colliding-stars

It wasn't the way Sherlock licked the sub-par tea off his lips in the cold outside the hole-in-the-wall coffee place, nor the way the wind caught his hair, his stance stern and unwavering, the autumn light painting a portrait of a man born to do this. To hunt, search, to follow a scent from the distance until the proverbial rabbit was trembling in his hole. John followed as the colour of Sherlock's eyes darkened with each accumulating thought, each piece of the puzzle falling into place, how each moment the man spent staring into the distant horizon made his eyes gleam with inexplicable lust, craving for the result, giving the man a bold shi