Sunshine and Moonlight

Sherlock and John, as anyone could tell, were two sides of the same coin. Opposite sides of the same being. They seemed to compliment each other in ways that no one else would be able, but they were so different. John, short but strong and ever so dependable. Sherlock, tall and lanky, equipped with a sharp tongue and an even sharper mind. John was the kind of person you just felt drawn to, the kind of person you’d want to keep around. Sherlock was acerbic and difficult to get along with, and his biting deductions tended to scare most people off.

Now, if there were any discussion on the matter (which the chances of that are not too high), people would say that Sherlock would be the moon, and John would be the sun. “Sherlock is pale, and wears dark clothing. He’s dark and foreboding,” they would whisper as the men would by, oblivious to everyone but each other. “John is bright, lovely to be around, and he usually makes the world feel brighter. Yes, Sherlock Holmes is the moon, and John Watson is the sun, that is how it is.”

If John and Sherlock happened to hear this, however, they would only chuckle to themselves and walk away while shaking their heads.

No, John Watson is not the sun. He is the moon, a bright but calming light in the midst of Sherlock’s darkness, surrounded by stars. The moon is not as lonely as one might think. Illuminating he may be, but not in the same way the sun is. John cuts through Sherlock’s endless nights in just the right places and lends light to what Sherlock needs the most.

And no, Sherlock Holmes is not the moon. He is the sun, blinding and incredible, a thing of awe and beauty, but nearly alone in the sky. He took John’s darkness and lit it up until there was none left, filling his life with such a bright light that John could barely what the dark looked like anymore. He is not surrounded by countless stars, his only friends the clouds that drift past on occasion. He illuminates nearly every truth and keeps John’s world bright.

John and Sherlock know this, and when they are alone in Baker Street together, holding each other tightly in their arms, swaying to the soft strains of recorded violin music, they call each other exactly what they are.

“My sunshine,” John whispers reverently, staring up at Sherlock in wonder.

“My moonlight,” Sherlock says, and looks at John as if the sun really does revolve around the moon.

Perhaps, in their world, it does.