My thoughts on Sherlock and John's deep, lovely, tremendous friendship.

Read your hearts out!

Sherlock and John love each other.

There are rumours, of course. Press photographs, mutterings, and speculations galore. But it isn't like any of that. Love is an indescribable experience. It certainly isn't something one plans. It happens in an instant, and turns the world on its axis.

Sherlock Holmes, the most brilliant detective in the world can't even explain why he doesn't chuck John from his flat sometimes, wonders why he puts up with the soldier's screams as he thrashes in the grasp of a fresh nightmare, wonders why he doesn't roll his eyes at his flat mate's occasional lack of mental stamina. Sherlock feels an attachment. A responsibility for John Watson. A desire to make him happy. And in the quietest hour of the night, he realizes that he would throw all the cases, publicity and admiration away in a millisecond if John asked him to.

Because he loves him.

John Watson can't elucidate the fact that he finds the world's most obstinate man to be so brilliant, funny and magnetic. He often wonders why he doesn't pack his things and go when the detective leaves body parts lying around the flat, wonders why he doesn't mind bullet holes in the wall, wonders why he doesn't think of Sherlock Holmes a freak, like all the rest. John shot a bullet straight into a man's heart and smiled only moments afterword, because it was for Sherlock.

Because he loves him.

It's a confusing emotion. For John and Sherlock, they are soul mates as well as flat mates, though in reality, they aren't even romantically inclined. Love isn't always a kiss; sometimes it's a dear friend.

And just as it does for any two people, love takes time. When you love someone, they're you're best friend times a million.

If asked, John would agree that he'd defend Sherlock to the death without a second thought, and Sherlock would tell you that he'd fight for John long after he stopped bothering to fight for himself.

Sherlock attempts to view his feelings as he would any scientific experiment, but fails magnificently. With a good deal of reluctance, he allows himself to acquiesce to the warm expansion in his well-guarded heart. He thinks of it like glowing. It feels as though he has the sun coming out of his pores. As though he could shine forever and ever, just to brighten John's world a tiny little bit.

Love is not all about warm feelings. At times it's gritty and difficult. And blemished as Sherlock is, John loves him all the same because his love sees through flaws. He's known love before, love and lust and everything in between. But the very moment Sherlock's heart fell open, John fell in.

Everything else—the eyeballs in the microwave, the arguments, the jibes and the sporadic insults—it's all white noise. The feelings are still there, despite it all. For John, it was rather like experiencing a painting from afar. At first, he was attracted to the various distractions of the piece of art: the use of colour, lines, tones and shades. Then he walked closer and realised that everything was unfocused and messy, so he stood back to take it in and found himself doubting the beauty of it. He understands now—love is stepping over that red velvet rope and finally understanding the artist.

As for Sherlock, he's been sitting in his own little darkness until John came in and turned on the lights without even pausing for consent. He knows that this connection, this friendship with John is like standing on wet cement; that the more he unlocks his heart, the harder it will be to see John go, and that the doctor won't ever depart without leaving footprints behind.

Eye rolls. Sharp words. Science equipment overtaking the kitchen table. Mishaps. Laughter. Sacrifice. A stolen ashtray. Arguments. Forgiveness. Listening.

That's love.

See that little box down there? Write something in it-a word or two, anything!

...Shine on.

-Spark Writer-