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-There’s no milk-
-Then go buy it-
John turned to his roommate with some sense of de-ja-vú. Sighing in resignation, he took a paper to write down the shopping list. Leaving it stuck with a vast magnet to the refrigerator, and, taking his coffee cup, left the kitchen to the center room, always in darkness. A mountain of books in unstable equilibrium caught his attention for a moment, the he simply ignored. Sherlock was hunched over his laptop, writing with his thin, pale fingers. Watson liked to watch him in those moments, in which, ignoring those shocking blue eyes, Sherlock looked almost normal. Despite the fact that Sherlock wasn't normal.
His black tufts fell rebels over his forehead, the shadows turned his face into a dangerous temptation; his smooth skin, with no imperfections, pale, reminiscent of a figure of cold white marble. The furrowed brow; the pursed lips. Sherlock Holmes was like a dark and cold angel, come into this world to wipe out the most railroads wills with just a glimpse of those blue eyes, crystalline, created to immerse yourself in them as whom plunges into a river of pure water, knowing that the stones in it will receive him before he has time to prepare for the blow that knows it will come.
A distant thunder brought Watson back to reality; he was still standing in the middle of that dark room, with his eyes fixed at his torment. And Sherlock stared back in silence, perhaps believing Watson was submerged in one of his blurry memories of the war. Nothing beyond reality. John had come out of a war just to fall into another one, much more subtle and more dangerous; a war against his heart and his feelings, against his body and its desires, against his mind and against what had always believed to be. He was now seen dipped in a swirl of confusing reactions and situations where Sherlock was, as always, judge and jury.
The coffee had cooled. Sherlock had stood up and walked towards him without taking his look away a bloody second, keeping John prisoner of those eyes that appeared in his dreams, with ever greater frequency. He didn't protested when the consulting detective took the cup away from his hands, or when he was so close that he could breathe the sweet masculine perfume that disengaged the body of his roommate. it wasn't the first time they were so close, neither the first time Sherlock looked at him that way, as he could know every and each one of his most dirty desires, as if he could read his mind like a book, open and naked on his hands, under those slender fingers which now were entangled in his clothes, and dragged him back to the lips of his torment. And John let himself be carried away, as always, just as he let himself swept up from the first moment he saw him.
the bites, the moans, the whispers and the gasps, the interlaced fingers, the nails stuck into his back, the legs tangled around the waist, the sweat, the beats, the sighs, the heat, the fear, the "don't leave me" and "say my name", the guilt, the pain, the pleasure, the "kiss me", the "I need you", the taste, the smell, the love...
And then, Sherlock would kiss his eyelids, and whisper "Watson, my Watson..." and John would be eternal property of that dark angel, who had charge of his heart, soul and his life.