Categories > Books > Sherlock Holmes
I walked through the door of the flat and collapsed on the sofa, completely exhausted from working on Sherlock’s newest case all day. It was a rather intricate one, involving a monkey, a traveling circus, and no less than 8 linked murders. Moments after I had closed my eyes, trying to steal a few moments rest, Sherlock came barging in, long black jacket billowing behind him as he stormed into the apartment.
The brown haired man ripped off his scarf and jacket and tossed them on the floor, and began stalking back and forth across the living room. He was muttering, which occasionally escalated into yelling, about the idiocy of the police, and why couldn’t they just let him do as he wished, and why must they always restrain his genius. Now, most people might find this sort of self absorbed raving a nuisance, but on the contrary I found it endearing, as I found anything that Sherlock did.
I still hated to admit to myself what I had done. I had fallen in love with my flatmate, one of the most unattainable men to ever exist. Actually THE most unattainable. I was pretty sure he hadn’t felt anything even reminiscent of love in his entire life, or lust for that matter. It was a common theory that the man pacing the floor in front of me was asexual, and it killed me knowing that. Of course, no one really knew as no one wanted to broach the subject with said man. He would undoubtedly turn it around into some scathing remark aimed towards to the inquirer.
This did not stop or even hinder my feelings for the detective, however. If anything, it only made them grow further. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. Well, maybe hopelessness has the same effect.
In that moment, watching the object of my affections rant and rave in front of me, I felt I could not contain myself much longer. I had been in the army, and had learned there how to contain my emotions, but even with that the floodgates were straining and ready to burst. To this day, I still do not know why I did what I did next. I got up out of my chair, grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and spun him around, and did something I had promised I would never do. I confessed.
“Look Sherlock, I have something I need to say to you. And I know that you think you’re above emotions, that you’re too good for something so mundane. I know you’re married to your work, I know you probably can never feel something as intense as raging fury or crushing sadness or beautiful love. I know its a miracle I even climbed so high in your mind to even be considered a friend. I know all of these things far too well, and I know that what I’m going to say next will probably ruin everything we’ve spent so long making, this carefully constructed relationship, but fuck it. Fuck it all.
“I’ve had enough of this guessing and wondering and self doubt and tearing myself to shreds over my own suspicions. Sherlock, I fucking love you. I love you, with your arrogance and your mess and your playing violin for days on end and your heads in the fridge. I love every inch of you, and even though you say you aren’t a hero, you are the most amazing person I’ve ever met. And I know as soon as I shut up, you are going to reject me and crush my heart, but I don’t care. I will still love you. I will always love you. And you may reject me, but you won’t leave me. You need me. You’ve said it yourself, you’d be lost without your blogger. So go ahead, crush me with your emptiness and your inability to feel love. Because I’ll still be standing right here.”
After I had finished my speech, I stood there trying to re catch my breath and prepare myself for the inevitable rejection. But Sherlock did not respond to my confession. He simply stood and stared at me, a shell shocked expression on his face. For the first time since I had known him, he looked genuinely surprised, with jaw hanging open and eyes wide. He practically staggered backwards and collapsed into his favorite armchair, head hanging back limply.
“Sherlock?” I asked tentatively, “Are you alright?”
Sherlock’s face slowly broke out into a large grin, and he jumped up and rushed towards me, a playful light in his eyes that I usually only saw when he had found a particularly interesting case. He didn’t say anything, simply walked up to me, planted his hands on my shoulders and gave me the lightest of kisses.
“You really ought not fret so much, John,” Sherlock breathed, his face impossibly close to mine, “Stress is really not good for you. God knows you already get enough of it living with me.”
“So what are we now?” I asked, still unsure of his stance on what I had just revealed.
“We are whatever you want us to be,” the tall, lean man in front of me responded, “I don’t have much experience in this field, as it is I was only barely able to register my feelings towards you, and I am still wrestling with understanding them. I am handing over all control in this relationship.”
I was surprised at that. Sherlock always claimed to know the answers, even when he was clueless, and I did not see why this situation might change that. Along the same lines, he never, and I meant never, let anyone else make his decisions for him. If you would try, you would be rewarded by a temper tantrum worthy of a four year old girl.For him to even consider letting me take control of something, I knew he had to mean what he was saying.
“Are you sure about this?” I nearly whispered, “I mean, you’re always so detached from everything, never showing an ounce of emotion. What changed?”
“Nothing changed about me,” Sherlock responded, “I just never had a reason to feel anything. I never had anybody to feel anything towards. This world is full of idiots, and none of them can stand being around me anyway. But you, John, you’re different somehow.”
