It was his expressions, I think. The minute adjustments of his features, the impossible darkening and lightening of his eyes. But then again, it could have been his hands. Long, elegant- yet still coarse and rough. A man's hands. Perhaps it was this which was making me so unsure- the inability to simply decide what it was about John Watson that drew me to him. And indecision was not a merry friend.
I glanced yet again at my silent room mate. He was reading the newspaper- surprise surprise. I was sorely tempted to make a loud noise, or tip his tea into his lap, simply to see how he would react- but I didn't. No matter how small the knife was, I couldn't stab John Watson.
The page of his newspaper rustled. I twitched- that was what people did, wasn't it? Jump at noises? Apparently. John didn't register my presence beyond the point of a small grunt he'd made when I walked in. He hadn't even noticed my new scarf. True, it was exactly the same as the old one, but it was less tattered, and didn't have 'made in China on the label.' Surely any moron would notice that.
I realised my thoughts had jumped. Mind you, they seemed to be on a permanent 'spring' setting, so this wasn't too unusual. I returned to thinking about John.
His collar was crooked- so he'd gotten dressed hurriedly this morning. But he was still in the apartment, so he wasn't going to see a girl. In a hurry to read the newspaper, then. I saw an article on the front page- 'Soldier pensions to be cut, claims Prime minister.'- and suppressed a smile. That liberal moron hadn't even noticed that his bodyguard was in love with him. Surely any dolt with half a cortical lobe would spot those dilated pupils and clenched hands a mile away.
"Haah, what? Did you talk?"
John sighed, seemingly disappointed for some reason, though I couldn't think why. Another thing to add to my list of why he made me uncomfortable. I realised that sounds were coming out of his mouth, picked at random a language that they were likely to be in, and decided to grace him with my good opinion.
"...by 23 percent! Can you believe it? I hardly get by as it is, even though we share" John made little comma signs with his fingers. "The bloody rent. Can you believe it?"
I carefully arranged my face into a sympathetic expression. John stopped whining for a moment and studied me worriedly. "Oi, Sherlock? Are you alright? You look a bit...contorted."
I stopped trying to act like a human, and instead relaxed my face into its usual position.
"Just wonderful, John. Just wonderful. In fact, I'm so wonderful I sometimes surprise myself."
John made a derisive noise, and carried on moaning about his life. I tuned him out, nodding at the appropriate moments. To use his favourite expression, he was bloody annoying at times. But then, without giving me time to put up defences, he was perfect. God forbid I was ever too close to him when this happened, or I would have some serious explaining on my hands. Hands. John. Hands. Lovely. I closed my eyes- or tried to. They were already shut. I frowned, I think, one of my most used expressions. Even with my optical senses closed, I could sense that the room was dark, and that John wasn't there. Hmm. Interesting.
Opening my eyes, I glanced around. The room was cold, empty, and utterly John-free. Something wet slid silently down my cheek. The room, no matter who was there, would always be empty.
John Watson wasn't mine to have.