It turns out – almost unheard of, this – that not only can you make John Watson laugh, but he can make you laugh, too. You're not used to being amused at anything other people say, although you understand the shapes and designs of humour; you can normally see the punch-line a mile off, and it's exasperating to watch everyone else take the long route. It's not the same, somehow, with John, though. Each giggle he drags out of you is sudden and startled, descending into a joyful abandonment that you don't quite understand. And you aren't used to not understanding.
It is frustrating, how little you can fathom about John Watson. Oh, you know all the concrete details about his life; they're written all over him, in bold lettering, font size 26, on A3 paper. But you don't understand what he is, or how he feels, or how he manages still – a month after you've moved in together – to constantly surprise you. And you don't normally bother with wondering how people feel – it's enough to know what they've done, are doing and are going to do – but somehow it's driving you more than a little frantic this time to not know.
You catch him watching you as you move around the flat, with an odd smile on his face, miles away and obviously thinking about something that you aren't privy to.
You note the look of wild joy in his eyes that you glimpse occasionally as you are dashing through the streets of London together, hot on the tail of this week's evil mastermind.
You refresh his blog repeatedly when you aren't with him, hoping to glean some insight; the entries are prosaic and matter of fact, and though he mentions you, you're not much the wiser for having read them.
You don't know what any of these things mean.
That strange feeling of warmth in your chest still hasn't gone away when you look at him.
