Note: Sherlock is not mine! Thanks for all the replies everyone!
SHERLOCK HOLMES:
Affection. A simple word, and one that means very little to me. For example, I can feel affection for a puppy, for Mummy, for Mrs. Hudson, and possibly a small sliver of something for Mycroft. Even a sociopath can feel affection if he is self-aware enough of the fact that people do things for him and are concerned with his lively-hood.
Love is a ridiculous word. Sentiment. People claim they are in love, and then kill, murder, lie, and steal for it. Love is really no more than self-justified obsession covered up and locked away in a pretty sounding box.
Need. More accurate, if I were to be trying to describe my feelings for John. Not quite. I need you. No. No. It can never be need. Need would make me weak. If I need you, I can't protect you, John Watson. No, I will never let myself need you.
I toss on the couch. John is at work, and I am dozing. Despite my banter this morning, I am exhausted. Really, I don't battle sleep the way John thinks. My brain just doesn't shut off sometimes.
Obsession. I return to the word I used to describe love. Perhaps obsession is what I mean, it sounds more self-aware and complete. John Watson, I am obsessed with you. If you want to be sentimental about it, I suppose you could tell other people I love you, but that would be difficult for you because I would never say it. I would never be sentimental. I would never wine or dine you (well, not outside of Angelo's and normalcy), I would never buy you something ridiculous like flowers or chocolates.
My chin scrunches into my neck. Sentiment. Pah.
But I would watch you. I would watch you, possibly without blinking for days on end until I knew what you needed and wanted before you mentioned it. I already know some of it. I know that when you' have nightmares the night before you wear jumpers because you need comfort, and if you don't you wear collared shirts and a jacket. I know that your hair is approximately 16 different shades of blond and grey and that the grey makes you nervous because you stare at yourself in the mirror for two minutes longer than strictly necessary in the morning and leave the bathroom muttering about looking like an old dishrag (which you don't). I know that your nightmares are normally about you killing and not you being shot at. When you kill men, you feel as if you have violated your oath as a doctor, but when you're shot at the adrenaline steadies you, makes you feel determined and defensive of your allies. I suppose at some point I might need to start saying things, such as "don't worry about looking old, looks and age are perhaps the most irreverent detail imaginable", or "Thank you for killing that man for me, would you like me to sleep next to you tonight to remind you of the one you saved in the process?" I am hoping, however that we will be able to skip that step. Perhaps one day we'll be so in sync that we won't even need to say anything to each other, and a simple look will convey all the gratitude and affection necessary for our mutual obsession.
Knowing someone so well you don't need to speak to them. Oh bliss. Speaking is usually so… dull.
I hear the faint noise of rain blurring the edges of the other sounds in the flat, in the street outside, and eventually, as I try to separate the noises of each separate raindrops, it blurs the edges of the noises and the thoughts of my relentless mind.
My eyes finally narrow and close.
When I wake up, John is sitting in his chair, obviously relaxed. I don't turn to look at him; I can hear that it is him by his breathing. I know enough about his breathing to determine what time it is (near midnight, his breathing usually becomes deeper near midnight as he attempts to battle sleep), what sort of day he's had (it shakes, not with fear but with uncertainty, so perhaps his day has been a little bit nerve-wracking, possibly because he's been busy re-evaluating his sexuality) and what he's doing, though that's assisted by other noises (finally reading his paper, dozing off over it as can be determined from frequent rustles and intermittent almost-snores which end in him catching his breath with a start). I don't move, and keep breathing low and deep.
John is getting older, which doesn't do much to accentuate his aggressive nature. He has bags under his eyes, his dating has become near desperate, his hair is feathered with grey. The women he dates think he's "adorable" except for Sarah, of course, who was dragged into our mad world of crime solving and puzzles. It has to do with the cardigans and the lip licking and the naïve sort of smile he wears like a badge that says "I am nice, trust me, tell me anything".
I don't trust John Watson. Not because I think he's going to turn on me; he's loyal. I don't trust him because I'm not a bloody fool. No one who's seen that man hold a gun like it was an extension of his arm would fully trust him. No one who's seen him occasionally check for it, like a phantom limb, and see the momentary panic in his eyes when he sees it's not there would fully trust him.
It is good that trust is not necessary to form an obsession.
I sigh softly, and press the full length of my body up against the back of the sofa. I'm not asexual mind, Mycroft is always making that mistake. Nor am I particularly fussy, really, men, women, fat, thin, who cares. It's more an irritation. Not the sex itself but the people who come with it, moaning and shaking and carrying on like they're morons. So many people try too hard to impress in bed. I suppose in a way this is what I am about to do, attempt to impress John Watson with my sexuality. Perhaps the results of my efforts will be a little foolish, but the data gathered from his reaction will be worth it.
I let my head loll, giving the impression that I am still fast asleep. Then I sigh again, a little louder, and moan lightly and carefully, feeling my hot breath bounce off the back of the sofa and invade my nostrils.
"Sherlock?"
I indulge in smiling quietly to myself before John inevitably stands up and walks over. I toss my head a little, feigning…
"Are you okay? Are you having a nightmare?" I make a point of not reacting to the warm hand on my shoulder.
This is beautiful. I start to twitch my hips against the sofa cushions, lightly and irregularly. A wet dream shouldn't be too difficult to mimic.
"Sherlock?"
His voice is edgier now. Slightly irritated. Interesting. Possessive? Would John be jealous of a sofa cushion?
"Oh God Sherlock…" I had been hoping to hear him say that but in a different tone of voice. That was a "damn my irritating, wanking mad flat mate" voice, not a "damn, look at that sexy man" voice.
Hmm. Still uncomfortable with his sexuality? This was getting a little awkward, but I suppose I'll have to see it through until the end... at least he thinks I'm asleep. I rut a little more. Maintaining the illusion of doing this unconscious while still managing to come was going to be difficult, especially if he stays irritated and keeps glaring at me…
"Look, Sherlock, I know you're awake."
… Oh. I could continue in an attempt to prove him wrong, but I'm curious.
Abruptly I flip over. "Really John? How?"
"Because I've seen you have a wet dream before, you daft git. You don't make nearly that much noise. You really ought to either start masturbating more or sleep in your room. Now stop using me as some kind of experiment and get up and play the violin or something for God's sake."
John sits back down in his chair, and picks up the newspaper again. I flush slightly, but brush it off in a second. "You must watch me sleep closely then," I say, softly, "because I was sure only to moan enough to attract your attention and only move my hips enough so you knew what I was doing. In fact, if I had called any less attention to myself, I'm sure you wouldn't have noticed it unless you were sitting right beside me, watching me sleep."
In all honesty, I'm not entirely sure how accurate that is. John was able to drag himself out of a deep slumber last night because of my light breathing. But his physical response is telling. John blushes at my accusation, and his cheeks hold the color for longer than mine did as he stares blankly at business section of the newspaper. I snatch it away from him, and our eyes meet. I smile a pointedly fake smile. I know John sees through it, normally he is hardly able to deduce his way out of a tea bag, but he's becoming quite an expert at deducing me.
After throwing the newspaper back in his face, I make a note to stare at his eyes more carefully later, especially in this turbulent state, half irritated, with me, half loving me.
Something in my chest clutches slightly. Love… or hopefully obsession.
I am not in any mood to disobey John. As he suggested, I pull out my violin, kick off papers and books and an old tea cup on the coffee table and play something cheerful as he chuckles with exasperation and calls me a nutter.
And really, I am, because in retrospect and in regards to John Watson, it occurs to me that I really have no idea what I'm doing.