Disclaimer: Not mine, no offence, blah blah blah...
A/N: Quick note to say thanks to everyone who's reviewed, favourited, or alerted this series. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.
Sherlock is many things—none of them simple. John muses on this one day while watching Sherlock whirl through their flat, muttering what sounded like Latin to himself.
Starting on a surface level, John thinks, moving further out of the path of destruction as Sherlock tosses a book over his shoulder, he is beautiful, of course. But not the stereotypical poster boy type of beauty. More like... terribly beautiful.
John had always been a fan of oxymorons, liked how the contradicting ideas produced specific descriptors, and these two adjectives fit Sherlock well.
Another descriptive that fit his flatmate (boyfriend?) well—idiotically brilliant. It's why he needs me, John thought. Needs someone to remind him he's human. And as if Sherlock were reading his thoughts, the man piped up—
"We may need to steal Mr. Jones' body. The family doesn't want an autopsy."
John rolled his eyes. Of course Sherlock wouldn't realize why stealing their client's brother's body was inappropriate.
"You could just convince Lestrade that an autopsy's necessary. Gives you a chance to use your best manipulative skills." And then his eyes widened when Sherlock rounded on him with a purely predatory gaze—the look he always got when John said something particularly pleasing.
One last oxymoron flitted through—violently affectionate, he thought, as Sherlock kissed him hard enough to bruise.