A/N Wow, that last one was one of the best-received chapters yet. Thanks a ton!
Thanks to MapleleafCameo, Wavewizard19878, Hummingbird1759, starrysummernights, 666BloodyHell666, hjohn302, Natalie Nallareet, Sherlocked Girl on Fire, linguisticRenegade, sparrowismyhummingbird, Guest, Orchfan, and johnsarmylady
Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.
LXXXV. Spiral
The expression of 'falling in love' was never going to apply properly to Sherlock Holmes. He doesn't fall anywhere unintentionally, not even to his own death, and such a perfect streak would never be broken by something as dull and mundane as a romantic interest.
Romantic interest. Partner. Lover. Never words that he expected to apply to himself. It wasn't that he scoffed at love in the way that he did at some things—it was a necessary component in life, required for, or at least helpful in, reproduction and maintaining of a population. It was things like that which he could understand with ease, facts, figures, numbers, definitions. Love—an intense emotion used to pass on the genes of a race. Easy enough.
'Falling in love,' though—something like that, he simply rolled his eyes at. Nobody fell anywhere. They walked headfirst into a wall of obsession, something that they absolutely could have avoided if they'd kept their eyes open.
And so it is that, when the time finally comes around for Sherlock to encounter love, himself, he does keep his eyes open. Wide open, taking in every detail, every sign in himself as well as John, noting the fondness, followed by affection, and then, dangerously, the sweet ache of caring. He skitters around the edge of such an emotion, initially. Tries to keep his distance, keep his dignity, stop himself from growing close enough for anything about John to truly matter. That doesn't work, which is only to be expected, really. The damned man cares about him too much already, cares about Sherlock, and he shows it in the strongest of ways, in his devotion and loyalty. The light in his eyes whenever he lays them upon Sherlock is a unique one, and one that the detective is far too perceptive to ignore.
Still, he tries to stay away. He knows what a thing like this could do to him, do to his work and therefore the safety of London itself. Sherlock Holmes is too important of a man to find himself surrounded by love, whether he fall in or approach it otherwise.
And yet John pulls him closer, unwillingly, perhaps, unconsciously, wrapping Sherlock like a string around his finger, and even as the detective tries futilely, desperately to stay away, it never works. Of course it never works. He inches closer and closer, creeping around the circumference of his affection, but inevitably drawn into a tight spiral, until a final sharp curve—a curve involving a n elaborate hoax, a hospital roof and the threat of a madman—secures the thread, sends him straight into the middle of the pattern he's created, solidly on the point that he's spent so much time trying to avoid.
And then he is in love, undoubtedly, unwillingly, helplessly, and he can't do anything about it. But, as he'll always insist, he never fell anywhere. It was a slow process, gradual, unique like everything else about him is, was, and ever will be.