Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

look, this time might be different

It's been two months, and he's still not sure what he's doing. To an outsider, it looks like he's finally sorting himself out. His therapist would say he's healing, his sister might be happy for him (she probably would, although he doesn't like to admit that she's capable of anything but frequent self-indulgence). He has a job and a flat he can afford (sort of) and he's stopped carrying an unnecessary cane. To someone else, these are all good things. Dr. John Watson is moving on with his life.

He also has a flatmate. And most outsiders would probably think that's a healthy step. Although, the ones who know Sherlock Holmes might not. Watson himself isn't certain what it means. He's not even sure what "it" is. The fact that his bed is exactly twelve steps above his flatmate's? The fact that he spends his time chasing Sherlock down London's narrow alleys, living in some sort of hyper-nightmare, where everything bad—death and suicide and murder and theft—all of that crime morphs into a fierce rush of adrenaline that fills in the spaces he has made inside of himself. And that's the sick thing, maybe, that he's still making holes—he's still got a gun, bullets still rip from his hand—but somehow they don't feel the way they did in Afghanistan. None of this empties him out the way everything there did.

That might not be the sick thing, though. And if it isn't, then the thing is much more personal. Much more heart-wrenching. It becomes something desperate and natural and impossible. It becomes about eyes. Light eyes, Sherlock's eyes, eyes that see more than everything. Eyes that keep John in their flat and on the London streets and tucking the gun into his coat pocket nightly.

Most of the time, he tells himself it's the mystery and the fact that his hand doesn't shake when they're searching for murderers. Most of the time, he lies to himself.

But sometimes, just after they've solved a crime, when Sherlock crashes on the couch for hours and John goes to bed but cannot sleep, he stops believing his lies. He goes down to the kitchen and sets the kettle on the stove, and he starts seeing signs in everything; in the way one of Sherlock's socked feet falls flat against the floor in his sleep, how his cup still has a pool of dark coffee in the bottom, how his wallet sits out on the table. The signs tell him that Sherlock trusts him, and the fact that that makes him peaceful, happy, unshakeable, that tells him that he isn't just here for the mystery and the action and the mostly affordable rent.

He is in this flat because of a man, and that knowledge hits him hard some nights and is buried under miles of denial other nights, but never ever does he think that it could fall into some sort of reality. In his dreams sometimes Sherlock's hands run over his cheeks and twist in his hair and go elsewhere, but he never even imagines touching during the day. John's awake and it's all about Sherlock's eyes, and where they look and what they see.

Sherlock notices him; that's all he can ask for.

And that's all he gets.

A/N: I just started watching this today, and I'm only halfway through the second episode. This is a horribly self-indulgent drabble drawn from my newfound obsession with Benedict Cumberbatch's eyes (look at them, they're just ldadksjoigerj) and Sherlock and John's utterly fantastic relationship. I do appreciate reviews!