Title: Unsolved Puzzle
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I love BBC so much, I just have to play with their characters.
Summary: Sherlock has found a puzzle he can't solve.
He watched his unsolved puzzle with a wrinkle of exhaustion between his eyebrows. He wondered why this one proved to be the hardest he ever faced.
With a silent sigh he dragged his hands over his face and rested them, fingertips together, under his chin. As he moved around in the sofa, making himself a bit more comfortable, he tried to make as little noise as possible.
The soft snore erupting from John’s throat was accompanied only by the ticking of the kitchen clock. Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on John’s face, studying the movement in his muscles that told of a dream disturbing his sleep. Sherlock knew by now that John’s dreams were never peaceful. He never said anything about it, he even avoided it, but of course Sherlock knew. The worst memory John had was playing over and over in his sleep like an old war movie; the day he stopped being a soldier.
John wasn’t really a complicated man. He was brooding and thoughtful, but didn’t map every step out as carefully as Sherlock did. He loved the heat and exhilaration of danger, but was as good at avoiding it as he was finding it. He was straight-backed, a soldier in his heart, and reacted instantly at any sign of distress. Sherlock could see right through him, and yet he didn’t understand him as easily as he understood others. In fact, he was nothing like the others.
Sherlock had to restrain himself not to reach out a hand and trace John’s upper lip, ever so softly, with his fingers. His hands were trembling, like he needed more of the nicotine patches on his arm.
He could probably sit there all night, and it wouldn’t do him any good. The more he thought about John, the pieces of the puzzle multiplied. The questions that begun like whispers turned into shouting. Why did John stay? Why did he put up with what other people seemed to be unable to? Why was he so plain, and yet so exquisitely intriguing?
Sherlock did not love John. He did not worship him or raise him to the skies. He simply wanted him. Like a craving. Like a desire.
Like the only solution to the puzzle was to have him, and then he would know his answers.