although he finds gymnastics fascinating to watch, and the ring around his third finger on his left hands is mummy's and he longs, oh how he longs for the day Lestrade breaks up with that horrid wife of his so he can place that ring on his finger instead of his own.

Molly - has a cat called Toby and a blog even less successful than his own, her favourite colour is blue, followed by green and yellow and she hates pink and red but wears them to make herself appear more attractive, she prefers tea to coffee but needs the energy, and she likes scarves and earrings and simple but chunky necklaces, and hates dressing up in fancy dresses and putting on makeup and wearing stupid earrings that serve no purpose, but she does do these things, because she's desperate, but she's shy and that's her problem because she doesn't know how to control it or find the right balance.

Mrs Hudson - drinks several cups of tea a day, usually around five, two in the morning, one at lunch, one at tea and one at supper, she likes lemon sorbet and has a secret penchant for fantasy novels, owns all the Star Wars movies and Lord of The Rings movies and Star Trek box sets, she enjoys walking but doesn't go out very far, out of fear, and has always wanted a puppy, her purple fuzzy slippers match her dressing gown and hair curlers, and they were a Christmas present from Lestrade two years ago, and we do not, under any circumstances talk about her ex-husband. Ever.

And then there's the door marked John.

Everything behind John's door is organised carefully.

He knows how John takes his tea, how John takes his coffee, how he had a dog when he was six until it died when he was seventeen and always wanted another one, how he liked the name Hamish and wants to one day name his son it. He knows that John's scar has faded white now, but it still itches with phantom pains and he gets this pained, far-away look in his eyes whenever he thinks about it, or the war. He knows that John knows he is secretly jealous of the success of his blog. He knows that John likes the smell of cinnamon and vanilla and pumpkin, and how he views mulled wine as an all-year-round drink, but only adds oranges or cinnamon sticks to it at Christmas. He knows that John approves of his idea to become a bee farmer later in life - he thinks it sounds quaint and peaceful, but he wonders how he would cope without all the action and drama and mystery that is their life. He knows all about John's family, about Harry and Clara, how they made up ages ago and want kids - which John, considering his issues with Harry's old habits, surprisingly supports, fully and unconditionally, provided Harry doesn't fall back into the drink - about his mother and father, how they're planning a cruise trip next summer, and a holiday to Egypt after that. He knows how John's parents take their tea. And Clara. Harry drinks coffee.
He knows that John and Harry are secretly huge Harry Potter fans and have been to quite a few conventions in the past, with their capes and their wands.

He knows everything there is to know about John Hamish Watson, yet he doesn't know enough.

Everything behind John's door is jumbled and disorganised.

He knows how John takes his tea, how John takes his coffee. How he had a dog (Bae, Irish Wolfhound,) when he was six until it died when he was seventeen and always wanted another one. He could get John a puppy for Christmas; a golden Retriever or a Husky, perhaps. Something loyal and warm, like John. How he liked the name Hamish and wants to one day name his son it. John think's Hamish is a nice name, and so does he. He knows that John's scar has faded white now, but it still itches with phantom pains and he gets this pained, far-away look in his eyes whenever he thinks about it, or the war. He could massage it so it doesn't hurt anymore, or tell John something interesting so to distract him from his thoughts. He knows that John knows he is secretly jealous of the success of his blog. John teases him about it, but never openly mocks him, or rubs it in his face, and for that, he is grateful. He knows that John likes the smell of cinnamon and vanilla and pumpkin, and how he views mulled wine as an all-year-round drink, but only adds oranges or cinnamon sticks to it at Christmas. He doesn't particularly care for the drink; it's a little strong for his tastes, but he'll always drink it if John offers. Maybe he should make some for John this Christmas… he's pretty sure there's some in the kitchen. He knows that John approves of his idea to become a bee farmer later in life - he thinks it sounds quaint and peaceful, but he wonders how he would cope without all the action and drama and mystery that is their life. Perhaps John would visit him, on his farm. Maybe he could even convince John to be a bee farmer with him, convince him to stay. He knows all about John's family, about Harry and Clara; how they made up ages ago and want kids - which John - considering his issues with Harry's old habits - surprisingly supports, fully and unconditionally, provided Harry doesn't fall back into the drink. He agrees. Harry and Clara would be good parents. And John would love a nephew or a niece. He wouldn't mind having a child around, especially if it made John happy. About his mother and father, how they're planning a cruise trip next summer, and a holiday to Egypt after that. Maybe he should take John somewhere. Not Baskerville though. He knows how John's parents take their tea. (Splash of semi-skimmed milk, no sugar; no milk, one sugar.) And Clara. (Medium amount of 1% milk, half a sugar.) Harry drinks coffee. (A little full fat Milk, two sugars.)
He knows that John and Harry are secretly huge Harry Potter fans and have been to quite a few conventions in the past, with their capes and their wands. He pretends it is all mindless drivel of course, but he's read the books and watched the films when John wasn't around, and knows that John made the right choice wearing a red and gold Gryffindor tie to those conventions.
He's also pretty sure John would've been a damn good chaser too. Even better than James Potter.
(He also knows that he and Mycroft would have been sorted into Ravenclaw, though, for Mycroft especially, they would have done well in Slytherin too.)

