John, you were my first.
It was one of those days. One of those days that had potential to be a very special day, an anniversary maybe or a day that just waited to become one, but it had also the potential to be pretty normal. And this one was normal, really normal indeed and quiet until now.
Sherlock Holmes had been standing in front of the window, staring out onto the rainy Baker Street with his violin in one and the bow in the other hand. He stood like that for as long as you think is fitting, probably some minutes but maybe hours as well. He stood there, all on his own in the early morning just home from a case and since then, he hadn’t moved.
When John comes into the living room, Sherlock didn’t even seem to notice him and all the doctor could think of was one word. Forlorn. Sherlock looked forlorn. He didn’t know why, there was nothing in particular wrong with the image of the great detective, deep in his thoughts. And yet, he couldn’t help the feeling that something was off, that something wasn’t right.
The man flinched ever so slightly in his posture, slowly turning around. His facial expression was impassive, he looked like always. Only his eyes, his eyes had a glint in them they hadn’t very often. It was the same glint he had seen back when Sherlock had asked him what his last thoughts, his last words would be and when he had bluffed at him for being not creative enough. And then, the glint had appeared when he had noticed, had understood that John didn’t need to be creative because he already knew what he would say. Or would’ve said back then.
It was the same glint he had seen back when Sherlock had visited this banker Sebastian Wilkes to find out how someone had broken into their bank and when said man had spoken the words ‘We all hated him.’ He had only seen it for a split second, then Sherlock had looked away but John was sure that he had seen it.
It was the same glint he had seen back when Moriarty had played with them and had blown up that old lady that had tried to describe the criminal. When he had leaned back, phone still in hand and staring into the air, impassive as now.
There were several more moments he could list where he had seen this glint in Sherlock’s eyes. All very brief moments, barely even noticeable for someone who didn’t know the detective that good.
But now was different, now Sherlock looked at him and the glint didn’t vanish, didn’t disappear. It stayed, visible and clear and so intense it nearly took away John’s breath.
“Sherlock, you okay?”
The man in question didn’t answer directly, instead he slowly walked towards the doctor, only stopping when he was just half an arm’s length away. Forlorn. There was the word again, imprinted in John’s mind while he looked at the detective, didn’t dare to take his eyes off of him.
“No.” was the breathless answer, quiet, nothing of the self-confident, arrogant voice he was used to. The ex-soldier’s expression softened a bit.
“What’s wrong?” he asked with a warm voice, hearing Sherlock taking a slightly shuddering intake of air.
“I always managed to distance myself from people, always managed to not care at all. Don’t let sympathy for anyone cloud my rational thoughts. I could always cut off my emotions and rely on my mind. Rely on myself.” the consulting detective said and the impassive mask slowly crumbled, revealed the truth behind itself.
“I can’t anymore.” were the next quivering words from a man so entirely cut off from his feelings that now, now he seemed to feel something, he didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know how to manage them.
“Suddenly, I find myself caring for people. People caring for me. I’m unable to cut off my emotions for certain persons and a part of me isn’t even sure if it wants to anymore.” there was a broken edge in Sherlock’s voice, something so unsure of what was happening like there was a child in front of him instead of his flatmate.
“Who was the first?” John Watson asked instead of any soothing words, instead of promises for tea and a nice murder he could ask Lestrade about to distract his friend. Who was the first? Four simple words, one question and yet, asking so much more.
Who was the first you cared for? Who was the first caring for you? Who was the first you couldn’t cut your off your emotions to? Who was the first you don’t want to cut off your emotions to?
Who was the first you learned to love?
And the answer was simple, so simple and infinite that Sherlock didn’t need to think, didn’t hesitate. It was one word, one simple word spoken at six in the morning to a brave, caring man in the dusky, yet warm light of the rising sun. To a man he owed more than his life and who had become more than his life all the same and who, right now, changed the glint of fear for his emotions in his eyes into something entirely different.
Sherlock Holmes didn’t hesitate one second when he gave John Watson his answer.