Chapter 3
"John, making faces in the mirror does not improve your physical features."
"And you know from experience?" John Watson laughed at his own joke as he straightened his bow tie for the tenth time.
"That was a…a, what do you call it? An injury caused by exposure to heat or flame."
"You mean a burn?"
"Yes, a solid one."
John smiled at his wit; he was feeling pretty good about himself. He was looking mighty fine, had an expensive present for his valentine, and the most beautiful creature of light that had chosen him as her date. John felt his head grow light. His sight floated over to his companion, who was still in his bathrobe, his hair a tousled mess, quoting off facts about the density and intensity of fire. John sighed, "This is why I have a date for valentines and you don't." The great detective blinked quickly, the only sign he would give of damage done. "Now Sherlock, you know I didn't mean it."
"Oh no, of course not. Sherlock Holmes is only a mismatched, over complicated, completely unlovable freak, there is no way he could find a doll metal enough to go out with him, even one night a year."
"That's not what I said."
"You're right; it would be dangerous to use your entire vocabulary in one sentence."
John had been an army doctor, and considered himself a learned man. He stood before the mirror in shocked silence. In the reflection he saw Sherlock rise from the bed, all the fight seemed to leave his body in one heavy sigh. The detective cleared his throat. "I hope you and Mary have romantic valentines at Veto's… I'll be sleeping out tonight, in case you want to bring her home… Goodbye, John." Sherlock straightened, and made his way to the door. John felt his heart sink; this was not what he wanted. He threw himself into action. Literally. He tried to get ahead of Sherlock and block him from the door, but he forgot about the twin mattress between him and the exit. The result was a beautiful somersault and a perfect face-landing into the shaggy carpet of their apartment. Somehow, in the midst of his gymnastics, John had managed to grab hold of the string off his friend's bathrobe. When he managed to ply his face from the ground, he wished he hadn't. Apparently Sherlock chose briefs.
"Valiant effort, John, but I think this is for the best."
Tossing on his trench coat, Sherlock reached the door. He took a glance back at John. The man was nothing special, still trying to stand after his fall. He was not extraordinary with his bowtie on backwards. He had soft eyes, kind, but as clueless as a lab when you fake throwing the ball. Still, love was written all over him. It affected the way he saw things, it put a glow in his cheeks, and he even stood a little taller knowing there was someone who cared about him, deeply. Sherlock had never experienced that. Perhaps he never would. Maybe it isn't so great to be special. Sherlock Holmes thought, as he gently closed the door.
