JOHN WATSON
Sometimes I think Sherlock overestimates how much I enjoy violence. What Mycroft said to me in the parking garage was true, I was missing the war. Sitting in the little pensioner's room with nothing but a computer to occupy me and a gun to look at was driving me completely batty. My life was missing excitement. I was, in a word, bored.
I suppose in a way, that's why I put up with Sherlock's bored phases when he is literally climbing the walls and hacking up body parts in the kitchen. I don't necessarily sympathize with the fact that minutes after he solves one case he's yearning after another, but I understand the crazed, almost vicious restlessness. I might conceal it better, but then I'm just a man, not a brain on legs.
The jumpers help hide it some as well. Nothing like the element of surprise garnered from looking like a dowdy old dad who would be more likely to have his kid's pictures in his pocket than a browning.
But while I love the mad running and fighting, what draws me the most to this life is the man himself. I often consider how ridiculous his soft curls are when he is ranting through the flat, looking for a case or in the middle of some obscene experiment involving human noses. His deductions are completely amazing, and hold me a captive audience. I have tried to reproduce his accuracy myself on numerous occasions, and have concluded that while half of Holmes' deductions are the result of years upon years of careful human analysis, the other half are some form of instinctive scenting. He is a bloodhound of a human being. Those soft curls cover a brain that is completely glorious and inhuman.
I give him too much credit. Sherlock is dangerous. But god, is he beautiful; beautiful like a raging tornado. However, it often occurs to me that I am lucky to be in the relative eye of said storm.
Last night, though, those queer blue, almost clear eyes turned grey with the low light looked up at me, and made a bizarre comment on how he understands adrenaline better than any other human emotion. He was looking at me as though I was some minor lord and he was a king. Yes Sherlock, perhaps I understand you better than anyone you have ever met before. But that does not mean I completely understand your twisted sense of power and control. I certainly cannot dissect the intricacies of adrenaline for you. Just because you almost literally rule my life doesn't mean that we both understand our experiences the same way.
And it certainly isn't cause for you to sit in my room staring at me like a bloody Twilight vampire.
Wincing at the comparison, and at the memory of the date to the cinema that involved that completely horrible movie, I walk casually into the kitchen, fully rested after eight hours of sleep. Since a case was solved last night, I am prepared to find my flat-mate either curled up in a ball on the sofa, finally asleep after being awake for three days straight, or perhaps (shockingly) absent from the sitting room entirely and in the bedroom that I am convinced he almost never uses.
When I see him sitting in his chair, completely starkers, I let out a rush of irritated breath through my nostrils, take off my dressing gown (am wearing a t-shirt and sweat-pants underneath, thank you very much), and throw it at his lap.
His lips quirk up minutely. "Sharing dressing gowns? Now people will definitely talk".
"Look, we may be flat-mates, but that doesn't mean that we have to share EVERYTHING with each other." I say, gesturing with irritation at his crotch.
"You're blushing", he murmured, "And are running your hands through your hair."
"Of course I'm blushing! I don't want to just walk in here and see you naked! The sheet was bad enough."
He quirks an eyebrow, almost sassy, and I sigh and give up, turning to the kettle. Miraculously no body parts interrupt my tea and toast making, though I am glad there is no reason to go in the freezer. I had seen that addition to our flat two nights ago.
"Is Barry still in the freezer?" Occasionally giving his experiments names has proved to be an effective coping mechanism.
"Mmm. Coming along nicely."
"So did you sleep last night at all? You've been awake for three days straight. You WILL collapse one day if you keep this up."
"Something else came up. An experiment. And that's what I have a doctor for."
"I am your flat-mate, Sherlock. Not your personal medical assistant." There really should be a way to throw tea at someone without it scalding them. The only other kitchen accessory within reach is a cleaver, and I do take some portions of my Hippocratic oath seriously.
I settle for plunking his tea and toast down next to him with firm disapproval, which is certainly not effective, judging by the smarmy look on his bloody face. After the fact I realize that if I had wanted to make a point, I should have let him get his own damn tea and toast.
Punching the Union Jack pillow I sit in the chair opposite him out of habit, and immediately realize that my eyes have absolutely no where to go but to his long, pale, body. My dressing gown covers up the embarrassing bits, but he has not moved a muscle since I've come into the room to put it on. After a few minutes of chewing toast while looking over his shoulder I resort to the newspaper.
"You can't make eye contact with me. You made eye contact with The Woman just fine."
I press my lips together, and throw the newspaper down. Very pointedly I stare straight into his eyes, which I note with gradually growing fury are twinkling. Since when did the eyes of Sherlock bloody Holmes TWINKLE? "What IS this new experiment Sherlock? It doesn't have anything to do with you watching the way I react to you when you're naked, does it? Are you training to be a male version of Miss Adler for the next case?"
"Coming from you, Dr. Watson, I'll take that as a compliment."
The next ten minutes are perhaps the most awkward of my life, as I endeavor to chew and swallow my somewhat dry toast and drink my tea without undue haste, while Sherlock Holmes keeps attempting to make eye contact with me. The newspaper is next to my foot, but I'm not willing to admit my discomfort by bending over to pick it up.
God that man is infuriatingly beautiful.