just you and I

John + Sherlock

I think about it often; what our life could be. You'd look at me and smile. It would be okay for me to reach for your hand, our fingers laced together in unity. I wouldn't wish for the night to be over just so the morning would bring you to my door. You'd already be here; empty tumblers left on the coffee table from the night before and coffee brewing in the pot at sunrise. Nothing would be off-limits, conversations would run deep into the middle of the night as the slither of silver light seeps in through the window panes.

You'd come downstairs, still in your pyjamas and navy-blue dressing gown; your black curls an inseparable tangle. My hands ran through them the night before. You'd see me looking out of the kitchen window, oblivious to you. You'd smile, walk over to me and wrap your arms around my waist. I'd lean back into you as you hum a good morning into the crook of my neck. You'd linger just long enough for me to miss you when you let go. You'd grab a mug from the cupboard and pour it full of tea; watery and disgusting, but you'd insist on drinking it to prove a point that you're more than capable of looking after yourself.

We'd sit at the dining table but you wouldn't eat breakfast; you never do. Sometimes you manage a bite of toast, but nothing else. Instead, you'd insist on brushing your leg against mine and talking about your latest scientific venture or murder investigation while I hang on your every word.

Eventually, you'd stalk back up the stairs and mumble something about taking a shower. I'd follow you. To save water. Why else? Your hands. My hands. Bare skin pressed against the cold tiles. The clatter of the soap bottles on the floor. Forget about those.

I'd dress in something low-key. But you'd dress in a suit. Black trousers, white shirt – the top few buttons unfastened – a black jacket. I'd tie your scarf while you protest in a childlike manner. You'd put your coat on and turn the collar up against your face in the dramatic way you always have. I'd throw mine over my arm.

You'd hail a taxi and we'd sit in comfortable silence the entire time; unless you were in the mood to converse. But I wouldn't mind; the time with you would be enough. Your hand would sometimes reach its way over to mine and our fingers would touch. We'd arrive at yet another crime scene; your excitement would show through the slightest bounce in your step. A deep pink would blush your cheeks when your gaze lingers on me a little longer than platonically appropriate. Your defensive outburst at Lestrade when he notices and questions you gives you, us, away immediately. I'd hear the sharp intake of your breath when I purposely brush my hand against yours.

In a real world this would be our favoured routine. We'd share kisses in the dark and whispers of sweet nothings in the watery light of the sunrise.

I'd tell you "I love you".

And you'd say it back.