Chapter Text
Sherlock tromped up the steps to 221B, trailing behind John.
"Told you that Chinese was good." He taunted, eyeing John's sky-blue color and deeming it contentment.
"Oh, stuff it." John said. Sherlock imagined the other man rolling his eyes.
"Never."
They continued, now in silence, and John went further upstairs, throwing Sherlock an absent 'good night'.
Sherlock retreated into his own room and perched upon his bed. He began to slowly remove his shirt, looking at the wall. When he was done, he stood and went to his mirror. There, on the left side of his chest, was a ring of color - Mood Skin, like normal people had - like Mycroft had. And while his older brother's might be a more complete coverage, Sherlock knew it was deceptive.
However, Sherlock had never bothered with being deceptive - for one thing, there'd never really been an emotion to be deceptive about, and for another, if there had, there'd have been no way for someone to see it. But ever since he and John had spoken, earlier that night, about John's shooting of the cabbie, there had been a pins-and-needles feeling in that ring of skin.
And now black was shot through with thin streaks of shock-blanket orange, branching out like lightning.
He, of course, knew immediately what this color meant, and so he couldn't help but admire the irony that the ring was around his heart.
It meant that he was in love. It meant that he was in love with John Watson.
"Fuck." He said quietly to himself before heading to bed.