A Study in Sentimentality – Two
If there was one thing Sherlock would never admit to anyone, it was how wonderful he found John's penchant for sentimentality. Usually it was a boring, ridiculous and utterly intolerable crutch which the young man avoided like the plague; it was the flag of the losing side, the motto of the ones who hurt.
Sherlock, being a sociopath – albeit high functioning – often looked gladly and readily past all forms of this emotional hindrance. It was avoidable. Or had been, before John Watson had come limping into his life like the missing integer in some life-changing mathematical equation.
Only a month before, he would have found a blank space there; now there is a living mass lying beside him. Short and ashen-haired, muscled and full of everything he lacks, Sherlock opens his eye to find his lover, his doctor, his friend still asleep beside him. For a moment, Sherlock just studies. No observing, no analyzing, just watching the steady rise and fall of the man's chest; the rise and fall of a slow tide.
Now, as the morning light penetrates his sleep-induced unconsciousness, the dark-haired detective opens a dusted eye; looking upon the living exception.
Kissing someone awake had always seemed to be a boring, ridiculous and tedious sentimental habit to Sherlock.
That was before he had John Watson in his bed.