Sherlock Holmes Intensities of Blue

"Good evening", I said as he entered the door, expecting something, either the usual inquiry or a simple greeting. Instead, there was a grim tone on his voice when he murmured back. Never seen such a quiet and absent reaction coming from him. He took his trench coat off and passed it to me, so I could hang it on the rack, and left silently.

Sixth night in a row. I knew I shouldn't be surprised, but all I could do was sighing.

We shared a small flat, good enough for two people: one, as small as me, who didn't need much space, and the very introverted other one. There were two bedrooms, mine and his, as well as a kitchen and a small sitting room, filled with books and two settees, in which we sat apart from each other. No word was said for an agonizing amount of time. The air seemed lumping and the ceiling above our heads, heavy.

The silence was only broken when my dear friend stood up from his laying position and walked to other side of the room. I heard the low, melancholy wailings of his violin and new he was then pondering over a new problem. He was an introverted, as I mentioned before, and introverts enjoy personal activities to evade. Playing was one of his. His favorite pieces included Mendelssohn's Lieder ohne Worte (or simply Lieder, as he used to call it), along Charles Hallé's concert.

"Myself, I am fonder of the cello" I'd normally say with the entire and unique purpose of annoying him. However, at that specific moment I didn't mention anything at all.

There was a pile of books right next to me, which contained some copies of The Hobbit, L'Étranger and many others of his favorite collection. He really liked when I read him poetry, Byron in particular. I couldn't see anything of special about the Romantic poet's patriotism and love for Greece, still his words were able to make my companion's eyes glitter even on the toughest moments.

The idea that came from the core of my mind was risky, yet I held the tiny yellow book between my hands and nervously started:

"_Bright be the place of thy soul!_"

I could feel my hands shaking nervously. Words fell in an incontrollable sequence out of my mouth.

He didn't make a single movement, still playing ceaselessly.

I closed the book with a silent thud. He was so capable of being nonchalant sometimes that could hurt; not that it was his fault being like that, a man can't avoid his own traits and those were his. Whichever were his motivations, I understood them but couldn't abstain myself from letting escape a short gasp.

I leafed through a bit. Perhaps that just wasn't the adequate poem, I considered. My eyes searched quickly, roughly; after a few seconds, they stopped searching and one special line hit me. I giggled unconsciously, for it was the perfect one.

He had very intimidating eyes, to begin with. Light and dark, mysterious and revealing; hooded shaped and veiled by bushy eyebrows. Always analyzing, gazing at something unknown - the reflection of things he'd just seen was crystal clear in them. They created a contrast with the rest of his visage that was distinct.

I got up on my feet, initiating again, this time from the top of my lungs:

"_Oh darkly, deeply, beautifully blue,_

_As someone somewhere sings about the sky,_

_And I, ye learned ladies, say of you."_

I decided to pause and take a deep breath, waiting for his observation. There was a long moment of silence, after he stopped playing.

I continued:

"_They say your stockings are so (Heaven knows why,_

_I have examined few pair of that hue)_"

The violin was put aside. A sign: he wasn't resisting. Or could it be that I was wrong? Of course, I wasn't as exceptional in the art of investigating as my dear friend, however I knew like the palm of my hand: he was definitely warm inside; though his voice and expression could show another person, he was lovely.

I tried to go on, leaning forward over the book, coordinating my thoughts.

"_Blue as the garter which serenely lie… _" I gasped. The sentence was stuck in my throat, my eyes couldn't stop raising, analyzing his moves with intensity. He still refused to look at me, that stubborn lad.

"_Which serenely lie round the…"_

Perhaps because of what was being said (it simply didn't match my dear friend), perhaps because of my loud thumping heart, that pounded with feelings of much unfamiliarity, perhaps because of his reaction… I couldn't keep on reading. Something wasn't right. Byron's words were his alone. They could not translate what was boiling under my surface.

I closed the book, putting it aside, and closed my lids as well. I did not hesitate:

"Blue as the feelings that gather within me."

"Blue as your eyes, Sherlock Holmes."

I felt a warm hand touching mine with kindness. But it was something else that surprised me: a soft, hasty touch of lips.

His smell was that of comfort. Like an afternoon at the beach, the weary sun pitching its last strokes of light, our shoulders touching and not a single word to be heard. The smell of a few loving memories.

I opened my lids again only to see Sherlock right in front of me, smiling, _blushing_.

"Sherlock, are you blushing?"

"No, John, I'm just…." He laughed.

"Wow, that's very impolite, did you know that?"

"No, I meant… That was a good laugh, the kind of laugh that people use when they're about to burst with love. Now continue!"

We sat together (hands still intertwined, I noticed) and I mouthed the few words I remembered from memory:

"_Give, oh, give me back my heart!_"

After finishing, I reclined my head on his shoulder. We stayed in such position for a while. Sherlock playing with my knuckles. Me, I simply watched, trying to record every second, every breath, every movement… of it all. The way my fingers ran through his hair (raven-black locks) and his delicate, almost shy, touch.

It was him who first broke the sound barrier.

"Really?"

"What?" I looked him in the eye.

"My irises are really as blue as the Mediterranean Sea?"

I giggled. Now I was sure of being in love with a complete fool!

He smiled showing his teeth for the first time since we had ever met. Not the typical ironical smirk, but something honest. There was loyalty sweating through his body.

_"_Yes. Though I must admit, the left one is slightly bluer." I played.

He then approached his face into mine, giving me one second kiss.


End file.

Sherlock Holmes, Hurt-Comfort, Romance