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John has the disturbing feeling that he's slowly losing his mind.
It isn't exactly a new feeling, which in itself is disturbing. But reality has shifted, twisted, lurched and reformed itself around him so many times before that he's slowly becoming accustomed to the idea. Afghanistan was the worst. The sudden and complete re-organising of everything he is and was.
And yet, he's still standing.
Barely.
Now, back home and away from the unpredictability of war, he's once again being re-acquainted with this feeling. This time it’s over something new.
But not entirely unexpected.
The idea has taken time to evolve. As all ideas do.
If he's being truthful with himself - a practice he likes to try and maintain, even if he usually fails - the idea has been with him since his youth.
It's impossible to pin it down to an exact moment in time, a date, or a moment. It just appeared, slowly caressing and insistently lodging itself in the back of his mind.
He's able to ignore it for the most part. And usually it doesn't really affect him. It's just one of those niggling little "What if...?" situations that refuse to let loose. He shrugs it off and continues on, refuses to let the idea germinate beyond that hypothetical question.
However, the idea decides to reassert itself with alarming clarity and insistence one evening in Baker Street.
He's been living with Sherlock Holmes for several months now - far longer than he'd expected, really. - and they've fallen into what has the slightest resemblance of a routine.
Sherlock's in one of his black moods again. The one that occurs in-between cases and the world’s only consulting detective is made temporarily irrelevant. He's laying sprawled on the couch in his pyjamas, staring dully at the ceiling. The nicotine patches are absent from his arms.
The telly chatters inanely in the background, casting flickers of luminance over the room.
John comes back into the room, a cup of tea in each hand. He looks at the armchairs piled high with papers and quickly discards them as proper seating alternative. He walks over to the couch and gives the other man a hard stare and a quiet clearing of his throat as warning, and Sherlock reluctantly stirs himself from his apathy long enough to sit up and make some room.
John gratefully sits down and passes a cup over to the other man, who accepts it silently.
They're sitting, watching some ridiculous redecorating show and quietly sipping at their tea. Their knees press together through fabric, a small strip of warmth up John's left hand side.
He turns to Sherlock, with the intention of commenting on something, and is distracted instead by the sweep of dark curls over pale grey eyes.
He's come to realise quite quickly he's developing a slight obsession with certain parts of Sherlock.
His eyes are one - Such an unusual shade and shape. John doesn’t think he’s ever seen eyes that particular shade of pale grey-blue ever in his life before. - His hands are another. Long, slender fingers which dance elegantly and expressively through the air, and are capable of such precision and intent. And his mouth -
And just like that, he is reminded of the idea.
The perpetual ‘What if?’
What if he just reached over and brushed the hair back from his friend's face?
What if he just leaned over brushed his lips against Sherlock's?
What if...?
But he doesn't.
He doesn't and part of him is relieved whilst the other sulks disappointedly.
As much as part of him would love to follow through on this half formed idea (well, more than half formed, really), another part gibbers at him in fear. Because though he may not be a genius of Sherlock's standards, he's smart enough to realise that the end result is probably not going to be the complimentary one his brain likes to suggest. There's a chance of course, that everything will turn out fine and dandy, but if not...
Well... if not, then things are just spectacularly fucked.
And not in a good way.
Of a sudden those pale grey eyes flick from the television to glance curiously to meet his own. John feels his eyes slide quickly down and away from that intense stare, away from discovery, and he resolutely takes a too large gulp of his tea.
After the incident with the cabbie, whilst eating Chinese, they'd discussed the mentality and motivations of criminals and society in general.
"Hang on, you said that the cabbie had to be motivated by love? Why by love?"
Sherlock's look is contemptuous as he deftly picks up a piece of pak-choi with his chopsticks. "Obviously."
John can feel his eyebrow raise of it's own volition, "Obviously?"
The other man's sigh is long and exasperated. "Think! People will go to extreme lengths for those they love. It has been well recorded that people, when confronted with a crisis involving a loved one will do things they would never, in other circumstances, possibly hope to achieve." He waves the chopsticks in the air to illustrate his point. "You were in Afghanistan. Think what some of your comrades achieved under extreme duress for the welfare of others." He slurps up some noodles before looking at John pointedly. "You were shot trying to help your friend. What further proof do you need?"
Sitting on the couch in their living room, John replays the conversation in his mind, and whilst at the time he had agreed, he's starting to rethink this theory.
Yes, in some cases, love is definitely a powerful motivating force, but, it can also be horribly paralytic.
He takes another hasty gulp of tea, and stares down at the empty cup.
He sincerely hopes this niggling obsessive thought isn't love.
He really, really, really hopes so.
Because if it is, John Watson is in a whole world of trouble.
~*~