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If he were inclined to take note of such irrelevancies, Sherlock Holmes might have been aware it was Sunday (he could have easily divined it from the muffled trill of “La Vie En Rose” floating from Mrs. Hudson’s apartment, which, for reasons related to her happily-departed husband, sounded through the floorboards only on that particular day of the week. He might have deduced it from the quality of foot traffic on Baker Street: lighter than a weekday and punctuated by the click-clack of the church-going crowd’s formal footwear. He could have reasoned it by the heft of the newspaper John had placed on his lap, after having pulled the Foreign Affairs and Sports sections for himself, of course. Really, it didn’t take a deductive genius to ferret out the current day, what with that same newspaper stating the obvious so blatantly across its header. But the significance of days of the week—of months of the year, or the year itself, for that matter—eluded Sherlock. Or had, until three months and two days ago, when a diminutive former-army doctor had carried a duffel bag containing the entirety of his earthly belongings up the stairs to flat 221B and become a permanent resident therein.
After these short months (or had they been long? Sherlock was at a loss for the way time had simultaneously seemed to expand and contract the moment John Watson limped into his life), the detective could see from the way John lingered over his toast and tea at the kitchen table, looking rumpled in his pajamas and unconsciously biting at his lip as he perused the day’s news, that it was indeed a Sunday. Sherlock felt the prickle of a smile threaten (so accustomed to wearing that haughty, unreadable mask that he plucked the smile at the root before it could blossom embarrassingly full), because when it came to his good doctor, Sunday meant no surgery, no distracting patients, no absence. And wasn’t the absence of John pretty much the worse thing Sherlock could imagine? Yes. Yes, it was. As slow as he’d been to the discovery, Sherlock was now certain his distain for all things idiotic and tedious was no match for the squirming discomfort he experienced when John had the nerve to be somewhere that was else.
It was Sunday, glorious Sunday, Sherlock thought, and he could imagine no better thing in the whole of his great, expansive universe. Anything was possible on a Sunday.
For the moment, he was content to do what Sherlocks do best … which is to observe. John in his natural habitat was a subject most diverting, so for a long while the detective stayed hunched in his chair, spidery limbs tucked up and in, fingers steepled and pressed to lips, eyes unapologetically focused on the enigma, the clash of opposites, that was John Watson. He trailed top to bottom of that stout package, then bottom to top—gathering and sorting data.
The data available was enough to feast on for days. The former army doctor’s hair, for instance. In the time it took John to consume his cooling cup of tea, Sherlock set about and succeeded in determining the exact colour of his flatmate’s hair, leaving aside for the moment the particulars of its texture, cut, style, smell, and taste. (While Sherlock rode out this train of thought—the mystery of the precise hue of John’s hair—he found space in that cranial Taj Mahal to simultaneously plot the circumstances that might allow him to indeed obtain a taste of those beautiful locks. It would require a small dog and three quarts of sour milk. Yes, that would work.)
Though he couldn’t verify the accuracy of his verdict without the assistance of his microscope, by the end of that long cup of tea, Sherlock was fairly certain John’s colouring was not honey, wheat, ash, beige, champagne, or strawberry blonde. It was not cashew, burlap, varnished maple, unbleached cotton, or harvest moon. It wasn’t needy starlet or grungy sex worker. Rather, it was the rich, shimmering, complex colour of the beaches of Lanzarote Island, Spain: golden and glowing with tendrils of volcanic grey woven throughout. And while it held a striking similarity to the shade of twine binding the naked corpse of the boot polisher they’d encountered in Camden last week, in the end, Sherlock resolved that, no, the twine didn’t capture the same quality of reflected light found in both the smooth sand dunes on the island west of Morocco and John’s touchable, tastable hair.
