A/N: Something that was meant to be a sequel for something else, but was straying too far from my intentions, and therefore deserves to stand alone.

It's The Woman's fault for instilling this idea, really. Just the single thing she said, just that one remark: "Someone loves you. If I had to punch that face, I'd avoid your nose and teeth, too."

It perplexes me. It causes me to want to watch John more, to see if he gives anything away. To see if there is any truth behind that offhand remark. Because if there is, I have another alien emotion to consider: hope.

(There are, of course, things to consider. John is my friend, and cares for me as such – as far as my knowledge extends – and therefore would, most likely, wish to leave me as least unharmed as possible. He has all the control of a military man, as well as all the knowledge of a doctor, and therefore, knows how to hit; where, how hard, and what sort of damage it will inflict. And this both proves and disproves her words. And while I know I shouldn't take them seriously, it gives food for thought.)

John approaches me with a few blueberry scones on a plate. "Hungry? It's nearly noon, and you've been up for hours."

I slowly pan my eyes over to him and relax my hands. I hadn't realized I was thinking so intensely over this until he broke my reverie.

I shake my head. "Had coffee. I should be fine for a while." I glance him over. Shoes on, laces tied securely, jacket on, teeth freshly brushed and smelling minty; he's prepared to go somewhere more important than the store. "Going to meet someone?"

John nods. He doesn't even ask how I know. It's rather obvious, after all. "Yes, for a bit. I'll be back soon."

He turns to leave, the plate of scones on the armrest of my chair. I pick them up, set them aside, and sit up in a crouch. "A woman?"

John freezes by the door. He doesn't glance back. "Yes. An old friend. It's just for a chat, Sherlock."

"Chats can be done on the phone, through text, or over the Internet, through e-mail. This is a date," I assume quietly. "A small date, but a date nonetheless." He's doing that quite a lot, recently: meeting girl after girl. Each one is a bit more idiotic than the last, each one increasingly more defensive and boring. I can't recall a single one's name. John is even having difficulties keeping up on them.

He exhales in exasperation and nods his head, keeping it bowed for a moment while he turns to face me. "Yes, all right? I'm going on a date. Is that so wrong?"

Only when you continually do it, John. Only because you are plaguing my thoughts as of late. That's how it's wrong, yes. But: "No, I suppose not. Go on, then." And I pretend that it doesn't bother me in the least while I pick up a scone and bite into it. It tastes bland to me. Even the blueberries in it aren't satisfying. I want to spit it out, but don't. I can tell that Mrs. Hudson must have made them this morning for her breakfast, and shared the leftovers with John and I. Canned blueberries, simple recipe. Sustainable and necessary for my body; can't run on fumes.

John sends me a look before heading out the door, shutting it behind him. I hear his keys in the lock, bolting it. I sigh and set down the scone, struggling to swallow.

If it were my forte, I would simply ask him. Ask him, 'Do you have feelings for me?' And if it were my forte, I would tell him, 'I think I have feelings for you.'

But I can't be sure. I can't. And I detest being unsure. I need more proof, more leads in this. It's the case I have on the backburner: The Case of John Watson and Emotion. The common feelings of society's little people that I am nearly inept in dealing with and understanding socially. What is acceptable? Why do I care that I do this right, make this acceptable?

And I have the answer in seconds: because of John. For his sake, I want to at least try to go about this normally.

But then again, 'normal' has never suited me. I might need to find an alternative option.

And the first thing would be to get to the bottom of John's strange behavior with women as of late.

##

While John is out, I scour the flat for clues. I find plenty in John's room, little pieces of evidence of different women. Paired with the memory I have (very little of it; most of it I deleted because it didn't pertain to me, wasn't useful. But somehow, my brain held on to much of it, as if subconsciously preparing me for this revelation), one thing becomes clear: John is purposely dating women who are more and more opposite myself, and he is dating so many in order to distract himself.

I don't want to think what this means. I am at a bit of a loss, rightfully deemed ignorant by John, because, in cases such as these, I truly don't understand. What does it mean, that he is with women far different than me, and is dating numerous ones over the course of these past few months?

I wish I could consult someone on this matter, but outside opinions can be… risky. The other person could ask questions I don't wish to answer, and could pry into my reasons behind asking. (Which would be completely annoying. I would loathe it, and for once, would feel completely uncomfortable; because as much as I brush off or ignore the comments, I do care, deep inside, whether or not people are aware of – or suspicious of – mine and John's relationship to one another. Particularly now that I know where my own feelings lie, as crossed as they are, like damaged wires.)

