A/N: Sorry for the lack of updates, I'm having grossly annoying writers block as of late and I have unfortunately misplaced the flash-drive which holds all my unpublished shorts. So this is new stuff just written last night, inspired by the slam poetry performance I attended yesterday.

If you don't know what slam poetry is, I feel sorry for you. It's basically performance poetry and besides that it is indescribably brilliant; go discover it now it is worth it. It is, in my opinion, some of the most beautiful usage of language ever. Please go look some up on youtube or something, you will not be disappointed… Or just PM me and ask for recommendations!

Thanks to all reviewers and you lovely people who have followed and favorite'd (not a verb, I know) this story. You make me smile and the sun shine a little brighter.

A Study in Poetry

"I do hope the killer shows up soon, I hate waiting and I definitely hate bars."

Sherlock spat out the last word like it was the most disgusting thing he had ever held on his tongue; and he had drank that tea even with the accidental eye-ball floating in it. John simply smiled happily and drank a bit more of his pint. Since the detective had only limited the ex-soldier to one drink-they were on a case, work came first, blah blah blah- he figured he may as well make it last. He may very well need it if Sherlock was just going to keep complaining.

They were investigating the murder of young writers, specifically poets. Each body was left with notes, in the victims writing, which had on them shakily scrawled lines of verse. The reason for their loitering around the pub tonight was the weekly open-mic; this cool autumn night's theme was, as luck-or fate- would have it, poetry.

Sherlock watched the crowd of young adults shuffling about, discussing the boring subjects which seemed to sustain their boring lives, finding nothing particularly off about any. Many piercings and unnaturally dyed hair, big glasses and dresses… perhaps John and I should have worn disguises, he thinks briefly. John would look wonderful with a beard and a scarf… Focus.

Tuning out all the annoying chatter and the depressing drivel which the crowd was being subjected to by an all-too preteen voice, Sherlock observed everything.

John, on the other hand, simply watched for anything or anyone who looked suspicious.

He knew he could never be as good at deduction as his flat-mate but he certainly knew he wasn't a complete waste of space; sometimes he helped a great deal. Like saving lives and shite like that. You know, just the minor stuff. With sigh he gingerly sipped the amber liquid. Some nervous teenage poet had just walked off the small, dimly lit stage and was soon replaced by another.

While this one also seemed a tad nervous she had to be in that more awkward age between teenager and adult; John had hated those years the most. All family fights, college tuition and unaccomplished childhood dreams. He had wanted to be a superhero… but heroes don't exist.

He wondered what the girl with the wheat-colored hair and tremulous fingers would read. What he hadn't expected was for her voice to ring out clearly, unwavering though her fingers seemed to shiver.

"There is a lightning in your eyes and it reminds me of waking up, that first morning greeting which blinds you like a spotlight; your eyes are two dying stars and their ultra-violet irises are an explosion."

Looking to the consulting detective beside him, the one with the surprisingly bright eyes, John wondered if Sherlock was listening. Never stopping at all, those silvery green beacons of brilliance don't ever cease their exploration; the doctor figures it's pointless to interrupt so instead he listens.

"There is a winter grace to your touch, it is frigid and sparkling like snow in the sun. It-you- invited me in, looked feather-pillow soft but instead of resting under me you melted through my clothes and seeped through fabric to chill charm and cherish me in your cold arms. I didn't feel frozen."

The young woman wasn't half bad and as John listened he found himself looking more and more closely at the tall body beside him, rather than the crowd around him. He remembered the first time Sherlock had held his hand, only for a few seconds, only to move it off of the door handle when John had threatened to leave after a row… it had been exhilarating. Like the tanned hand was made out of some precious metal and Sherlock's fingers had electric currents running through them. It'd been an uncomfortable, unpredictable and unarguably tempting thought to simply hold that hand for hours.

"There is a fire-breather hiding in your belly; your words are scorching me. They mark my skin like a brand; I am yours"

John is no longer watching the girl on the stage with the intensifying voice he only hears the words in a whisper as he stares at the curly-haired man beside him.

"Your voice says pull my string see what falls out of my mouth; feed me sweet nothings in my ear like quarters in the slot of a vending machine"

He wonders if Sherlock can hear the words projected through the speakers on the wall, wonders if he is thinking about John while he listens. Unlikely… The shorter man, apparently, has no choice in the matter.

"I can't promise you you'll always love what comes out of me but I can promise what comes out will always love you like the automatic love of an ignorant child which still hasn't heard of the big bad wolf known as loss; I have no filter when it comes to unashamed infatuation, I have nothing to eliminate the feelings before they fall through the cracks…"

The blonde man lets out a ragged breath; he hadn't noticed he had been holding the breath inside him.

"There is no strainer for me to catch these feelings, catch them like you caught me falling down caught me before I could fall into a puddle caught me before I could fall into myself; I am a flower growing on top of the tallest hill and you are the only waters which grow high enough to flood into me."

He sets down his glass of beer-still over halfway full- he doesn't know why he turns towards Sherlock so slowly.

"You drown me in you and even in the deluge raining down everything I was afraid to need, I still can breath I don't choke on it, how can I choke on something so weightless?"

His left hand was tentatively reaching towards the black suit-coat to touch the detective in some way; the overwhelming sensation of want was utterly all-encompassing.

"You engulf me in the fire of your belly, you freeze me in the cold of your winter and you explode inside of me like the sun, filling me with candescence."

Hand makes contact with arm and the face attached to the latter swiftly turns. Silver meets blue and they simply watch each other, studying. A killer is forgotten, a feeling discovered...

"You drown me in you, I am drowning in you; up the creek without a paddle this aqua-blue lazy river I once floated on in engulfed in gold hues of splendor."

Ever so slowly the hand on the arm travels upwards past bicep and shoulder to collar-bone and sinewy neck.

"There was a lightning in your eyes…"

Round, tanned face moved closer to the angular long one, both seemingly on their own accord. It happened too fast to stop and too slow to be unintentional; the meeting of full lips on thin had the force of a kick to each of the men's guts. It was light and fast, a mere brushing of lips to savor the sensation of texture, really. John shuddered almost imperceptibly as he felt the tip of a tongue, and not his own, on his bottom lip

"I was helplessly blinded by the explosion. All I saw in my eyes now was you."

All of a sudden there was an eruption of applause and for a brief moment, Sherlock Holmes had been confused, had guessed, and thought the ovation was for John Watson and himself.

A/N: The featured poem in this is one I've written, titled 'Burning in Bliss; I Drown in You'. If you would like to read more of my poetry (there is quite a bit…) or other works of non-fandom related fiction, PM me and I can give you a link to my wordpress blog. As writing is what I intend to do with my life I'd love any support or feedback y'all can hand to me. It never passes unnoticed and never fails to leave me smiling. Much love and cookies for all!