This might have gone on indefinitely—Sherlock cataloguing, organizing, and summarizing John’s various parts ad infinitum—had John not gone and done something so staggering, so irreparably damaging to Sherlock’s concentration that the heretofore silent detective started with a gasp. And that unforgivable thing? that destroyer of worlds? was nothing more than a simple leisurely stretch. For as John reached above his head with a puffing chest and yawning sigh, the hem of his shirt, once resting against a pajama-clad hip, lifted, revealing a lean patch of stomach, the sight of which sparked inside Sherlock a kaleidoscope of feeling he neither understood nor dared examine.
“All right, then?” asked the good doctor as he turned toward Sherlock and lowered his arms.
Sherlock exhaled as that strip of flesh was mercifully hidden from view. The memory of it, though, the memory was enough to raise a flush to his collar, and he tugged at his dressing gown to cover his traitorous skin.
“What? Yes. Fine.”
He slid his gaze to the ceiling feigning engagement with whatever line of thought he was usually engaged in, though if he had ever before cared about anything besides that smooth slip of tan skin, he couldn’t currently recall what that might have been. This was not the time to examine the alien burst of adrenalin that had flooded his bloodstream—not so long as John’s eyes lingered in his direction. He couldn’t risk another humiliating gasp or spreading blush, so he closed his eyes and shuttered his mind to the plague of riches that was John Watson and his damnable skin.
The slide of a chair on floorboards. A huff of breath. That’s all it took for Sherlock to deduce the words that would now flow from his companion’s mouth, and he had never been so thankful for the reprieve he was about to receive.
“Think I’ll step out for a bit. Want to join me?”
Sherlock wasn’t sure what the quality of his voice might reveal, so he said nothing, and that was answer enough for John. He heard the grunt and sensed the curt, military nod before John spoke.
“Right then.”
After a moment, the third floorboard on the stairs leading to John’s room creaked, and Sherlock held his breath until his housemate descended once again—fully dressed—pulled on his coat, and silently exited the flat. Only then did he allow himself a shallow inhalation and the freedom to wonder at what had just happened.
Over the past three months, two days and (let’s not be coy here—we all know the world’s only consulting detective is nothing if not thorough) twelve hours, Sherlock Holmes had somehow become fixated on the unparalleled creature known as John Watson. For a man given to fits of obsession, this was nothing out of the ordinary—only an obsessive mind could catalogue the chemical composition of every known brand of nail varnish or dive into the underbelly of black-market antique book-binding simply because he was curious. But to be so utterly preoccupied by a person—and on page, not a very interesting one at that—was unheard of in Sherlock’s history. Why was he so determined to uncover every possible detail about this man (down to the cellular structure of his toenails and the variable fragrances of his sweat)? Why had he spent the better part of three months devising experiments he’d like to perform on John? When had it become so important to hear the fawning praise of a very short, very average hanger-on?
John isn’t a hanger-on, a sharp voice in his head contradicted. John is vital. John is irreplaceable.
Yes, yes, this was nothing new. John was useful. He carried a gun (and had the will to use it, when necessary). He was more than knowledgable on the subject of anatomy and inspired surprisingly unexpected bursts of insight. He fed Sherlock’s immeasurable ego. He was steady under pressure and loyal to a fault. Yes. Yes. Yes.
But why—and now Sherlock was getting to the crux of the matter—why had a flash of skin made him feel as though he were straddling the top carriage of the London Eye? Why had his mouth gone dry and his palms gone clammy to see that innocuous bit of flesh?
Here is where Sherlock’s very big brain and unparalleled powers of deduction failed him.
If you were to ask anyone, from the imbeciles at New Scotland Yard to Sherlock’s annoyingly-proud brother, they would tell you that Sherlock Holmes does not feel things the way mere mortals feel. He doesn’t ache, doesn’t pine, doesn’t long for the touch of a lover’s hand. He has no need for affection. No desire to rut and writhe with another body, and until this very moment, Sherlock would have been the first to agree. But that brief glimpse of three—nay—two and three quarter inches of firm belly had changed something. Like a chemical reaction, an experiment gone horribly awry, the sight of that smooth, tan expanse had exploded inside of him. And Sherlock Holmes could not parse those feelings. Could not name or explain them.
