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After three years of sorrow, three years of imagining my friend walking through my door at any moment, after three years of loss, I found myself once again in my old chair in the small sitting room at 221b Baker Street, sitting opposite Sherlock Holmes.
I watched my friend carefully over the top of my brandy. He sat silently brooding, his brow furrowed his eyes strangely distant. After we had shared a meal together and talked endlessly about the events of earlier, we had fallen silent. There was so much I wanted to ask him about his travels but I felt that this was a topic he did not wish to discuss. He looked pale, worn and tired. Hardly the picture of a man who had spent the last few months of his life in laboratory in the South of France researching into coal-tar derivatives. I knew this to be a fabrication, but had decided not to question him further. He would tell me in his own time.
I found myself beginning to nod off for the hour was late and I had had much excitement.
"Watson."
I looked up. "Umm?"
Holmes leaned forward and rolled his empty glass between his palms, unable to meet my eye. "Would you..." He cleared his throat and continued in a uncharacteristically small voice, "would you be terribly offended if...if I asked to kiss you?"
I stared at him in surprise. "To kiss me?"
He looked up at me and laughed, "of course... such a stupid question..." He ran his hand absently through his hair. "Forget..." He stood and placed his glass upon the mantelpiece. "Forget I ever asked." Moving quickly he passed my chair and headed in the direction of his room.
Deciding quickly I stood. "Holmes." He paused and looked back. "If...if you were to ask me such a question..." I rubbed my hand. "I think...I think my answer would be... Yes... you may."
He crossed the room nervously and stood in front of me. I read confusion and uncertainly behind those sparkling grey eyes.
"Ask me." I said quietly, staring into his eyes.
"John Watson, may I kiss you?"
"Yes."