Disclaimer: Not mine, no offense, blah blah…
I just found me a bottle of blues… some strange comfort for a soul to soothe. Ain't it hard, ain't it hard… to want somebody who doesn't want you…
-Beck
He watched him move about the flat, fiddling with the stacks of papers, toying with the television, picking up the skull, contemplating it, putting it down again. He watched as he peered out the window, the setting sun highlighting the differing shades in his hair, making him more beautiful than he could have possibly imagined.
He tried to make it look like he wasn't watching, but his flatmate was so caught up in his own thoughts that it really didn't matter. He very much doubted he'd be noticed even if he blatantly stared, mouth hanging wide open, making approving noises in the back of his throat.
It was strange to think that someone was so off-limits. He had, after all, never had trouble with finding partners, and the irony—the sheer, evil irony of every bloody aspect of it—is that now there was someone he actually wanted, someone that meant something (everything)... and he was entirely untouchable.
He'd never want him—never reciprocate what he felt. Hell, he'd probably be offended if the topic was even broached.
So instead he simply tried to be content with watching, pushing ever deeper down the desperate hope of Someday. He tried not to feel like (if he couldn't touch that man so obliviously breathing and living and unbearably there) he just might burst.
A/N: I was deliberately vague for the POV of this story. Make it fit either Sherlock or John based on your own personal preference. :)