Which is maybe the worst thing that had ever happened to the man.
…
By the time John returned, grocery bags clutched in one hand and—inexplicably—a paper aeroplane in the other, Sherlock had hunted down his leads and sorted it all out. Well, “sorted” in the sense that on a purely academic level he could now put a name to his feelings (desire). What he was to do about those feelings, he had no idea. Perhaps foolishly, he thought he might carry on as usual and see if that urgent, uncomfortable itch inside his chest went away.
“Hope you like cheddar. Lady at the counter was giving out free samples, and before I knew what was happening, she’d sold me on 800 grams.”
Sherlock grunted his reply and turned toward the window. Now that John was here in the flesh, his plan seemed doomed to fail. Consider the stimulus provided: the smaller man’s economy of movement, his unassuming confidence, his open expression. All of which served to draw Sherlock in, to send a prickle of need through his frame until his finger’s twitched with an urge to touch, explore, investigate.
“Good Lord, what are we going to do with nearly two pounds of aged cheddar?” John murmured into the fridge while pushing aside what Sherlock assumed was his container of dehydrated earthworms. “I don’t even think I remembered to buy crackers.”
Outside, on the stoop of 224 Baker, Sherlock spied a young boy busily engaged in folding page after page of paper. He stopped a passing woman (an office-worker, mother, and amateur fencer by the color of her dress and cut of her hair). The boy said a few words to her; then she laughed, reached into her bag, and dropped a coin in the boy’s hand.
Well then, Sherlock thought as the lady walked away with a flimsy aircraft in hand, That’s the great aeroplane mystery solved; what an incredible use of my talent. I should have John write it up on his blog.
“I’ve never been a fan of ploughmans, but I suppose I could do…”
Sherlock considered what kind of man would spend a pound on what could hardly be half a pence worth of paper. And more importantly, why? John didn’t need the plane. If he wanted one, he could make his own.
Ah. The boy, then. Sentiment.
Yes. John Watson was a good man. A man with a metaphorical heart three sizes too big. A man, by all accounts, too good for the likes of Sherlock Holmes. To his very great dismay, he knew he had no right to such a man. No possible claim.
“Omelets. Omelets are an idea.”
Sherlock listened to the rustling, sorting, and stowing with barely-controlled rage. How could John be so blissfully unaware of the war waging within him? Surely, the man knew a battlefield when he saw one?
“You eaten anything today, Sherlock? Want a cheese omelet?”
Hands balled into fists, Sherlock could contain himself no longer, and he let out a tremendous roar. “Oh for the love of God, would you stop going on about cheese?!”
The sudden silence was so sharp, so violent, Sherlock could feel the fine hairs on the back of his arms shiver and stand at attention. He was aware of the excessiveness of that outburst, even given how widely the pendulum of his moods could swing. He shook his hands loose and turned slowly so as to give himself time to form an excuse for his behavior. The excuse never came, however, as the sight of John deprived him of the ability to speak. Leaning over the fridge door, a carton of eggs in one hand, the ridiculous block of cheese in the other, jaw dropped and eyes wide: he was the very picture of shock.
For the longest time, neither man could find words to break the tension. In the end, it was John—the more confused, less invested of the two—who spoke.
“Okay,” he said, drawing out the word as he gently returned the perishables to the fridge. “No more discussion of cheese. Won’t mention it again.”
Sherlock nodded, his lips pursed. John continued stowing food in silence. Teabags in the cupboard. Loaf of bread in the breadbox. Sherlock almost missed the faint snicker under the rustle of plastic bags.
“Don’t suppose lunchmeats are out of bounds…”
He wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “What?”
“You know—ham on rye, roast beef. Will I be shouted at for mentioning lunchmeat?”
Was John … was John teasing him? Sherlock glared to cover the grin itching at the corners of his mouth.
