#fff321

Placing John Watson in my lonely path, rattled my world considerably from the day we met. At first glance, I dismissed him as unassuming. I was dead wrong, of course. An idiot. Which he was kind enough to tell me after he had shot Jeff Hope.

The way he regarded the world, cautious but openly, sceptically, yet optimistic, told me that this man was the enigma I would never be able to unravel fully. It thrilled me more than I thought possible. Normally, I hated being unable to solve puzzles, but I would gladly devote my life to know as much as possible about my new flatmate and friend.

Friend. It was such an alien word to take into my mouth; to integrate into my everyday speech. The ones I had thought were my friends in my childhood and youth, always proved to be the opposite. John, however, was loyal from the second he stepped over the threshold of 221B, and after our dinner at my favourite Chinese restaurant, I dared to take the word friend in my mouth when I spoke about and introduced him to other people. It certainly baffled Sebastian Wilkes.

“If he hadn’t paid us so handsomely, I would very much have liked to punch his face. Repeatedly,” John murmured through clenched teeth.

I almost kissed him then. 

Thirteen days later, John took matters into his own hands.

***

Dear, John.

Seeing myself through your eyes, gives me new intel and surprising facts. 

You call me beautiful, which I cannot see. I try, though. For your sake. You look so sad when I protest, and I can’t bear that. I want you happy and content; always, so I try.

As you say, my eyes are indeed intriguing. The way they change colour is alluring and adds a little mystery, which I quite like. 

I hated my hair in my adolescence, but when I met Raphaël, my hairdresser, who gave me the products that helped me tame the curls, I could see the appeal of them.

When you told me you had never seen lips like mine, I recoiled. You, of course, were undeterred and told me, in no uncertain terms, that they had haunted your dreams before you had dared to touch them with your own.

“I could stare at them for hours, and I did. Especially when you were locked inside your Mind Palace and I had free access, so to speak.”

It made me dizzy to hear you talk like that, though I had to agree they fit perfectly with your lips. Lips I had dreamt of devouring on more occasions I have told you about.

“I prefer you clean-shaven.”

Another statement that caught me off guard, and I had to ask you why you had such a preference.

“Because I can’t stand not to see every inch of your skin.”

The way you kissed every inch of my face afterwards still makes me blush.

***

I hide the letter inside one of my chemistry books in case I want to add more facts later. Most likely I will. If I’m not careful, it’ll turn out to be a collection. John will possibly delight in that.

“Where are you, beautiful? You promised to come to bed hours ago,” John calls from our bedroom.

“Not hours; fifty-seven minutes, John. Let me just brush my teeth first.”

I smile fondly at myself in the mirror and find that I am beginning to tolerate the sight of myself more for each passing day. All thanks to John Hamish Watson. My blogger, my conductor of light, the love of my life.

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Of course. Bless Sherlock and his everlasting concern for his ‘friends’, Mycroft thinks, sardonically. Then again, when was he ever required to wait for his little brother’s approval for anything? “Are you… wasting your time with me?” he asks instead.

His glass carefully placed on a coaster, Lestrade sits back, lounges really, and regards his host with a  smirk. “Sherlock thinks I’m trying to hook up with you.”

Mycroft almost chokes on his own breath at the phrasing.

“I mean, he’s not wrong,” Lestrade says, grinning now, taking Mycroft’s shocked silence as the absence of a dismissal, “But he also warned me that it won’t work. I’m not so sure about that.”

“Oh?”

“Sherlock doesn’t know you as much as he thinks he does, does he?”

He doesn’t. Mycroft knows this for a fact. When they were younger, Mycroft has watched his little brother’s blind fascination with him with adoration. It was not entirely Mycroft he adored but rather the image of his big brother he had conjured. Even when they grew up and those illusions started to fail, Sherlock refused to be disillusioned, choosing to amend his illusions instead.

Mycroft is still just an image in Sherlock’s mind.

“What makes you say that, detective inspector?” Mycroft asks, curious, even a little bit hopeful because, he has come to realize just now that he might not know himself all that well either.

“He says you can’t stand people, that you prefer your own company. God knows we all need a little bit of that sometimes. But I know you wouldn’t mind spending time with someone else too, would you?”

It’s not Lestrade’s fault that this conversation starts to remind Mycroft of one of Sherlock’s favourite presumptions about him; that he is lonely.

He is not, he has checked. That Lestrade too should join in with his little brother is not something Mycroft needs.

Mycroft takes a deep breath, sobering up a little at the insinuation. “Whatever you’re implying, detective inspector-”

“I’m not implying anything… guess I’m just trying to tell you that you just need someone who’d dare to take that waistcoat off of you and see what you’re hiding underneath all of that.” Lestrade scoots himself forward on the cushions, his huge brown eyes are saying so much more than words ever can. “And my name is Greg,” he adds softly, “I’ve told you that.”

As Mycroft’s back hits the wall and Greg’s large hand combs through his hair amidst frantic kisses, Mycroft’s mind manages to form one more coherent thought that will be the last for a while.

My heart ached after he told me that. The thing with Naoki Fujitani is that he is a colossal figure that gradually encroaches your whole being, yet gently. The next thing you know you are falling in love with him. A visceral longing develops inside you. Because he loses himself, he needs someone to protect him, to guide him, to keep him in his toes. And for the two years I have known this genius I see him break down that I find myself catching him every time this happens. As a fellow musician, he offers his life to music, the most powerful form of emotional expression. Food, water, sex, anger, tangible things, these are nothing to him when he is immersed in making music. It bleeds to his everyday life. He blocks anything that does nothing to do with notes and lyrics. Nuances of sounds begin to form in his head. In this way, he is similar with Kazushi, our keyboardist and sometime bassist. Yet there lies a slight difference between the two; Kazushi is more in tuned with the present moment.

Love, through your eyes, Naoki, is a serenade to someone with your lyrics wrapped up in a beautiful set of melancholic notes that you compose all the while caressing the person’s cheek, an affection.

These things are all the same with Naoki. He is a music freak.

I have not forgotten our conversation. Like always, everything comes in due time. I heard from fellow session guitarists about a young professional drummer who is down on one’s luck auditioning from one band to another. A music writer got a wind of it and confirmed that it was indeed Akane, whose mother Momoku Saijo owns a cafeteria in Shinjuku. I talked to the journalist who is friends with Akane’s mother and explained to him the situation. Naoki sent him his contact details, and they communicated further. The rest, as they say, is history.

The hour comes near to finally meet her.

A young diminutive woman stands at the entrance door watching Naoki. Worried that she is an intruder, I ask her name. These days one can never be too careful. Stalkers masquerading as fans or friends breaking in the house, where Kazushi and I share with Naoki, are not unheard of. I am still wary when our manager Miyako tends to gate-keep Naoki and thinks she knows what is best for him. The likes of her and Ichidai Isagi, whom Naoki has had a virulent past, I do not want them near him if possible.

“You’re Sho Takaoka!” She blurts out. Hearing that she knows my name, my fingers tingle ready to act.

I look at her and her big scarf. Must be nippy outside.

“I am not a stalker, I swear,” she bows her head apologetically and brings the paper bag in front of me. “I brought the curry!”

An imaginary bell rings in my head.

“Ah! So, you are here.” My eyes narrow as if on cue, part curious, part condescending. “Naoki, she is here! Earth to Naoki!” I search her face; how young she is. Will this pose a problem in the future?

There is only one way to find out.