The tips of the brunette's fingers graze across the blond one's cheek. He retaliates by running his fingers through the dark thick curls that lay upon his head. The blond grips the brunette by the head and pulls him close. Their skin nearly touching; their breath, hot, on the other's face.
Nothing is said. They don't move. They simply stare.
The blond drinks in the face of the brunette. His face is carved by what appears to be white marble, articulately and sharp. His lips curve delicately into a shape unique and entirely its own. They extend into a pronounced cupid's bow. He is simply perfection in every way.
The brunette can do no more than stare. The blond is beautiful in a handsome rugged way. He loves the way his ears poke out of the side of his head. They are round and pronounced, they make him unique. He sees the light bags that live permanently under the blond's eyes. He thinks they are magnificent. He sees beauty in the way they make him look strong. His face is full of the war he's lived. It sits in the line of his lips as well as the curve of his brow. He has seen rough times, and it has made him pure.
Slowly, painful and oh so slow, their eyes meet. Brown to gray. They move closer. Their noses are touching now and they can hardly breathe. Their lips are just about to touch.
John Watson wakes to the sound of thunder. He is alone, forever alone.