“You’ve called me an idiot before though,” I said, a smile on my face now.
“Yes,” Sherlock chuckled, “But now you’re my idiot.”
The brown haired man ripped off his scarf and jacket and tossed them on the floor, and began stalking back and forth across the living room. He was muttering, which occasionally escalated into yelling, about the idiocy of the police, and why couldn’t they just let him do as he wished, and why must they always restrain his genius. Now, most people might find this sort of self absorbed raving a nuisance, but on the contrary I found it endearing, as I found anything that Sherlock did.
I still hated to admit to myself what I had done. I had fallen in love with my flatmate, one of the most unattainable men to ever exist. Actually THE most unattainable. I was pretty sure he hadn’t felt anything even reminiscent of love in his entire life, or lust for that matter. It was a common theory that the man pacing the floor in front of me was asexual, and it killed me knowing that. Of course, no one really knew as no one wanted to broach the subject with said man. He would undoubtedly turn it around into some scathing remark aimed towards to the inquirer.
This did not stop or even hinder my feelings for the detective, however. If anything, it only made them grow further. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. Well, maybe hopelessness has the same effect.
In that moment, watching the object of my affections rant and rave in front of me, I felt I could not contain myself much longer. I had been in the army, and had learned there how to contain my emotions, but even with that the floodgates were straining and ready to burst. To this day, I still do not know why I did what I did next. I got up out of my chair, grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and spun him around, and did something I had promised I would never do. I confessed.
“Look Sherlock, I have something I need to say to you. And I know that you think you’re above emotions, that you’re too good for something so mundane. I know you’re married to your work, I know you probably can never feel something as intense as raging fury or crushing sadness or beautiful love. I know its a miracle I even climbed so high in your mind to even be considered a friend. I know all of these things far too well, and I know that what I’m going to say next will probably ruin everything we’ve spent so long making, this carefully constructed relationship, but fuck it. Fuck it all.
“I’ve had enough of this guessing and wondering and self doubt and tearing myself to shreds over my own suspicions. Sherlock, I fucking love you. I love you, with your arrogance and your mess and your playing violin for days on end and your heads in the fridge. I love every inch of you, and even though you say you aren’t a hero, you are the most amazing person I’ve ever met. And I know as soon as I shut up, you are going to reject me and crush my heart, but I don’t care. I will still love you. I will always love you. And you may reject me, but you won’t leave me. You need me. You’ve said it yourself, you’d be lost without your blogger. So go ahead, crush me with your emptiness and your inability to feel love. Because I’ll still be standing right here.”
After I had finished my speech, I stood there trying to re catch my breath and prepare myself for the inevitable rejection. But Sherlock did not respond to my confession. He simply stood and stared at me, a shell shocked expression on his face. For the first time since I had known him, he looked genuinely surprised, with jaw hanging open and eyes wide. He practically staggered backwards and collapsed into his favorite armchair, head hanging back limply.
“Sherlock?” I asked tentatively, “Are you alright?”
Sherlock’s face slowly broke out into a large grin, and he jumped up and rushed towards me, a playful light in his eyes that I usually only saw when he had found a particularly interesting case. He didn’t say anything, simply walked up to me, planted his hands on my shoulders and gave me the lightest of kisses.
“You really ought not fret so much, John,” Sherlock breathed, his face impossibly close to mine, “Stress is really not good for you. God knows you already get enough of it living with me.”
“So what are we now?” I asked, still unsure of his stance on what I had just revealed.
“We are whatever you want us to be,” the tall, lean man in front of me responded, “I don’t have much experience in this field, as it is I was only barely able to register my feelings towards you, and I am still wrestling with understanding them. I am handing over all control in this relationship.”
I was surprised at that. Sherlock always claimed to know the answers, even when he was clueless, and I did not see why this situation might change that. Along the same lines, he never, and I meant never, let anyone else make his decisions for him. If you would try, you would be rewarded by a temper tantrum worthy of a four year old girl.For him to even consider letting me take control of something, I knew he had to mean what he was saying.
“Are you sure about this?” I nearly whispered, “I mean, you’re always so detached from everything, never showing an ounce of emotion. What changed?”
“Nothing changed about me,” Sherlock responded, “I just never had a reason to feel anything. I never had anybody to feel anything towards. This world is full of idiots, and none of them can stand being around me anyway. But you, John, you’re different somehow.”
“You’ve called me an idiot before though,” I said, a smile on my face now.
“Yes,” Sherlock chuckled, “But now you’re my idiot.”
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