But like imagine Holmes and Watson in 1895, and it's the night before Watson's wedding. Watson doesn't know that Sherlock has loved him. And of course he wouldn't say anything. He doesn't want to, because he knows he could be arrested, and so could Watson, and they'd be ruined. He keeps his mouth shut, until the night before the wedding. They step into the flat, and they've just returned from a case. They settle into their chairs, and Holmes lights his pipe. He looks at Watson, because it's impossible not to. They're both ragged from running around London. Watson's hair falls in his eyes, his waistcoat halfway unbuttoned. He's looking towards the dying fire, and the orange light illuminates the rare softness in his eyes. His worry lines are less prominent. His mouth is smiling minutely. He's the loveliest creature Sherlock has ever beheld. "Dance with me." The words have leapt from his lips before he can even realize they're there. His stomach drops, fear suddenly coiling in his throat. Watson looks to him quizzically. "There is no music." Holmes stands, taking Watson's hands, pulling him up. Surprisingly, he's compliant to the detective's wishes. As they sway through the parlor, Holmes hums a small tune he composed. He never wrote it down. Kept it in his head, locked away, always. He titled it 'For John'. His fear melts softly away as the minutes pass. And he's suddenly very aware of how close they are. And the way that he's touching John, hand pressed to his waist, their fingers entangled. "I have loved you." He says it so softly, he can hardly hear himself. He says it again, eyes wandering to the drawn curtains. "I have loved you in every lifetime." John's mouth reaches to meet his. Sherlock can feel himself falling to pieces. John Watson has wrecked him. And he doesn't really resent it.
