A/N: *Spoilers through Reichenbach Fall, if you even care.*

Sherlock Holmes had never felt this way before.

Then again, he had never been in a relationship—a real, honest-to-God relationship, something more than sex—before. Even those other 'things' had been limited and rather brief.

He had not been expecting anything quite so overwhelming as this.

It had begun with Irene.

Irene Adler—the 'Woman'—had been the first. Not love, no. Sherlock still doubted whether or not his feelings for Irene were beyond a strange mix of sexual attraction and intellectual respect. But it had been the first time he considered the opportunity of a relationship.

But Irene was messy, Irene was complicated, Irene was…Irene.

She had been the first person to touch him.

What he meant was not as if she 'touched his soul', not anything so disgustingly sentimental. Not even just a touch that made his blood boil and mind swirl with lust. It was a touch that meant something—physical contact that was beyond physicality. Beyond such nonsense things as sentiment and lust—it was love, or at the very least, something very close.

But with everything surrounding them—Moriarty, Mycroft, Her Majesty—he hadn't entertained the idea long-term.

What remained after their sporadic and intense encounters was something that resembled a friendship, but had less interaction. Respect, longing, and care. He made sure she was safe, even when it seemed impossible.

But after Irene, now that was different. It was…

Possible. Wanted. Mutual. Founded.

What he had with John was something entirely different, yet so much the same.

He and John belonged with each other—whether they were together or not. They complimented each other too well for it to be mere coincidence that he stumbled—literally—into Sherlock's life when he did. It was the closest either of them came to believing in fate.

And while he tried to dismiss things like accidental brushes or too long glances, he couldn't.

They were too obviously meaningful.

He figured what he had with John was the same as it had ever been—that what had changed was his perception of it. Perception was what determined how you saw reality.

This reality was something else to Sherlock.

Sherlock had never preferred men over women, or vice versa. He preferred someone with intelligence, passion, drive, and faith—not in God, not even in him, but in themselves.

And while at some times it seemed as if Dr. John Watson was lacking more of these than he actually had, that was clearly the opposite.

He had all of them—when he needed them. Which is what mattered, that he had them when he needed them.

Sherlock admired that, not that he'd ever admitted it. Not when John saved his life (any of the times), not even when he'd been about to take his own life.

But he'd made a decision, up on that rooftop, moments after he had thrown down his last connection to John.

He had to live, to make sure John knew how he felt.

He'd never considered John someone he was physically attracted to, but he found the man endlessly fascinating. He wanted to continue being fascinated.

So he decided not to die.

Honestly, until that moment, he had been completely willing to give his life for the lives of his friends. Even with the back-up plan in place, even though he knew Moriarty's men would never know the difference, he had almost jumped off that building.

But, split seconds before his life could be given, he knew.

John had to know. Whether it was just continuing on as they had been, or it became something more—John had always been insistent that he wasn't gay, but Sherlock had ideas that were at least partially contradictory—he wanted to live, to see the outcome of this change of events.

Skin was important, he decided, because it was the canvas on which our emotions were painted for the world to see. Whether it was lust, or innocence, guilt, familiarity, comfort, or anything in between—the flesh was our interpreter.

And Sherlock had something he wanted to share.

A/N: Weird thought process here. I feel as if the sort-of-thesis changes somewhere in the middle, then attempts to switch back. I don't know. Essay-writing jargon, ugh. Damn English classes. On a separate note, I never really felt Sherlock and Irene were supposed to end up together—just that they were kind of a touchstone for each other. I feel as if they were meant to be friends in the end, and that's why he saved her. Thoughts? Review?