Work Text:
He was leaning against the frame of one of the windows in 221b, Baker Street, violin propped up by his chin and bow loosely in his hand. He wasn't playing, only occasionally eliciting a sound or two from the instrument when he deemed it necessary.
Of course, Sherlock Holmes was thinking.
But for once, it was not about a case, some murder mystery involving human bodies soaked in blood and thrilling chases through the better part of London. Neither was this about one of his experiments that brought together toxic chemicals, decomposing body parts and kitchen equipment such as microwaves.
No.
Sherlock was thinking about words. Three little words, to be exact. Words spoken by Dr. John Watson, to be precise.
"You are beautiful."
The sentence was simple and ordinary enough at first glance. Sherlock had heard it spoken many times, sometimes on the television in those horribly mundane shows Mrs. Hudson and John liked to watch at night, sometimes outside, on the streets or in restaurants, used by family members, friends, couples.
But this time, John had used them. And that was where the matter got out of hand.
"you"; pronoun - second person, singular or plural, nominative or objective, his brain spit out the information. That part wasn't hard. In this case, you had been used in the singular as a subject pronoun, indicating only one person as the addressed. It had been Sherlock himself.
"are"; second person singular simple present tense of "to be"; "to exist", "to occur", "having the state or quality", his memory provided. That part wasn't hard, either. In this case, are had been used in that last meaning - having the quality. That was clear enough as an adjective immediately followed.
But it was that adjective exactly that caused all of Sherlock Holmes' current problems.
"beautiful"; adjective; pleasing the senses or mind aesthetically; of a very high standard, excellent, his mind produced.
John had used this to describe him.
Sherlock could surely see his excellence: his knowledge of facts was excellent, his deductive skills were excellent, his mind was excellent.
But you was more than just his intelligence and beautiful didn't mean excelling in those areas at any rate. Beautiful was about looks.
It was that first, the generally used meaning of the word that in his mind, did not add up with what he knew about his appearance. Sherlock understood that he was not pleasing the senses or mind aesthetically. Absolutely not.
And there was proof: never in his life had Sherlock Holmes been called beautiful before.
Generally, Sherlock did not care about what other people said or thought about him. But in the case of judging someone's appearance, someone's looks, someone's appeal, Sherlock knew that the majority decided who was beautiful and who was not. Just as the general taste decided whether or not something was deemed art or rubbish.
And most people had described him differently.
"sexy", adjective; sexually attractive, Molly Hooper had once muttered under her breath when Sherlock had strode into the morgue. Sexy had also been whispered frequently behind his back during his time at Uni. And sexy was certainly something John would describe him with, too.
And as Sherlock was a healthy, young male theoretically qualified for sexual intercourse and possibly reproduction, he couldn't argue with that word. Especially as John and him had sex.
But sexy was far from beautiful.
Icy, cold eyes weren't beautiful.
Long, gangly limbs weren't beautiful.
Messy, unruly hair wasn't beautiful.
Sharp, pronounced cheekbones weren't beautiful.
Sherlock wasn't-
"There you are."
He flinched, actually flinched. Sherlock never flinched because he never lost track of his environment because he always paid attention because that was the way he worked.
Today, it seemed though, everything was different and peculiar and confusing.
"I am," he agreed absentmindedly, not caring that he hated when people stated the obvious like that. He lowered his violin but didn't turn to look.
He wanted to solve this puzzle, wanted to find the solution to this strange sentence, the faulty using of that word.
Sherlock could hear John shift and clear his throat.
"Are you all right? Is something the matter?" he asked, concern evident in every syllable, in the way he inflected the words and in the volume he had chosen for them.
Maybe, I should ask him, Sherlock thought. He hated not to understand something but equally hated having to ask someone for the solution of a problem and not figuring it out on his own. But he needed to know, desperately, why John had called him beautiful, had so obviously lied to Sherlock's face.
He slowly turned his head, ready to ask John this very question, ready to understand.
And then, John smiled at him and that was, when Sherlock did understand - all on his own.
There was John with his old, wide jumper and the light stubble and the ever-so-often creased brow and the scarred skin from combat. And jumpers and stubble and creases and scars certainly weren't considered beautiful. Not by most people.
But to Sherlock, to Sherlock, John was. John was beautiful in jumpers and stubble and creases and scars and possibly in so many other ways that other people could not appreciate.
And John, Sherlock deduced, John thought the same about his limbs and hair and cheekbones and eyes.
That was why he had called him beautiful.
Sherlock smiled back.
"No," he replied. "Nothing is the matter."
______
fin.