My second attempt at a Sherlock/Watson fiction. I have the characters portrayed from the BBC adaptation in mind for this. Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman.

Translations in italics not spoken by characters.

Please Review, I really hope you enjoy this!

INSPIRED BY dauntingfire's piece 'Sherlock BBC: Just... don't' on deviantart and Leonard Cohen's song 'I'm Your Man'.

In This Playground

"Well," Sherlock said, standing at the edge of the pier and admiring the urban monster of London, raggedly beautiful under the moon's fingers. "It's no surprise nothing further formulated between you and that... Mary, was it?" He turned fully away from Watson, who stood near a graffitied, red-brick wall.

"Why isn't it a surprise?" Watson piped, incredulous. Sherlock inhaled, shallowly and slipped his gloved hands into his pockets, now just a tall black pole. It was his hair that exposed him to be human as slithers of silverly white light slid over his black locks, just as the moonbeams undulated over the stygian depths of the Thames. "Holmes," Watson pushed, his brow creasing in offence.

Out of Watson's view, Sherlock's sage green eyes flitted to the waters two metres down. His tongue prodded behind his lower incisor tooth as he contemplated his next move. He scrutinised a Coca-Cola can that drifted before him, blemishing the already polluted river. That was London wasn't it? Something bafflingly beautiful scarred by man...

"It's a ticket onto a new train, isn't it?" Sherlock asked, aesopian as always. His voice was barely more than a whisper as the swishing hum of cars revolved above them, over the bridge.

Watson's chin inclined; he was still confused. Or rather, he knew what Sherlock was on about but was determined to ignore it. He was determined to deter Holmes from this conversation, even though he knew it was futile to attempt to distract Holmes no matter the occassion. He decided to shove his diffidence away and plunge behind a new mask: utter ignorance.

"Are you saying I'm not good enough for her?" Watson's leather jacket seemed to bulk as his soldier physicality returned; broad-shoulders, slightly puffed out chest. Even his legs parted as though in preparation for combat.

"Oh, John, don't be so juvenile." Sherlock turned and narrowed his eyes at him, lips a bow knotted in intense restraint. Watson had illustrated for him countless times how insensate he was. He was going to make an effort to be sensitive and let Watson decipher his hints independently. He glanced imperceptibly at Watson's hair. It reminded him of fox fur. What would it feel like to stroke his fingers through the thick roughness of it? "You're leaping to an entirely new realm; I said nothing of either of your qualities."

Watson shook his head and smiled sardonically, scuffing his shoe on the pavement and watching himself do it.

"How does it feel to be omnipotent?" he asked, slightly spiteful.

"Dull," Sherlock replied, immediately. Watson looked up, to which Holmes raised a thin eyebrow, icily facetious. Slowly, Sherlock inclined his head, eyes still sinking into Watson's. The corners of his turned up collar slit shadows down his cheeks and his eyes gleamed. Was he angry? "To know everything for nothing is..."

"Mundane, is it? To be a genius?"

Sherlock sighed, frustrated. It vexed him when people allowed their passions to obstruct even simple intelligence. He despised allowing his own emotions to fuel his words, but Watson ignited him.

"Lonely, John," Sherlock continued, cold. "To know everything for nothing is lonely." Watson's arms immediately shot out on either side of him.

"How can solving crimes and saving people's lives be 'nothing'?" he cried. Sherlock's lips parted as he slid his tongue over the back of his lower gums, his eyes fierce. A frigidness came over his body, his eyebrows flattening over his stony gaze.

"When everything lies in the life of one and I must constrain myself to a city," he spat.

"Constrain?" Watson laughed, caustically. "You expand your expertise, not-" Sherlock lunged for Watson and fettered his wrist against the wall. His round nostrils flared ever so slightly as he angled his head softly to the side. Their noses were very close to touching.

"I suffocate," he whispered, bitterly. All of a sudden, his grip on Watson loosened. His hand glided up to the wall and rested there as he allowed his gaze to drown in Watson's.

"I don't..." Watson began, evidently trying to remain stoic in the winds of Sherlock's storm. "I don't understand." Sherlock began to breathe warmly through his mouth, increasing his lips' proximity to Watson's own. Watson inched back as far as he could, excusing Sherlock's actions for one of his acts of explicit, obscure wisdom. The onyx sky was not nearly half as dark as Holmes' current countenance, though and it momentarily scared him until he realised he was being played a fool under Sherlock's manipulations.

"It's makes me exponentially happy and abjectly miserable to know that you do not understand." The words tingled Watson's lips like the air that breathes from a butterfly's wings. It stung after a second or two as a worrisome thought wobbled in his mind- was Sherlock going to kiss him?

"We're supposed to be hunting for that piece of paper..." Watson muttered, as any other volume would have been ridiculous. Clouds hung out to dry in the sky, strangled strands that scarred the crescent moon. His skin fizzed under Sherlock's breath and he gulped, bringing a hand up to push him away.

But he couldn't. The strength wouldn't come to him. Why? Why?

Watson looked down and studied the ground, extremely uncomfortable with the comfort that was teasing him, which emanated from Sherlock, tentacular and hot. Peppermint tea and brown sugar captured his senses, almost burning his eyes. The scent of Sherlock.

"You could get out of this, John," Sherlock murmured into John's hair. "Go on- show me what a soldier you are."

"What are you doing?" Watson asked, louder. He was tired of Sherlock's games. If anything, he wished he would get it over and done with instead of baiting him.

"A layman's methods of deduction would tell you that. Although, I must apologise; I'm not excellently experienced in this playground." Watson cleared his throat and bleached his face with a phlegmatic disposition. He was waiting for the killer blow. Agony and confusion germinated in his stomach, expanding to his chest. He heard a small pop and his eyes darted upwards. Sherlock's face was daring and smug. He recoiled from it.

In one swift motion, he knocked Sherlock's arm away and swerved under it while the gap was still available and strode down the steps to the pathetic bay beneath.

Focus.

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