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Sherlock finds himself magnetized to John’s eyes like a ship caught in a storm—drawn to land through a sense of inevitability and a last ditch effort push for survival in the face of certain destruction.

Blue, the depth of an ocean; miasmatic in their ability to entice him to drown in a sea entirely, achingly of his own making. When John looks at him, it is from leagues of endless shores; shipwrecks and icy distances unknown.

As a child, he played at piracy; falsified the plundering of high seas upon rocky beaches with wooden sword brandished in hand. As an adult, he stands steadfast through the tempest of John Watson’s gaze, stranded on coastlines of prophetic origin. The unspoken admissions and secrets buried deep in John’s mouth crash beneath inevitable waves in blue eyes, etching promises and declarations into eroded sand.

When Sherlock discovers clandestine words like love and yearning inscribed upon the walls of his fragile heart, he sinks into stories held within the heavy cerulean flood of John’s tidal pull. As with the briny bite of seafoam air, Sherlock’s lungs burn in the face of devolving synapses, caught in the eyes of his intoxicating soldier.

If this is what love is, the swell and flow of tsunamis and undercurrents sweeping him beneath the undertow, Sherlock willingly breathes water and thunderstorms in the hope of snagging upon the anchor of John Watson.