One Hundred Days
One hundred days, one hundred nights, to know a man's heart (and a little more before he knows his own)*
Why He Watches
It has been one hundred days since Dr. John Watson moved in, decided that, yes, he would in fact take that upstairs bedroom at 221B Baker Street. And for all that time, Sherlock Holmes, the logical, aloof, and decidedly brilliant consulting detective, occupant of the main floor bedroom, has been watching, watching John.
Of course Sherlock watches John with his eyes. He watches how John walks, how he stands, how he dresses, how he eats, how he cooks, how he tidies, how he limps, how he runs, how he smiles, how he grimaces, how he fetches, how he carries, and how he fights. But, as the days progress, more and more, Sherlock watches him in a way he watches no one else. He watches John Watson with his heart. And what he sees, when he looks that way, at John, who makes him look, who makes him see, like no one else Sherlock has ever known, those things he sees in that unassuming doctor, a man deemed "ordinary" by so many others, even by those who know John and really like him, those things never cease to amaze and surprise and delight the once jaded detective.
No one would say this now, but there was a time when people said that Sherlock Homes had no emotions, no heart. This simply was not true. He did, even before he met John. He just found them to be discordant with the core of his life, his work, the systematic, unbiased, ruthless pursuit of the truth, which was, to Sherlock, the whole of his existence. And, as a practical and logical being, Sherlock could see no point in wasting precious time and energy on small, trivial feelings, be it for acquaintances, colleagues, or the great unwashed (as he saw the rest of the world, including the queen). So he stored them up and away, out of mind, like leftovers in a fridge, where they staled and molded and decayed into nothing recognizable, at which point he did the practical and logical thing; he tossed them out. And that was how he operated, until John Watson entered his life, and made him do things, see things, and feel things a little differently.
What I See
What I see when I look at him, this small man, not classically handsome, yet beautiful all the same, as English as tea and scones and rain on roses, what I see is something new.
He's small, to be sure, but his smallness is sturdy and welcoming, no, more like challenging, bidding me, even daring me to come closer, lower, nearer to those eyes, that look at me as if I have something the world needs, something only I can give. But, more arresting still, he looks at me as if I have something he needs, for himself, for those eyes alone, something he will claim, someday.
And those eyes, broad-set and round with fearless curiosity, are cool dark pools of unknown depths. There's Afghanistan in there, in those pools, if you only take the time to look, really look, the pain but the compassion too, but mostly the hope, the determination that the world will be better.
And I'd stake my life on it, that as long as there is breath in his body, John Watson will work and fight to make the world better, for his eyes tell me so, as the doctor, the man warm and open, competent and sure, who's found at the surface, in the shallows, or as the soldier, the darker John, who lurks out of sight in the depths, ready to rise when called, steely eyed, steady handed, hard as flint, who will do those things the more measured doctor will not.
It's the doctor I see every day, the one who looks after me, with cups of tea and hot meals and words that sooth or ward off the petty irritants of life. But it's the soldier whom I long to awaken, the savvy campaigner who knows that life is short and that death is final and that its often nearer than you know. It's this brass—bold warrior who knows me best, this brother in arms, with his gun at the ready, wielded as surgically, as judiciously as a scalpel, swift and sure, my accomplice, my protector, my only friend, my love.
But there's more yet to my John, for the hint of cheekiness, the quick dry wit, ready to tease or coax or scold, is lurking not in the eyes but below in those thin but so sweetly expressive lips, the pink of which seems to be sliding inward, so that, if I wish to follow, I need do it quickly, for it's elusive, like prey, like cool water pouring into a desert, draining down into the sandy aquifer below. I haven't followed, not yet, but if I do, touch softly those lips with mine, then perhaps I'll hear that soft tenor sigh, my name (please, let it be that), because when the man speaks, whatever he says, whether laughing or boiling with rage, comes ringing clear and melodic, church bells if those could sound as playful and impish as they do sweet and tender.
And if I were to explore those charms he keeps hidden beneath layers of jacket and knitwear, tucked out of sight like the fury and passion cloaked beneath layers of decorum and cool confidence, I would find the fire, sparking and smoldering, just beneath the surface, ready to burn down all of London if it were ever stoked and fanned, and I will find a way, the way he likes it and wants it and need it, because I am watching my John, and now, since I watch with my heart, I will find a way.
*song by Sharon Jones & the Dap-Kings. I love this song and have long thought the title would make a good John/Sherlock romantic slash fiction title, even though the lyrics actually are cautionary and talk of the man having a change of heart.
