A/N Back to the normal length, woop!
Thanks to 666BloodyHell666, Hummingbird1759, johnsarmylady, MapleleafCameo, and Motaku1235
Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.
LXXI. Obsession
God, Sherlock is beautiful.
Maybe John shouldn't think about it as often as he does. Maybe it's disgusting, indecent, shallow of him… but it can't be shallow, can it? Really, it's not as if that's the only thing that he appreciates about the brilliant consulting detective. He's charming (in that ridiculous way that manages to be both ignorant and arrogant, but somehow attractive all the same), he's a genius, he has a heart whether or not he'll admit it—and that heart seems to show itself for John more often than anyone else, which certainly can't be bad.
But he's so incredibly gorgeous, at the same time, and John finds that it always distracts him, even—especially—when he doesn't want it to. He didn't think Sherlock a good-looking man the first time he saw him, just a rather odd one, pale and mop-haired with those strange, strange eyes. Now, the eyes are the center of it all—eyes that he swears contain supernovas and constellations inside their misty green depths. They're not always that soft pine green, either—sometimes, they shine a hard, vivid blue, neon-bright and X-ray sharp, and other times it's an unobtrusive grey like the London fogs that they've run through together so many times, the chill of the night warded off by the warm fire raging inside both of them, kindled by excitement and adrenaline and perhaps something else, something that neither of them can come near naming.
And the face—God, the face. That flawless, creamy skin, molded into a strong jaw and a luxuriously long neck, absolutely cutting cheekbones and a full, surprisingly innocent-looking mouth. All finished off by the silky perfection of his curls, piled high atop his head, more often than not springing off in all sorts of untamed directions. He messes them up even farther every time that he runs his fingers through them, and John loves it whenever he does—the gesture, usually accompanied by a hand placed on his hip, elbow bent out at the side, and a soft biting of his bottom lip completing the portrait of pensiveness.
Hell, John loves everything about Sherlock.
He loves it enough for it to follow him, day and night, always there, a quiet, lurking desire that he's not quite willing to put voice to—not even his mental voice; such an action is too risky, whether or not the results be uttered aloud. He doesn't want the words to fully take shape in his mind, and he thinks that, at least to some degree, that just might be because it's better this way. Better to keep it a puzzle, a tempting, fleeting question, mysterious and just out of reach. It's more magical, that way, after all. More forbidden.
Mysterious. Tempting. Magical. Forbidden.
All words that, and John can't possibly deny this, describe Sherlock himself.
Alright, so maybe he's just a bit obsessed, but can he really be blamed for such a thing?