Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
"Four weeks, Sherlock. You can't survive four bloody weeks?!" John slammed the door and stomped down the stairs and found himself breathing in cold London air.
Damn him, he thought.
John walked aimlessly, knowing full well he'd end up in Regents Park with a totally crap cup of coffee, sighing about With-out-a-case-Sherlock.
Why delay the inevitable?
Ten minutes later he found himself asking for a cappuccino and looking for a bench to sit on.
The first two weeks had been bearable: only small experiments, the fridge remained body part free and the microwave stayed, miraculously, clean.
This week though, had to be the worst ever. The kitchen looked like it had been bombed, the new air freshener of rotting fingers really wasn't working. And John still hadn't found out why the sofa had to be turned upside down at all times, no exceptions.
Bloody Sherlock.
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.
"Right. Okay. You're unattached like me."
No. I, John Waston, will not look at Sherlock. No. I will not let my eyes wander over his smooth pale skin. No. I will not let myself imagine what it would be like to run my fingers through his hair. I will not let myself wonder if his hair is fluffy and tickly or soft and strong like silk. I will not dream of those perfect lips, or remarkable cheekbones. I refuse to stare at the striking features of this man, especially the way they're illuminated by the soft candle light.
No. Do not look at Sherlock.
Look out the window – out of the bloody windo-
My eyes find his anyway.
Shit.