Watson watched Holmes close the curtains with a strange sense of detachment, a sense of eager anxiety. He was not trembling, to his faint surprise and infinite relief, but his mind was full of thought. I am going to kiss him. I am going to kiss Holmes, properly, as a lover. I may at some point engage in sexual congress with him.

If he thought about it rationally, it seemed awful, a terrible crime against the soul, or at least against society. If he did not think about it, if he felt, then it felt natural and right.

Feel, don't think.

After ensuring the door was locked, Watson stepped up close behind Holmes at the window, resting his hand very gently on his back. He said nothing, merely looked at Holmes rather expectantly, and a little shyly.