Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.
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Mirror, Mirror on the Wall
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Pacing back and forth in the living room, Sherlock caught his reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece and paused in his motion. He had never given much thought to his looks, not as an adult anyway. He supposed he must have as a teenager, but apparently he had deleted any memories related to "coming-to-terms-with-your-adolescent-face".
He didn´t consider himself as handsome for he wasn´t exactly at ease with his features or the way his hair behaved as though it had a life of its own; he wasn´t vain enough to really care however, therefore he just stopped worrying about it at one point. One couldn´t choose the way one looked, after all.
Clothes, now that was a different matter. He made a point of dressing well; he had learned early on that looking impeccable opened many doors, and it was easier to deceive people, if necessary.
He liked how his tailor customarily presented him with a choice of fabrics every time Sherlock called round; selecting materials and colours, texture and cuts reminded him of composing a piece of music. At first there were merely ideas, bits and pieces waiting to be assembled, but in the end, it all fit together harmoniously.
But he was straying from the subject. He frowned at his mirror image, trying to recall where his initial train of thought had come from, because all this pondering was completely irrelevant, a waste of precious time. His gaze softened as he remembered: he had been thinking about John.
Sherlock had repeatedly caught himself wondering recently what John was thinking about his flatmate´s looks. He had been irritated by that, because it hardly mattered if John found Sherlock ... attractive, but every time he told himself that, his stomach fluttered and he felt funny. It was an unwelcome distraction at first, but one he couldn´t ignore because it occured at all possible times, usually taking Sherlock by surprise. He was seriously considering destroying every single mirror in the building because he constantly found himself staring into one, intent on solving the riddle, but that would have been too conspicuous.
On the previous night, John and Sherlock had been sitting in their respective armchairs watching the telly, and Sherlock, being in a good mood because of a freshly wrapped case, had been able not only to follow the movie, but had sort of enjoyed it. At one point, John had turned to look at him, smiling- and Sherlock, god forbid, had blushed.
He was still horrified by it. He didn´t blush, he never had and certainly wasn´t prepared to start doing it now. Yet he had, he had felt his face growing hot, and John´s expression had taken on a rather curious look- as though he had unexpectedly caught a glimpse of what lay behind the looking-glass. Sherlock rolled his eyes: there, his own brain was mocking him, thank you very much. He really didn´t need any of that nonsense, but now he couldn´t stop wondering just what John saw when he looked at Sherlock.
He stepped closer to the mirror again, studying his face: his mouth was much too big, and his eyes were strangely slanted- he really didn´t have anything on John´s handsome features, on the contrary: in comparison to him Sherlock looked ridiculous. He sighed, abruptly turning away from the mirror. The doctor wasn´t one to judge a book by its cover anyway.
"I am going to stop reducing John to a superficial git," he said aloud, trying to distract himself.
"No, please- do go on, I´d like to hear the rest of it."
Sherlock jumped, spinning around: "John."
His flatmate stood in the door to the living room, eyebrows raised questioningly: "Why am I being reduced to a superficial git?"
Sherlock for once looked like a deer caught in the headlights, but he recovered astonishingly quick, putting his hands in his pockets: "I wasn´t talking about you."
"Oh, really? To me it did sound like it."
"Did it?"
"Yes, it did. The name´s a bit of a giveaway."
"Hm. I´ll leave you to your imagination then," Sherlock made a beeline for the door, albeit moving deliberately slow.
John of course wasn´t fooled by his friend and crossed his arms in front of his chest, intent on not letting him through: "Where are you going?"
"To the market, we need milk."
"You are going to buy groceries? Now?"
"Yes- is that so inconceivable?"
"You have no idea. Besides, you´re just trying to wiggle out of a conversation."
Sherlock feigned ignorance:"Which conversation, pray, do you mean?"
John, fully prepared to stare him down if necessary, stuck out his chin: "Sherlock- why don´t you just tell me?"
Sherlock skilfully avoided his gaze by busying himself with his scarf: "Anything else, apart from the milk?"
"The truth."
"I don´t know what you mean." With that, Sherlock turned and went out through the kitchen door.
He wouldn´t talk when he returned to the flat twenty minutes later, but took up his violin and began to play- a consecutive string of melancholy pieces, one after the other.
John didn´t even try to speak with him again, for he knew it was pointless with Sherlock in a mood like that.
When John left the flat to meet Mike Stamford for a pint that evening, Sherlock didn´t even seem to notice. He had begun to compose and was entirely engrossed in his work.
Mike usually was good fun; it was nice to reminisce about the old days with him, and John was always interested to hear about the students Mike was teaching, though they didn´t only talk shop.
He found it hard to concentrate initially, for his thoughts were still revolving about this latest display of inexplicable Sherlockian behaviour; fortunately, Mike didn´t notice it, and after the second pint, John began to relax.
When he came home a few hours later, Sherlock was still awake. He had been lying on the sofa and fully intended to pretend to be sleeping; he listened as John stumbled up the stairs- too much to drink, obviously.
The doctor hesitated in the hallway, but instead of turning towards the bathroom or the second flight of stairs, he entered the living room: "Sherlock," he demanded, "I know you´re awake."
Sherlock opened one eye and peered up at him: "You´re drunk. Go to bed."
John shook his head: "No. I´m not too drunk to talk to you."
"Yes, you are. Better lie down."
"First, you are gonna listen to me."
"Oh god, must I?"
John ignored him: "You, Sherlock Holmes, are no mystery to me. I mean, you are a mystery to me, but that´s not the point. Or... maybe the other one isn´t."
Sherlock, seeing that John was being as stubborn as he was tipsy, sat up: "You´re not making any sense."
"Well that´s too bad, because to me, I do."
"So am I a mystery to you or not?"
John threw his hands in the air, nearly losing his balance: "You are. You absolutely bloody are. And you know what? That´s only because usually, you are not. There. I said it made sense."
"No, it doesn´t."
John found that the floor was moving a little too much, so he sat down heavily next to his friend: "How long have we known each other now? No, shut up, that´s a rhetocarel- rhetorical question."
Sherlock held out his hands in a gesture of mock placation: "Sorry. Go on."
"And I think we do know each other quite well," John continued. "And then you go and pull a stunt like the one this afternoon."
"I didn´t pull a stunt," Sherlock said indignantly. "Where do you get these Americanisms from at all?"
Ignoring him again, John seemed to wait for an answer: "Well?"
"Well what?"
"Well, what did you mean when you said you were going to stop reducing me to a superficial git?"
Sherlock sighed. They did indeed know each other well, therefore he could tell that John wouldn´t let go of the topic in the foreseeable future. On the contrary.
His own options were limited: he could keep denying it. He could move out. Or he could just tell John the truth. Which might result in unpleasantness, mildly put. If he didn´t tell John, he´d keep wondering and would eventually go mad, but at least John wouldn´t feel awkward. Well. Not like that, anyway.
Sod it. Going mad was still preferable to losing John, and he didn´t want to take that risk. And he could still destroy those mirrors.
"Nothing. Just forget about it." He got to his feet: "Going to bed. Good night."
John stared after him: "Sherlock! The conversation is not over yet!"
The only answer he got was the sound of Sherlock´s closing bedroom door.
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Fin
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AN: Just a quick note to emphasize that the author´s not sharing Sherlock´s opinion about his looks but thinks he´s rather delectable. ;D