To Be Happy

To Be Hazy

John Watson had been kissed by his best friend. 

John Watson, of course, was straight. So, he supposed, kissing his male best friend would be much like kissing his hand. Uneventful. Boring. Emotionless. Weird. 

And then Sherlock's lips touched his. 

He wondered, if he was letting someone he knew he wouldn't be attracted to kiss him now, why hadn't he kissed his date the Friday before? This, certainly, was much weirder. 

He wondered that after the kiss, of course. He wondered that while he was pretending to sleep at midnight, listening to the singing of a violin. He didn't wonder anything while he was being kissed. He was too focused on what he was feeling. 

It was certainly not uneventful to kiss Sherlock Holmes. 

It felt... sort of perfect. It wasn't that strong. It was a sort of soft feeling in the back of his mind that, in that moment, everything was perfect. Everything was fine. Everything was good. It felt right. 

After the kiss, John Watson couldn't figure out if he wanted more. This soft, simple, innocent kiss felt good to him. But what about something passionate, something more? What would he feel then? Would he like it, just as much as he did this time, or would that cross the line? 

He wasn't sure. Even the memory of the kiss he'd just had was starting to get hazy.

The doctor was being faced with the realization that he could not be 100% straight. But he had never kissed a man before. He'd never made out with a man. How would he know, how far he would go?  

He needed someone to talk to. Who was he supposed to talk to, Sherlock? No. He couldn't confuse the poor man any more than he already had. But he doesn't talk to anyone else. There is no one else, not at midnight, not who would understand everything. There's no one but Sherlock. 

And so, instead of talking, or thinking, or trying to figure any of this out, he listened to the music. 

*~*~*~*

If Mrs. Hudson wasn't the only person living beneath them, and if Mrs. Hudson wasn't the deepest sleeper since Sleeping Beauty herself, then the current living situation of Dr. Watson and Sherlock Holmes would be drastically different. Luckily for us, the situation of the Baker Street Boys was open to midnight concerts. 

Tonight's was full of confusion, bliss, and heartache, a combination built on the awfully confusing events of kissing your unrequited love. The performer, a young, lanky man, stood near the window and looked out into the darkness, playing either by memory, or, as it looked like, writing the piece as he went. He was dressed in a tight black button up and matching shadow slacks, his bare toes cuddling with the carpet. The audience consisted of one (1) half-asleep middle-aged man, who listened intently in his subconsciousness from the upstairs bedroom. To accompany the arrangement by Mr. Sherlock Holmes were the sounds of midnight London traffic and the fan's whistling blades. The price to get in to this exclusive show was  extraordinarily ridiculous - maintaining a permanent living situation with Sherlock Holmes. 

Mostly, Sherlock Holmes was thinking. 

He was living with a man he was in love with, and he had been allowed to kiss that man. Then, afterwards, that same straight man had confessed that the kiss had not been boring. And now, he himself was trying to recall the kiss. 

To be quite honest, the whole memory was a bit hazy. 

He remembered putting his lips to John's - he remembered how awkward his hands had been, because he hadn't known where to put them. He remembered right after the kiss, how warm and fuzzy the world felt and how John's eyes had been closed. He remembered it'd felt good, it'd felt right. But for the life of him, Sherlock Holmes could not recall how John's lips had felt on his.