Author Note: Just a little oneshot I wrote a while ago before I started on 'Though Words Come Hindmost'. Hope you like it.
Disclaimer: Don't belong to me. The characters belong to the amazing Arthur Conan Doyle ( I thoroughly recommend reading the books, if not just the novels, which are classics in themselves), and to Guy Ritchie, who had the awesome audacity to drop slashy hints about Holmes and Watson in the sequel. Goddamn that would have been a great movie to watch.
Who Give Their Eyes the Liberty of Gazing?
"Hath not else his eye
Stray'd his affection in unlawful love-
A sin prevailing much in youthful men,
Who give their eyes the liberty of gazing?"
Comedy of Errors, Act V, Scene I
"Our blood to us, this to our born is born
It is the show and seal of nature's truth,
Where love's strong passion is impress'd in youth,
By our remembrances of days forgone,
Such were our faults, or then we thought them none"
All's Well that Ends Well, Act I, Scene III
Holmes's world is a world ruled by logic. His methods seem chaotic to those who can't understand his reasoning, who can't see the sense in his actions, but everything has a pattern. Everything fits, everything always has a reason. Man may think he is special, unique, independent, but Holmes knows they all lust after the same Gods. Money, Fame, Love. When Holmes first looks at cases, he can see only disorder, but as he considers the unformed jigsaw before him he begins to see the reasoning behind it. What the motive was, how it was committed, clues as to the culprit. By the end the whole story is built up, a fitting puzzle that slots together with no flaw. There are no anomalies, no odd pieces that don't fit, just solid facts reached by the application of logic. Logic is undeniable, infallible. It cannot be changed or forced to show something that is not. Logic is calculating, cold and efficient, but none-the-less, it is unflawed.
Loving Watson however, is not logical. It is instinct, a primeval feeling imbedded in his heart, raw and powerful, overcoming all logical impulses. Love follows a different set of rules altogether. It follows no pattern for there is none to follow, and for once Holmes cannot understand it through logic. There is no reason why he should love Watson. The man possesses admirable traits certainly; he is kind, brave, loyal, but there are other such men in existence who display the same characteristics. He is attractive if Holmes considers the thought, but at points his face is too thin, his eyes an undeniably common colour. He is flawed, with his vices and sentimentality, and yet Holmes cannot bring himself to leave his side. He is drawn to Watson in some way, and when he looks at his friend he does not look through the cool cold eyes of emotion, but through the emotive eyes of instinct, of knowledge and passion. And love. Holmes may have strived for perfection but in his eyes Watson is perfect. He is the closest thing Holmes has ever had to a friend, and at times he wonders why in hell Watson would put up with him. Watson calms his foul moods, acts as apologiser to those he has offended, watchs Holmes's back with steely eyes and iron cast loyalty. He tends to his wounds, his sicknesses, stays by his side through thick and thin. Holmes has come to understand Watson; has learned his quirking facial expressions, how his deep brown eyes light up with a streak of white when he smiles, how his forehead dips into a frown when he is confused, how he looks at his hands and bites his lip when he is nervous. Watson is like a language Holmes wants to speak and he intends to learn it fluently.
All these small things are why he loves Watson. There is no grand scheme, no plan, just affection and love. But this love is not merely a love between brothers, between friends. His love for the doctor is unyielding, passionate and for the first time in his life he understands why people would die for it. Holmes knows without a doubt that he would do anything for Watson; even perhaps die to keep his friend safe. There is no world without Watson, no stars ,no moon. Nothing would sate him, nothing would calm him. Holmes is attracted to his friend by a gravity unknown, and if the ties that hold him close were to be cut, he would be lost, spinning out of orbit. Watson is his world, and damn anyone who would deny him that. The path he is taking will ultimately lead to damnation, but Holmes doesn't care less about the consequences as he vows to follow the road he is on till the very end. Whatever happens, it will always be the two of them, walking that road, side by side.
They fit together so perfectly, as though their maker had made special effort for them to be as such. Holmes is burning fire while Watson is ice, cooling him, helping him see clearly when his own shadow blocks the view. He is the antidote to all ills, the medicine for all sicknesses. It doesn't make sense; follows no rules, acting on impulse. But maybe, Holmes thinks, maybe some things were outside such boundaries.
Not everything had to be logical after all.