Sherlock wants him to stop because everything he's saying sounds like goodbye.

John's never had a patient quite as broken as Sherlock Homes. Or as ignorant of the fact that he is, indeed, broken. He speaks rarely, and when he does it's this torrential flow of insults and hurt memories and sadness. He speaks like he doesn't know that he's broken yet, like he thinks he's fine, and superior to everyone else in the room. Maybe he is. John doesn't know. Maybe he's not as beautiful, and clever, and graceful as he believes. Maybe he isn't some kind of ethereal creature that John has had the honour of beholding. Maybe he's just broken. And useless. And alone. John doesn't think so. John thinks he's everything, broken man and all. * Sherlock's never done anything quite like dancing. When he was there, wood springing under his feet, soft and warm and secure, he was happy. Sure. But he didn't know then that he'd give anything to be able to dance again. To have the pain of crushed toes, blisters, aching and biting all the fucking time. He didn't know he'd miss it like he misses breathing. But he does. Sherlock forgets to breathe, sometimes.

It all started with a trip. Sherlock had been acting weird, and everyone thought he was just stressed, so he and John go on a trip to Fiji. Yet, what was supposed to be a relaxing vacation from the stresses of detective work only opened the door for much more stress and confusion when John begins to have strange feelings around his colleague, Sherlock Holmes. And Sherlock is still acting strange.

Darkness. Definition: Sherlock Holmes Light. Definition: John Watson look at the stars. look how they shine for you. and everything you do. it was all yellow.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson have been friends for as long as they can remember. Only when John joins the army and is shipped off to Army camp do they realise they want to be more than friends. Much more.

John wakes up on a beach somewhere in the seven seas. He makes his way into town and soon stumbles into a pub meeting a strange man. He decides to follow him and realises his name is Sherlock. They become quick friends and steal a ship together. They sail away in thirst for adventure when both soon realise it isnt just friendship between the two sailors. Travel along in a journey of adventure, excitement, and love.

Sherlock is bored as usual. He needs JAWN ACTION for...erm...SCIENCE! Yes. Anyway, I suck at descriptions so just read. Contains Johnlock and rated I don't know because I'm making it up as I go along. Maybe it will get porny ;)

He is lavish. Masterful. Intellectual, inexplicable, overt. Sexual. Sherlock Holmes defines extravagance. He isn't exactly the best thing for John's tireless, bland stability. John works the nine to five and tries not to lose sleep over the small things - like the labor of his fiancée's expectations, and the sirens that fill his head with noise after curfew. He finds comfort in art, and drinking. Besides the war making its presence known, slowly creeping its black tendrils into the heart of Bristol - John's life is quiet. Given that, he's not surprised when he is dragged into Sherlock Holmes's orbit. There is no manual to help him navigate the moment their eyes first meet; he presents himself as the perfect distraction, a beautiful incendiary miracle. John thinks that maybe he was hoping for this, because: Sherlock is potent, and inflammatory, and perfectly willing to make John's life hell for his own self-indulgent pleasure. With one touch, John's sense of self is corrupted. And what does it matter if the world implodes? It was never kind to them to begin with.

John's never seen a kid like him. He has this beautiful, crazy grace - withheld behind a smug smile and wisecracks that make John frustrated in so many different kinds of ways. And his eyes; crystal clear, decisive, cleaning through the unimportant things to find the valuables in life. He may or may not have a thing for smoking and James Bond, his favorite ice cream is mint with a chocolate swirl, and he is absolutely addicted to Pop Rocks and toffee. He enjoys pretty boys and warehouses, where he can hoard and think and be alone. Also, bumper cars, and John Watson. But Sherlock Holmes's thing, his niche, his calling in life... is to steal. Books. Wallets. Phones. Cars. Everything you've ever wanted, he's had. Everything you've ever wished for, he's stolen. Everything you are, everything you told yourself that you weren't, he owns, and he plays you like an out-of-tune violin. Does that mean that John's going to let him steal his heart? Not a shot in hell.