Have you ever noticed that when Sherlock talks to someone (usually Watson), there’s almost no personal space?
personal space is overrated anyway
i see them as sherlock holmes and john watson being reincarnated over and over again just to meet each other in each lifetime… different face, different setting, different history, but their souls are just destined for each other.
oh god what am i doing
^ yes, what ARE you doing, you just can’t say stuff like that OH GOD
I’ll just go sit in the corner, curl up and rock back and forth while screaming. Because Johnlock. Their relationship is so perfect, it’s IMPOSSIBLE FOR ME TO CAN ANYTHING ANYMORE
^ WAIT I’M NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO DOES THAT
I mean ACTUALLY DOES THAT
He doesn’t remember the first time John saved his life, because for him it never happened.
It comes to him from the first instant they meet, in flickers of recognition and traces he can’t quite place, though, things that make John Watson more than simply a bearable flatmate. From the first moment, there are things Sherlock can read and see without evidence, things that aren’t deductions but instincts so deep, so powerful they feel like knowledge, memory.
He reads the cues of John’s military service not just off his face and leg, he smells them in the acrid aroma of freshly ignited gunpowder and an afterimage on the back of his eyelids, John Watson leveling a Victorian pistol with the ease of practice and the gift of deadly precision. He takes John into the night, off on the chase not just because he’s a doctor and at loose ends, thirsting for the thrill of the hunt…he knows that he belongs there, that there’s a tall, thin, elegant hole at his side and always has been, a hole that John’s small, square form fits into with surprising ease. He is only surprised when he meets his eyes across the pink-wrapped body and finds himself expecting a brighter blue instead of those calm, dark depths.
He goes into danger, faces off with a killer because he can still smell salt air and half rotted pine, hear the sound of heavy death thundering towards him and feel bony arms pressing him flat, keeping that burgeoning head filled with a mind too fast, too quick, too brutally sharp squarely on his shoulders. The noise startles him, but the bullet does not…the revelation that comes later isn’t a revelation, but a whisper in his head and a sudden unfamiliarity with the tall, reedy limbs he owns. He looks down instead of up, he is no longer the sturdy one built for fighting.
Yes. Of course it’s you. The whisper tells him, so soft he isn’t totally aware of hearing it. It’s always been you, and it always will be. No matter how many graves we stand beside, we will always return to this place, this moment, you and I. You will save me, and I will know you…and we will never be alone again, until the next time.
He walks beside John Watson, alive and whole and no longer alone, and he does not remember the first time the other man saved his life, because for him, this is the first.
And it will not be the last.