Title: The Light

Author: Rewrittengirl (or Leffie)

Fandom: Sherlock (TV series)

Wordcount: 1,416 words.

Rating: T for teen

Characters: Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. Mentions of Donovan, Anderson, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and the skull. The skull's a character too!

Pairing(s): Shwatsonlock

Genre: Romance, fluff, a bit of angst

Warning(s): Sadness, angst, mentions of drugs, not much else.

Contains: A declaration of love, lists, Watson being Watson, toast and jam, etc.

Notes: This vignette is inspired by the song "The Light" by Sara Bareilles. If you read the lyrics and the fic, you'll definitely see the similarities. The song is DEFINITELY like John's declaration of love to Sherlock, to a t. Its a great song, I recommend listening to it! XD Very proud of this piece. Enjoy guys!

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters mentioned in this fic (apart from one introduced later). Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the characters, and the BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss own the modernized version. If I owned the BBC version, Holmes would have kissed Watson in a dark alleyway in thanks for saving his life. Episode one. :3

Summary: Every morning he joins him for breakfast, and John can't help but think about the reasons he loves Sherlock, even if he's denying himself the truth. But Sherlock can just say everything's alright, then he'll know that he doesn't need a reason at all. (fail summary, this one is VERY hard to summarize.)


Sometimes, I wonder if he realizes all I do for him. Its not like it matters or anything. I don't mind, really I don't. He's my best mate, you know. The only... real person I have in my life. Not real, I mean, no, that's not... I mean I know people are real, they just... They aren't Sherlock real.

I bet he doesn't realize how many times I've told him to sleep, to eat, to have a civil conversation (or at least try) with someone other than me. Or the skull.

He probably doesn't even count the number of times I've covered him up after he crashed from a week of insomnia, sometimes even carrying him to his room. Or the number of times I've fixed him a small dinner, even when I've already ate, just so he can have something in his stomach. Or the number of times I glare at him when he insults Molly or Anderson or Lestrade or anyone else in his life that might show some semblance of caring. Other than me.

He... He really probably hasn't realized how many times I've defended him whenever I hear Donovan's unintentional cruel nickname for him: freak. Not that she means harm, and I know she doesn't like him. I know they all think he's a freak. He is.

But they don't have to say it.

The pain that flashes across his face, a split second, its there. But I see it. Its not that hard to see when you've lived with him for as long as I have. But really, let's be honest. I saw it the first time I heard it come from her mouth.

It isn't fair that they call him a freak. He... He doesn't operate on their level, on my level. He's just out there, out off in space (space. haha. he knows nothing about that doesn't he?), doing his own thing in that static state of observation while the rest of the world moves in constant motion, moving forward and living its life. Sherlock's stuck in the middle. He can't feel, he can't understand what its like to.

But he wants to. I see it. Like I see everything he does. Or rather, I observe. He thinks I don't do that very often, but really, it doesn't interest me to observe things around me, like it does him. The only thing worth really seeing, worth really observing... is the lonely man shooting at the wall because he's bored.

Look at me, ranting like a silly little git in love. But I'm not in love! No, I'm not, I'm really not. You can't... You can't fall in love with your flatmate... Your very male flatmate. Its not natural, not practical to fall in love with a sociopath.

Sometimes, I count the reasons why I stay on with him, why I follow him around everywhere, like his dog. Sometimes I can list a whole slew of things about him that make me want to fight crime, and sometimes I can only think of a few, particularly when we've had a nasty row.

My favorite reason, the one I can always think of, no matter what has happened between us or how many other reasons I can think up, is that every morning, without fail since I showed him how to make it for the first time, I've woken up to toast and jam at the (clean) kitchen table. He's sitting there, legs crossed, critical and snobbish brow raised in amusement at the paper, or focused on whatever he's working on, or texting. But he's munching on the toast and jam as if its nothing, like he's been doing it all his life. Every morning I expect him to be gone, sleeping after a crash, working on a case, watching crap telly, absolutely anything but sitting at the table and eating toast and jam.

Every morning I join him. Every morning, the light always comes through the window and hits our plates, our laughing faces and our smiles as we discuss cases, the world, his inability to recall a single thing about the solar system or our Prime Minister's last name, anything.

Then every day after every morning, we're running.

I follow him, I chase after him, I scold him. We're breathing heavy air, slipping into advanced states of adrenaline, pushing and shoving through the crowd until we find our man. This is what I live for, the hurricane, the excitement, the oncoming storm. My heart bursts and my pulse races, because I know, I have known from the moment he tore that jacket off me at the pool and begged to know if I was alright, I know that he'll take care of me if I fall, just as I'll take care of him. Its why he makes me toast and jam (strawberry, always strawberry) every morning. Its why every day after every morning I thank God I met Sherlock Holmes, and moved in with him to 221b Baker Street.

My home. Our home. Our furniture, our television, our kitchen, our toast, our walls, our Union Jack pillow, our skull (I've grown to like the thing), our Mrs. Hudson, our books, our cases.

Our lives.

I've found I can't live without Sherlock Holmes. I can't live without taking care of him, making sure nothing happens to him in his reckless lifestyle. I can't live without buying him milk and finding heads in the fridge when I go to put it away. I can't live without taking the needle away and replacing it with an embrace and a box of nicotine patches, something to occupy his mind. I can't live without his eyes, gazing at me with cold detection, unfeeling and unmoving, until he slips up and reveals that disturbed longing he feels when no one's around.

Even when its not there, I feel it. That pull that force that drives me to him. He has a hold on me. The man, he just doesn't want to be alone. He's terrified of waking up one morning and finding me gone, me scared off by his backwards and eccentric ways. I'm scared too. Scared I'll wake up one morning and he won't be there, munching on jam and toast, looking up at me innocently as he takes a small bite, then smiles in his own simple way.

Its the smile he has when only I'm looking. Its always genuine, always warm and inviting. The smile that says "I'm a nice guy, I'm normal, aren't I? I deserve to be loved, don't I?"

I smile back in my way that says "Yes, Sherlock, you are a nice guy, you are normal, and yes. You do deserve to be loved."

I tell him with my eyes everything's going to be alright, even when the world comes crashing down on us. He tells me with his eyes that he knows, he's not worried about him. He tells me it's alright, to go forth living how I do, even when he's always one step behind. I'm not really the one following him, I've figured that out now.

He's following me.

He follows me everywhere, not intentionally, not physically. He lives through me. Feels real, honest to God, human emotions. He's let go of the machine through me. For me.

I forgot my preconceived notions of him when he kissed me for the first time. He didn't know what he was doing. I didn't know either. We never spoke of the kiss again. He had been lonely, crying for the first time I'd ever seen, after Donovan went off on rant about how abnormal he was again. This time it got to him. I screamed at her, cursed at her after Sherlock had run off. But it was too late, the damage had been done. His world was crashing down around him, and all I could say was to just "be alright."

All I could do was hug him on the steps in front of our home, the rain pouring down over our heads. All I could do was let him scream and cry and grip at his hair in anguish. All I could do was let him sob. Until he kissed me.

Then I finally knew, let's not deny it anymore. Then, then I finally knew I could actually give him my love, truly and completely, without restraints.

I follow his lead, every morning, and join him for toast and jam, bathing myself in his light.


Yes, I DID include that they eat toast and jam together not just because of the jam thing, but because in the stories they always ate toast for breakfast together... Always... e_e

As always my lovelies, read and review!