(Molly would have been a Hufflepuff and Greg would probably have been sorted into Griffindor.)

He knows everything there is to know about John Hamish Watson, yet he doesn't know enough.

He is pretty sure he will never know enough.

It's hard, being in love with someone, when you don't even know if it's love or not.

He looks to the door and wonders when John is going to come back. He has been gone three hours, twenty six minutes and… how many seconds?

Damn.

He's been thinking too hard. He's lost track of time.

He sighs and rolls over onto his side, so he can see the Christmas tree that John insisted on putting up. There should be, from what he's heard, a decent amount of presents underneath. Some from Lestrade, some from Molly, and Harry and Clara and Mrs Hudson, and apparently there's even some from Mycroft. (If there is, he highly suspects that Lestrade is involved.) None of them actually are under the tree though. John puts the presents under his bed the second someone gives them too him, since he knows they would be deduced for him in an instant, and John likes the surprise. There are also some gifts from John, but he hasn't seen hide nor hair of them. The only tell-tale that John has even gotten him something was the scrap of wrapping paper dropped under the table on Wednesday; well after John had distributed everyone's presents.

He hasn't gotten anything for John.

He wants to, but he hasn't.

It's unbelievably hard to find the right thing. It can't be too small or too cheap, in case it doesn't seem like he cares enough, or he's only getting John something because John got him something, like he's only getting John something out of courtesy. It also can't be too big or too expensive, in case John gets suspicious; after all, he's never gotten anything for John before, why now? Why something so big?

He sighs again to the empty room. This is so complicated.

Maybe this is why Mycroft told him never to care.

But… then again, Mycroft is a hypocrite.

He should get something John really wants.

What does John really want?

He looks behind John's door and pushes through the clutter of information. He's contemplating making the room bigger, when he trips up over one thing and bumps into another. He looks down and inspects the thing that tripped him, then he glances at the thing he bumped into.

Yes.

He leaves his Mind Palace and rolls off the sofa, grabbing the phone off the TV stand as he strides purposefully into the kitchen and snatches the laptop off the side. He practically throws himself onto the sofa and dials, setting the laptop on his lap and running his finger over the mouse pad to wake it up.

The laptop beeps just as the dialling tone stops, and the other end of the line suddenly picks up. The voice is chipper and light, and reminds him of Molly when she gets excited. Luckily, she doesn't talk for very long, and he makes his enquiry. He opens a google page and begins a search as she answers.

He thanks her for her help and tells her he'll come down tomorrow, before hanging up.

Next to him, his mobile buzzes.

Be home in 15.

-JW

Grabbing the laptop and his mobile, he goes back into the kitchen and puts the laptop on the counter so he can read the recipe easily. He starts pulling tins and pans out of the cupboards and wonders, briefly, how he'll explain his absence from the flat tomorrow to John. Maybe he can persuade Lestrade to take John out for a drink so he can look around the Animal Shelter in peace. He resolves to ask him later, but for now, he concentrates on pulling the cinnamon sticks out from behind the biscuit barrel and locating the oranges.

Good. I'm making Mulled Wine.

-SH

Maybe it is love.

He hopes so.