“How about vegetables? I just want to get the parameters set so I don’t upset you in future. Are carrots fine? Celery?” Earnest eyes still on Sherlock, John balled up the empty shopping bags and stuffed them behind the bin.
“John, you’re being ridiculous.”
“What about chocolate? May I introduce sweets to the morning’s conversation?”
“Yes, yes. Fine,” Sherlock said with a dismissive wave. “It’s all fine. Point taken. I’m sorry for my outburst.”
“Good,” John went on, gliding over the unprecedented apology. “Flatmates should be able to discuss foodstuffs. Wouldn’t want culinary discourse to create any undue tension.”
There was something in that he couldn’t quite suss out. The business like tone, the teasing lightness of John’s eyes gone sharp, the way he seemed to be ramping up for some larger point. Sherlock knew he should prepare himself, but for what, he couldn’t imagine.
John crossed the room, then, taking a few casual strides in Sherlock’s direction. Like an alley cat on guard, Sherlock pulled himself up to a proud, watchful stance.
“Flatmates should be able to discuss all sorts of things, don’t you think?”
John was edging closer and closer, showing no signs of veering from his path. The detective met his gaze; allowing for a hint of weakness, he somehow knew, would be catastrophic.
“Like why you’ve been watching me so closely for the past three months. Why I always seem to feel your eyes on me.”
Sherlock sucked in a breath. John was close now. Too close. From this short distance, Sherlock could smell the wool of John’s jumper—musky and warm—and the inviting citrus of his shampoo. He swallowed, remembering his earlier treatise on John’s hair, never imagining he might collect the desired data in this manner.
“Sometimes,” John whispered, his breath ghosting over Sherlock’s face. “It’s like I can feel you. Like you’re touching me when you watch me like that.”
Sherlock’s heart beat a frantic rhythm as he searched for some plausible excuse, some possible retort to the accusations being thrown his way. But his brain—that massive engine which never seemed to slow down—ground to a halt with a piercing squeal and a puff of smoke.
John steadied his gaze on Sherlock, head tilted up, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips.
“Do you want to touch me, Sherlock?” he whispered. “Is that why you look at me like I’m something to test. Something to taste?”
Perhaps he nodded. Perhaps he groaned. Perhaps he recited the whole of Dante’s Divine Comedy in the original Italian. He could have done all or none of the above. He’d never know because the moment was wiped clean, stamped out by the sudden connection of John Watson’s lips to his own. It was as though time started fresh in that moment, and the only thing that mattered, the only thing that would ever matter, was the taste of John’s breath and the soft warmth of his mouth.
Before Sherlock could collect himself enough to suss out what one did when another man kissed you, John had pulled away. The fire inside Sherlock’s breast flared hot and bright, though the incendiary spark—that mouth! those lips!—had retreated.
John grasped Sherlock’s right hand with his left. His calluses were rough and reassuring, and Sherlock stroked them affectionately.
“Thought so.” His smile stretched wide. “Can we stop messing about now? I’m not much one for wasting time.”
Sherlock vocalized in the affirmative—not precisely a yes, but close enough—and that seemed good enough for the army doctor. The idea struck Sherlock that he was close to having everything he’d been wishing for, that his desires were there for the taking. He raised a hand and stroked through John’s locks. John sighed and leaned into him. Perfect. Just perfect.
“I’d very much like to taste your hair, John.”
The man sputtered and coughed. “What?”
“This was a wonderful idea. You’re truly brilliant, you know that?” Sherlock continued to pet John’s hair, noting how coarse it was, how thick. He couldn’t wait to examine a bit under his microscope. He was so engaged, he hardly heard John’s resigned groan and the “nutter” he grumbled out.
“Couldn’t have been that easy, could it?”
Sherlock ignored the complaint as he worked through his plans for the testing and smelling and tasting of each of John Watson’s glorious parts. Though for all that John suffered that day (and many days thereafter), Sherlock always did make it up to him in the end.