I preened when Sherlock took notice of my blog. Even if he said ungenerous things about it, I still liked that he read it. It meant a lot to me.
That was another thing about Sherlock that I learned early on. If he truly didn't like something, he took no notice of it whatsoever. But if he railed on about it, then there was something there. Didn't mean he did like it-like the proverbial school yard boy who pulls pigtails-but it meant that it provoked a reaction in him.
And indifference was what I avoided like the plague. Indifference to anything made it disappear. The ignored wilted and shrank. It suffered and sank. Indifference is the enemy.
Mycroft's studied blasé about everything still drives me nuts. Even when he is agitated, he is still controlled. And he was especially controlled when he was insulting and belittling my Sherlock.
All those years, growing up with that kind of influence on him could have destroyed Sherlock's spirit. Luckily, his intellect took up the charge of his protection before I came round. The mind palace kept the fragile things safe from Mycroft's East Wind.
And now, I would happily show Mycroft a thing or two I learned in the army about how to incapacitate a larger opponent. Not that I would take any pleasure in hurting Mycroft physically, but cowing him a bit when it came to his dressing-down of Sherlock would be a bit good.
Lestrade was the first one to say 'Sherlock is a great man' to me. I turned those words over and over in my mind in the cab on my way to who-knew-where in pursuit of Sherlock and the serial killer. A great man. But not a good one? He was doing a good thing chasing a killer, wasn't he? He was pursuing social and moral justice.
If he saw it as a puzzle or a lark, well, the ends justified the means, yes?
A great man. What other great men have there been in recent memory? I am hard-pressed to think of two to rub together. It seems that all of our idols are eventually hauled down to the level of we mere humans by their own frailties. Famous internet-blogger that I am, I am divided on whether that is a good by-product of the Information Age.
I had only known Sherlock mere hours; Lestrade even fewer. Their fervor over this case was intoxicating. Not just the danger or risk of it, but the need to pursue this predator no matter the cost to themselves. I was swept up in the 'greatness' of both of them. I still am.
I do crave excitement in my life, but I think even more than that is the feeling of living. Enthusiasm. Passion. Fervor. Fire. Arousal. Whatever you want to call it. When you can feel your heart beating and your skin is a-tingle, that is life. Living.
When time passes unnoticed, that is living.
Unfortunately, I have lived death. Too much death. Death does not move. It stops. Death does not stimulate. It is the absence of any movement or breath.
I do not want to live death in any way. I was living death in that cell that the Army provided for me, when I trudged to my therapist twice a week, when I was walking past Bart's and Mike stopped me. That was living death in the heart of London.
My blog, my doctoring, my presence in Sherlock's world are all living. John Watson lives with effusion.
As does Sherlock.
I awoke slowly as I always did from unscheduled naps. Mornings were quicker, more natural. The slide of light into the darkness helps me adjust from sleep to wakefulness more easily. But a mid-afternoon nap threw my internal clock off just a bit.
At first, I just floated in the ether of my last pleasant dream, swimming in ice blue eyes that were surprisingly warm. Then I became aware of a sound. Breathing. I could tell Sherlock was already awake by the way he was breathing. It wasn't the restful cadence of sleep.
I cracked an eye open.
"Hello," I croaked out.
"Hmmm," he responded and nuzzled my jawline with his nose.
I nuzzled back instinctively, like two cats greeting each other.
"You look so peaceful when you are asleep, John," Sherlock observed as he ran a hand lightly up and down my chest.
"It's because I know you are here to watch over me, even though you should be sleeping more yourself," I answered and kissed him warmly. "What time is it anyway?"
"Half past seven already," Sherlock said. "But plenty of time."
I caught on that. "Plenty of time for what?" I asked.
His wicked smile made my toes curl. Apparently, his rest had been restorative.
Every time Sherlock made love to me, he tried to find something, however small, that was new or different. It was his way of keeping the life in our love life. The zing. I was charged with keeping the comfort and routine. Hence our undressing earlier.
Making Sherlock take his time was part of how we had built our trust and intimacy as lovers above and beyond that of friends and partners. It was how he allowed me to change him, just a little bit. It was how I allowed myself to try to change him. I wanted these moments to be different from any other moments in our lives.
There was enthusiasm here. There was excitement. But there was also patience and restraint. These were hard but important lessons for Sherlock. And I was willing to take a lifetime to teach him.
He was willing to bestow a lifetime of his attention on me. It was an amazingly gratifying exchange.
"I have something for you," Sherlock said.
"Oh?"
Sherlock reached over me and to the bedside table. He slid the drawer open and produced a bottle of lubricant. Edible lubricant. Cherry flavored.
"I thought the 'cherry' flavor quite cheeky," he said.
I smiled at him, all flushed cheeks and dancing eyes. He was seeking my approval now.
"Fun," I said and waggled my eyebrows at him. "Who's first?"
"I think that I owe you from the last time," Sherlock said as he situated himself atop me. I was already starting to sport an erection just looking at his halo of curls and miles of perfect skin. I rested my hands on top of his thighs, fingers dipping off to the sides to feel the indentations made by his muscles as they worked lightly to keep him upright.
Sherlock took one impossibly long finger and trailed it down my sternum. "Now, Doctor, I am going to take very good care of you," he began.
I couldn't help the little chuckle that fell out of my lips. He was just so cute.
Sherlock frowned ever so slightly, and I sobered immediately. My brows lowered and my lips puckered to say, 'sorry, do go on.'
"Although it's possible you could take care of me. I seem to be a bit peckish. Do you have anything I could nibble on?" Sherlock had trouble keeping a straight face through that one.
"Umm," I stalled. "Possibly." Even though this was taking a decidedly more comic and less sexy turn, I was still enjoying myself. We were naked, in bed, rested, safe and warm. Life was perfection when all of these things colluded to wrap the two of us up in a cocoon.
"I hope it's something with lots of protein. I need more protein in my diet, Doctor," Sherlock continued.
I guffawed at that one. "Really?" I asked him. "That's what you're going with?"
"Shut up, John," he came back. "I'm trying to be flirty. Is it not working?"
"Sweetie," I said, rubbing my hands up and down his forearms and elbows. "You don't have to flirt with me. I'm already naked in your bed. This is where you get to have your way with me. Flirting is all about the illusion of 'this,'" I gestured to the two of us, skin-on-skin and working up a sweat.
"Besides," I continued. "Flirting is better attempted in a restaurant or bar. Let's try it sometime then, huh?"
His burgeoning thundercloud cleared up at my offer.
"Indeed, I can understand what you mean," he agreed.
"Good," I said. "Now kiss me, you fool."