A/N: I must thank Ennui Enigma once again. She gave me the word and the inspiration for this chapter.
Enigma
enigma – noun – 1a. a puzzling, perplexing or unexplained thing. b. a person who baffles others' conjecture as to his or her character, identity, etc. 2a. riddle or paradox, usu. involving metaphor.
Could be dangerous.
That was the phrase he had used.
The phrase that was the lure to bring John to him.
Like a moth to a flame.
Irresistibly and perilously attracted to the rush of excitement and stimulation.
How someone as morally centred and upright could be brought around and enticed by three words, it was so intriguing, so…puzzling.
And there was nothing more perfect, more wonderful than a puzzle.
He lay in the dark, silent living room. The heavy curtains were pulled tight, even the light from the street failed to wend its way in, failed to distract him from his thoughts. He had excellent and exceptional night vision so if needed he would be able to navigate through the flat & find his way with his usual grace.
It wasn't necessary as he wasn't planning on moving anywhere for a while.
He was contemplating the fact that he could so easily read what John had needed earlier, when he asked him, enticed him to come back to Baker Street. Knew without hesitation or thought that John would thrive on danger.
So how was it he had not known how exhilaratingly intriguing Watson was?
Despite the seemingly quiet and introspective person he was on the outside, which clearly wasn't a shell or a mask. It was as truthful a reflection of who the doctor was, as truthful as the thrill seeking, adrenalin junkie who had traversed the rooftops with him. Someone who was polar opposite in his personalities, yet thoroughly grounded in both natures. Not one to shout out about his abilities or talents, but who stayed unobtrusive and still.
One who was endlessly fascinating and extraordinarily talented and unstoppably moral.
He had thought John was an open book, thought he would be so easy to read, so easy to manipulate. There were hidden secrets inside that book. Clues and treasure maps and indexes of information leading to more questions and lovely surprises.
The good doctor had taken the life of another, unwaveringly, to save his life, a life most would consider a waste of space; even his family members were not overly enthusiastic about having him around.
If he had died tonight, Mycroft might have retaliated in revenge, upholding the family honour and all, but would he have mourned his demise? Unlikely. Sherlock was a different kind of conundrum than the one sleeping fairly peacefully above.
He thought about how after, after calmly and methodically killing a man who was prepared to kill what amounted to a near stranger to the doctor, they had sat together eating Chinese and swapping stories.
Amusing, balanced, ethical, moderately intelligent, contradictory. Crack shot, wounded in body and spirit. Doctor and soldier.
Sherlock felt unnaturally comfortable with someone he knew little more than 48 hours. That was another intriguing paradox.
Sherlock did not feel comfortable with many people, certainly not with ones he had just met.
He lay there all the rest of the night, thinking about what other astonishments Dr. John Watson had in store. He was caught unaware by the sound of footsteps on the stairs as John made his way down to the living room. There was a pause at the door.
"Did you sit up all night?" asked the soft, yet cheerful voice of the other man. "Don't you sleep?"
"Sleeping is dull," retorted Sherlock. Especially when you have brilliant mysteries to muse upon.
John chuckled quietly.
"What?"
"I was just thinking. I've never met someone as much of a perplexity as you, Sherlock. Tea?"
"Please."