John Watson's Emotional Kinks

Emotionally dependable. If he were younger, he'd grow a fringe of his blond hair to cover his eyes. Thankfully, he is not getting any younger. And that fact (For at the present time, his fringe would probably be cut aslant and dyed black) is definitely an advantage. Thanks to that, doctor John Watson is able to look like a decent bloke. Every other day, he was this composed, heavenly patient guy, usually sporting cable-knit jumpers, now extremely popular among skinny teenagers; while in solitude he grew melancholic and deeply experienced... blah, blah, blah. Anyway, translating it to John-ish, the doctor had observed that when Sherlock was silent, he grew anxious and started analyzing his feelings (As if he just read some stupid magazine for simpering maidens). The peace and quiet were not entirely all that bad, but the lack of contact between himself and the detective was like a tiny ache in his stomach. Stomach, because the doctor refused to acknowledge (And wouldn't dare to tell anyone else about it) that it was his heart aching, actually. But we'll get to that, they're both organs, right?

Yeah, right. When you, the reader, see our duo from 221B, John is silently experiencing his nonexistent emotional peril, while Sherlock is organizing his mind palace, surrounded by silence. Well, not exactly 'silence' because you could hear faint clinks of a knife hitting a plate's surface - It is John, cutting up the reminders of his birthday cake, baked by their landlady, Mrs. Hudson. The cake would surely spoil by tomorrow, and the doctor decided that the consultant detective will eat it right now, even if John would be forced to spoon-feed him. Not that he had anything against it. He was never particularly fond of Sherlock's typical, five-year-old behaviour (That's because John was no pedophile... wait, WHAT?!) but if the detective would actually comply to being fed, (not that it was possible, anyway), the scene could actually be quite adorable. It is, umm... the natural need for some enjoyment in one's life. Only strengthened by the constant contact with corpses and other disgusting things. Oh, and also by the lack of his own children, biology be damned. Just this and nothing more.

John's thoughts dragged themselves through his brain like some kind of toad. When he was a kid, he used to like toads. What's more on the topic of... of what? Ah, yes, of spoon-feeding Sherlock Holmes. Right now, John has paused his movements and was staring intently at the cake. Sachertorte. Marmalade and chocolate, the only thing that could compete with this would be peanut butter, eaten straight from the jar. Far too sweet for a typical guy - But Sherlock and typical were practically antonyms - And for such a cake, the very-typical John could overlook his principles once in a while.

The cake slices are put on the plates, the forks are ready, along with the tea cups. All is set atop a tray, you can now leave the kitchen and bring the meal right under the detective's face.

"Really, John. How could you ever think that you would need to feed me with one of Mrs. Hudson's cakes?" Sherlock made a blissful face, something akin to a cat looking at a bowl of cream, and flopped down on the couch, positioning himself across it. "I finished cleaning up my hard drive exactly fifty seven seconds ago, and you've been thinking of spoon-feeding me for about... three minutes. That's quite long. I feel flattered." He wiggled his porcelain toes excitedly, making John look away with a blush, because he noticed that he was describing Sherlock's toes using adjectives. God, he really needed to get a grip. Anyhow, Sherlock's actions were, unintentionally or not, provoking John to do... what exactly? Deciding not to annoy the good doctor any further, it was set that he was provoked to settle himself down on Sherlock's thin, almost feminine calf. The tray is slowly placed on the table, and the doctor makes himself more comfortable.

"Get off," Sherlock's lips formed an adorable, childish pout, making it seem that after exhausting himself mentally, he had no desire to move at all.

"And will you eat?" The doctor asked, smiling widely.

"Stupid question. Thirty two seconds ago, I told you that spoon-feeding me is out of the question. Ergo - I shall eat that birthday cake you brought me. Your deductions aren't all that bad, save for one detail - They don't exist. Now, can you get off my delicate fetlock?" Sherlock finished off in a high soprano voice, making him sound like some sort of whiny actress from a cheap sitcom. John shook his head with disbelievement. He knew that the toad in his mind was crawling really slowly, but he never suspected that it may fall asleep in a different moment than he did. Though, he couldn't blame it, really. Maybe it's just waking up.