It feels so obvious. It’s not in the wrinkles of his clothes or the colour of his teeth or even hiding in his nail beds, but it might as well be. Sherlock never thought he would be so hideously obvious in his life, thought he’d learned how to cover his tracks when he learned how to trace them and shut down his weaknesses when he deemed them illogical. But not anymore. He has veins and arteries staining his cuffs. John understands emotions. Perhaps he can see it even more clearly. It would make sense.
He can’t, of course. And trying to tell him would be like turning the sea backwards. Sherlock’s thankful for that, at least. Small miracles.
Master and Hound (x)