The One Next Door

Please Silence Your Phones

"Alright, I think we're finished." Sherlock decided, setting his paintbrush down and observing his work. Honestly, this might just be the best painting he's ever created. Everything else was material, a bird, a couple of vases, a bowl of fruit. Those were things that anyone could see, this was something felt, not seen. And it was precisely how John appeared to Sherlock's mind.
"Finally, I think my muscles are stiffening up." John decided, walking around and looking at Sherlock's design.
"I thought this was a portrait?" he asked.
"It is a portrait, broadly speaking." Sherlock shrugged.
"Do I really have light coming out of my face?" John asked with a sort of laugh.
"No, of course not, I wasn't looking at you with my eyes; I was looking at you with my soul." Sherlock insisted.
"That's a bit creepy." John decided.
"It's beautiful." Sherlock breathed.
"You think I'm beautiful?" John asked. It wasn't even a taunt, it sounded like a genuine question.
"I think your soul is beautiful." Sherlock decided.
"How is that possible?" John asked.
"It means you're pure, you're white light." Sherlock insisted, looking at the painting even more.
"You say that I look to have yellow paint all over my face? Is that beautiful?" John asked. Sherlock smiled weakly, picking up his paint brush and dipping it in the yellow paint.
"Want to find out?" he asked.
"Face paint to the next level." John agreed. Sherlock smiled, stepping closer and painting the side of John's face with light brush strokes. John seemed to find this hilarious, he giggled every time the brush stroked his cheek. But Sherlock went all the way around his face, on his forehead, his other cheek, over his nose, so that it looked like he was wearing a yellow mask. Honestly, it was purely innocent; it was just goofing off, until Sherlock painted over his lips. It was as if something sparked in both of their brains, as Sherlock so gently pulled the brush over John's lips, and the bristles clung desperately to them, and how much Sherlock envied his paintbrush at that very moment. What was preventing him from being able to kiss John as well? Why did he hold himself back, what was there to fear? John was a beautiful man, he had a pure soul, he had a good heart, so what was preventing him? Fear? Fear for all it was, it was pathetic. Nothing so puny, so underwhelming, should prevent Sherlock from getting what he wanted, and what he wanted, right now, more than anything, was John. And for a moment, they stared into each other's eyes, Sherlock lost in the beautiful sea of hazel, of flecks of gold, and John lost in a torrent of blue and green, and together, almost in unison, they felt they were leaning closer, Sherlock leaning down ever so slightly, so close that he could feel John's breath quickly escaping through his parted lips, that he could feel the heat radiating through his skin, smell the paint aroma so close, he was going to do it, after all of this time...a loud, annoying ring tone went off, the classic ringing of an old fashioned phone. John pulled back immediately, Sherlock lingered for only a moment, as if he refused to move then they would go back to that moment. John dug his phone out of his pocket, looking at who was calling, and sighed heavily.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, it's my...well, I just have to take this." He stuttered. The skin that wasn't covered with yellow paint was blushing tremendously, and Sherlock, of course, was glowing so hot that you could fry an egg.
"It's fine...it's fine." He insisted, stepping back and setting his paintbrush down on the easel again.
"I'm really, sorry." John decided as he clicked the talk button.
"It's fine." Sherlock said so quietly that he could barely hear himself. John disappeared out the door, and Sherlock was left to stand there alone in the living room, staring at the space that was once occupied by John, the only thing that mattered right now, John, the one that left. They were so close, so pathetically close to finally sharing that kiss that was so long overdue. It would've been perfect, it would've been downright magical, but no. Now John knew, and of course he was going to tell everyone, he would tell Molly, and he would tell Sarah, and Carl, and Jeanette, and everyone Sherlock had ever denied his feelings to, would know that he had tried to kiss John. But then again John tried to kiss him as well, right? If it hadn't been for the phone call, it would've happened...Nonsense. John wanted nothing to do with him, he must have just been trying to, well, Sherlock couldn't even make up an excuse. But he couldn't make up an incentive either. Why would John ever want to kiss him, out of all people? Sherlock had nothing, he was nothing, and John was just...everything. There was no probable cause for John's motive except humiliation. Obviously he was only trying to bait Sherlock, he was trying to lure him into a trap, and he planted that phone call at exactly that time, so that their 'kiss' would be thwarted and John wouldn't have to live with the suffering that came as a side effect for kissing Sherlock. And slowly, everything that Sherlock has ever known will deteriorate, and everyone would take him as a no good liar playboy that fell in love with every poor man that wondered into his line of vision. So Sherlock, still in shock, screwed the caps back onto his paints and stared at his painting. It was truly beautiful, John was truly beautiful, and the feeling he radiated was more beautiful still. It was official, Sherlock was in love, he was so deep in love that the only light he could see was John's, he had dug himself so deep without realizing it. And he had been so close, so desperately close that a matter of milliseconds would've defined the rest of his life. If he hadn't been so slow on the approach, maybe hadn't stalled with talking, or had been quicker to paint the mask of yellow, he might be standing here, squealing with delight because he finally knew what it felt like to have kissed John Watson. To know that he was wanted, that he was accepted, and that he was loved. Instead nothing seemed clear anymore, their entire friendship was on edge here, it all depended on what John's motives where for leaning forward. Maybe he never wanted a kiss, and the fact that Sherlock had leaned in, expecting one, was going to throw their entire relationship out the window. And John would find a different coffee shop, and wake up at a different time, and be conveniently busy every time Molly or Sherlock wanted to hang out. And slowly they would drift apart because Sherlock mistook a simple glance for an invitation for a kiss. Or maybe John had wanted to kiss, and that phone went off at the absolute worst time, and it was a disappointment for both John and Sherlock. What if Sherlock wasn't the only one with feelings he deemed impossible to act upon. All of these questions and more, floating through Sherlock's head, banging on his skull, pulsing around on his brain and tempting his heart to act in what way it seemed fit. Should he walk over to John's apartment, knock on the door and kiss him there? Or should he wait, and when they met again in the morning, he would just act like nothing had happened, and they'd both live their life as if neither of them had leaned in? Or maybe, when they were together again, Sherlock could try again, this time with their phones on silent. So he just sat down, leaning on the armrest of the couch and staring at the magnificent painting that was sitting on his easel. What in the world was he going to do? He was bound to have to confront John again, in the coffee shop, in the hallways, in the morning, there's be an obvious tension floating throughout the two of them, whether it be longing or it be disgust, either way it would be terribly obvious. Molly would pick it up. Sometimes Sherlock thought that Molly knew more about him than he knew about himself, which was good in times of crisis, but bad if you want to hide anything. And this was the biggest secret Sherlock would ever have to keep. Because John wasn't just a little school boy crush, he wasn't someone Sherlock passed on the sidewalk and feel in love with. He could see a future with John in it, he could see a life that was happy with John, he could see the two of them growing old together, holding hands in their wheelchairs with matching golden bands around their fingers. John wasn't just someone, he was everyone.