Author's Note: This is my first Elementary fic. I have no idea where it's going. That isn't normally how I write, but it feels okay for this story. Please share any feedback you may have-it will be greatly appreciated.

Mixed Metaphors

In a dining hall filled with hors d'oeuvres, Watson was a home-cooked meal. Where most were meager and unsatisfying, she was substantial and hearty. But like the comfort food found on the tables of the most loving families, Watson could also overwhelm the palate and, when consumed in excess, become an indulgent toxin to the system. Holmes, therefore, sampled sparingly: a measured taste here, a careful nibble there. With time the temptation turned into a gnawing, nagging hunger that he persistently resisted to preserve his natural leanness and to purposefully delay any potential gratification.

The metaphor made one corner of Holmes' mouth quirk up between chews of his crunchy cereal. He sat alone at the kitchen table and didn't hesitate to allow his brain to become saturated with thoughts of her. Yesterday, she was a pair of designer jeans. Last week, a piano. Before that, some well worn trainers. The other side of the smile formed when he observed that he cast himself in the role of the model, the player, the runner and, on this morning, the diner. He shoveled in another bite.

"What are you plotting?"

"Pardon?" he asked as he chomped through his mouthful of cereal.

As she covered the open space between them, he noticed she was characteristically exposed in her sleepwear. Her feet were bare and her legs were left nearly entirely uncovered by her shorts. Her v-neck shirt was so loose it fell off her shoulder, but her dark hair hid the pale skin of her neck. She was never shy, but always modest so Holmes had enough sense to collect these details without detection lest she dig up some prudish robe to protect herself from his perusals. His appreciation was not, of course, perverse. Watson was the work of Vincent Van Gough: beautiful, unique and entirely underappreciated contemporarily.

"You heard me," she accused.

While he had, indeed, heard her question, he was quite surprised he hadn't heard her coming; she was more of a hurricane than a gentle breeze. That wasn't entirely true. She had her share of zephyr-like qualities. She was the wind: sometimes gentle and delicate, sometimes destructive and demanding.

"That look on your face. That, dare I say, smile? It was pure mischief," Watson told him as she leaned back against the countertop next to the sink. "And, actually, it's still there."

Holmes gave her a look of deliberate incredulity then lifted his bowl to his lips and slurped down the leftover milk.

"Seriously," she began as she folded her arms and stared him down. She was a microscope and she was focused on him. "What are you up to?"

"Mixing metaphors." He shared the matter of fact as he stood and walked past her to lay his bowl in the sink. He glanced over at her and hid his smile, though he knew she would still see it in his eyes. "Seriously."

As he washed his dish, he could feel the heat of her laser eyes, scanning and scrutinizing every move. She knew he never cleaned up after breakfast so this bit of tidying had her locked on. Another blip surely sounded as he caught himself clearing his throat for a third time: a tell-tale sign of nervousness. She may not have yet fully developed her skill at "solving" people, but when it came to reading him, Holmes considered Watson to be a top scholar. She was, perhaps, the only person on the planet even interested in the literature.

"You said you're mixing metaphors," she reminded him. "Would you care to elaborate?"

"Would you care to dry?" he countered as he shoved the wet bowl into her hands.

She glared, but picked up a dish towel from the counter and rubbed the vessel dry. She held it out and he obliged, taking it and stowing it away in an otherwise unoccupied cabinet.

"Well?" she questioned with the desired amount of impatience.

He pushed his lips together and forced air through his nose then did a right face. She turned toward him, smiling, he knew, because she'd won. He would confess his thoughts.

"If you must know, Watson, I was thinking of you."

Her eyes narrowed just slightly and her head tipped no more than a degree to the left. Catching her off guard was a feat since her temper was a well-defended armory, it's soldiers regimented and controlled. Except when she chose to succcomb to her anger. Then she was the commander on the battlefield. She took charge and her warriors were vicious and unrelenting.

"You see, when left with my thoughts as I was this morning, and when my mind wanders to you-also as it did this morning-I've taken to comparing you to... things."

"Comparing me?"

"Yes."

"To things?"

"Precisely."

"A summer's day perhaps?"

"Perhaps not. You're nothing like a summer's day, Watson," he assured her. "You're more of a winter's morning."

"You're saying I'm cold and icy and dreary?"

"I'm saying you're pure and crisp and... full of promise."

Her scoff was light then she smiled. "Okay, I get it. You're messing with me."

Before he could honestly deny or dishonestly confirm the accusation, Watson pushed off the counter and sat herself down in the chair Holmes had previously occupied. She folded her arms and looked up at him. "Now I'm wondering if this is the mischief you were planning or if it's a distraction."

Holmes chuckled. The noise was uncharacteristic and sounded strange to his own ear. He liked it. He also liked very much her reaction to his laugh: she glared.

"Watson, I can assure you that I was up to nothing more than drawing comparisons."

"Fine. Let's pretend I believe you. If not a summer's day, then to what were you comparing me?"

"A home-cooked meal."

It was Watson's turn to chuckle. "So, basically, I'm bad for you."

"Quite the opposite," he promised as he walked over to her. "Have we not previously been over that? I distinctly recall admitting that I am better with you by my side."

"When I think of home-cooking," she explained, "I think of something... tasty, but-"

"I am unable to comment on your... tastiness," he stated with a put-on grimace-y sort of frown.

She ignored him and finished the thought. "Tasty, but also ultimately harmful to your health. High in fat and sugar. Bad for your heart."

"But good for my soul, Watson. So very good for my soul," he told her with his eyes locked on hers.

She inhaled then exhaled deeply, never breaking eye contact. She was a filter. He could see that his pretense was sorted out and the truth was snagged. He realized he hadn't even considered what that truth might be. He was excited; he was very interested to learn what she had deduced. Perhaps she would teach him something about himself.

She smiled, her look soft. "Thank you, Sherlock."

"For my comparison?"

"For your friendship," she said, "and for appreciating mine. I know you would never admit that our relationship has evolved beyond associates-"

"If you would prefer I introduce you as-"

"You can introduce me however you want, but what we are... is friends."

Sherlock Holmes did not have friends-at least, not in the traditional sense. Last he'd checked his own catalogue, Waston was classified as his partner, but, truthfully, he had stopped assigning any sort of label to her quite some time ago. It had not occurred to him that the reason for this was that she fit a description he had never needed to define before. His mind quickly made up for the oversight.

"Watson, I've just concluded that you are, in fact, not my friend."

She rolled her eyes. "Whatever you say," she agreed dismissively.

As she got up and tried to escape the kitchen, Holmes caught hold of her arm.

"Hold on," he instructed, "I wasn't quite finished."

She snatched her arm out of his grip then questioned, "What? Were you going to compare me to potato chips or a circus or late night television?"

"Don't be absurd," he demanded. "You've nothing in common with any of those things."

"Right, I'm the one who's absurd."

"Ah, I see, you're angry."

"No," she denied.

"Insulted."

She shrugged and folded her arms.

"Okay. You're insulted. But you need not be,Watson, because all I was trying to say is that I think our relationship has evolved, as you put it, beyond mere friendship."

This time she made no effort to hide surprise. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying, Watson, that you are more than a friend."

She laughed without opening her mouth. "Bye, Sherlock."

"I'm not implying anything inappropriate."

Nearly out of the room, she turned around. "Then what are you implying?"

"I am stating, quite directly, that you, Joan Watson, are my first and only... best friend."