A/N I really, really need to update more often, wow...
Thanks to maggiemacjack, johnsarmylady, and Guest (would I be correct in assuming this to be Natalie? ;3)
Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.
XIV. Smile
There aren't many things in the world that can make Sherlock Holmes smile. He's never much understood the point of the gesture, really. People are so pathetic, wearing their emotions blazing across their features, a constant scream for attention, all of those silent voices unconsciously competing against one another to saturate the atmosphere with their own specific attitude.
No, Sherlock's always been much subtler than that. He'll give them a smirk, but that's all—just a clever brag, to put them in their place and remind them that he is—and always will be—ahead of them. Because it's true. His mind is legions above theirs, always has been and always will be. He may not be a good person, and yet he's still better than them, superior in the arrangement of the Earth's citizens.
John changed things.
Before the army doctor, Sherlock didn't have any friends, no real ones. Mycroft was a grudging relative, Mrs. Hudson an overly fond landlady (not his housekeeper), Lestrade and Sally colleagues, Anderson a… slug. But John, when he finally came along, simply didn't fit into any of these suddenly limited categories. Because he isn't just an aspect of Sherlock's existence. Perhaps it's simply because they live together, but… no, that can't be it. Even flat mates have the ability to associate as little as possible, if that's what they genuinely desire.
But Sherlock and John have bonded, fused their lives together permanently. They haven't just brushed against each other, slipped by, glancing off and moving on their own individual paths. No, the two of them have collided in a burning explosion of crimson flames and amber sparks, destroying and completing each other simultaneously, permanently rewriting their biology to better suit each other.
Naturally, this is more than apparent to the majority of those who see them, even though the two men themselves manage to remain remarkably ignorant, almost like they don't want to be aware of the iron-hard bonds attaching them to each other, fierce and steely and unbreakable. Lestrade is the best at restraining his questions, probably because his knowledge of Sherlock runs deeper than others'. The detective might be in love with his assistant—that's certainly how everyone else views it—but the policeman is wise enough to hold back his inquiries.
Donovan isn't too good. It's almost like she wants to annoy Sherlock with her constant taunts, and she almost certainly does. It's the same for the rest of them, more or less; even random people on the street, when confronted with the sight of Sherlock and John, automatically and even unwillingly wonder whether or not they might be a couple. It's a reflexive association, because every single that the two project says that their so-called "friendship" is beyond platonic.
Sherlock doesn't comprehend any of this. Perhaps because love is such an abstract concept to him—something to be observed but never, ever experienced. It only makes sense that he wouldn't—and that he doesn't—recognize the alien emotion when it finally takes hold of him. Odd, how he manages to be blind to his own internal workings when everyone else's are as clear as the map of the Underground.
His feelings still show themselves, though, in small, special ways. John is the only one to be given a "please," "thank you," or "sorry." He's the only person that can truly inspire fear in the detective, when endangered.
But the best thing of all, the purest, most innocent, most uncharacteristic gesture to pass between them is a quieter, smaller one. Neither of the participants are fully aware of it, but to onlookers, to Mrs. Hudson and Molly, to Lestrade and Mycroft, it's as vivid as the first touch of sunshine to grace the horizon each morning: John Watson is the only thing in the universe that can make Sherlock Holmes smile.