Sighing, I drop back down into my chair and finish off the scones. I make coffee, sip at it, and pretend to be experimenting on the hand I have on a platter in the 'fridge (a series of tests concerning fingernails, cuticles, and the winkles of the hand and how evidence can be trapped there, as well as how certain bacteria can eat away at certain parts faster or slower to corrupt identification and character traits) when John comes in.

"Have a nice date, did you?" I say in as disinterested a tone as I can.

"How could you tell?" John asks, hanging up his jacket and walking into the kitchen, where I am stationed at the table.

"Your chipper attitude, of course," I remark. "The bounce in your step as you came up the stairs, the smile on your lips, in your voice, and the way you burst through the door like you have something pleasant to share." I make a scoffing sound. "Not that I care what it is." Because I don't. I have no interest in hearing something that might bring yet another emotion to the surface: jealousy. I can already feel it brewing, and I'm trying very hard to will it away, because it doesn't suit me.

"No, not that you would," John frowns, instantly bitter. He sighs gruffly and makes his way around me to take some leftover coffee from the pot (it's still hot. I calculated that it should be at least warm by the time he returned). "And why is that, exactly? You do know that friends share these sorts of things with one another, don't you? Couldn't you just, I dunno, indulge me this once?"

"I prefer not to," I respond, ever nonchalant in the most wary of ways. I remove my gaze from my microscope and remove the slide from it. "Hold this."

John obeys, like he usually does. He holds his coffee in his dominant hand and idly holds the slide aloft with the other. He watches me as I make a new slide of more fragments of dirt and other things collected from a different fingernail on my hand, and uses it to compare to the one he's holding. The equipment here isn't as precise as the lab at the hospital, but it will do for what I have in mind.

(With John home again, I am actually able to focus more on my experiments. I'm not sure why this is, but it's a noted fact.)

John assists me in the minor ways he usually does, all while drinking his sugarless coffee. I can smell it on him, tart and strong and heady. I turn away.

"This new one. Are you serious about her any more than the others? You seem to like to jump ship often, John," I remark before I stop to think about how he might take offense.

Not surprisingly, he does take offense. "Piss off, Sherlock. It's none of your business."

"Sure it is," I say, changing slides again. "You said so yourself, earlier: friends talk about these things. So I'm talking about it."

"No, you're criticizing, and I get enough of that from everyone else; I don't need it from you, too, because you're the worst with it," John tells me, voice firm. He sets his empty mug into the sink and leans over my shoulder in the casual manner he tends to do whenever I am bent over something, working: one hand on the back of my chair, the other stabilized on the tabletop. "So drop it, thank you. Now, what are you doing here, again?"

"I thought you were excited about it. You seemed happier when you came in. What changed?" I ask, suspicious. I turn to look at him, our faces a bit too close. He doesn't pull away, even though I thought he would. I lean back instead, giving us more breathing space.

"Nothing, just you being a dick again," John remarks, slight smile on his mouth, up in the left-hand corner (his left, not mine). "Ruining my mood."

"No," I say, realizations striking me like lightning, rapidly one after another. "No, there's something else, something more. You wanted to tell me something, but I've spoiled it, and you're not quite sulking; you're waiting for the right moment to come back to it, but I keep offending you, putting you off it. So what is it, then? Come out with it."

And I look expectantly at him, my eyes searching his face. He raises his brows and shakes his head, leaning off my chair and the table, running a hand through his graying blond hair. "For someone so clever, sometimes you fail to pick up the really important signs, Sherlock." He sounds… disappointed in me. And a bit anxious. And perhaps a little embarrassed in himself.

I'm baffled, and I continue to stare at him, because, as rare as it is, there are times when even I am rendered speechless, anticipating what someone is about to say next. (More often than not, that someone is John.)

"But what am I explaining myself for?" he says, beginning to pace the kitchen around the table. My eyes follow his every move, sticking mainly to his expressive face that appears so very drained. "I've given up trying. I was going to tell you when I came in, but I've lost my nerve, now. So forget it. Go back to your experiment."

And he leaves me there, and I nearly want to hate him for it. I want to be angry, want to yell at him about it, but I can't seem to have the heart to.

I stand from the table, put away my experiment, and toss my hair.

There's something I'm missing. Some key thing that pieces all of this together: John's behavior, John's choices in women, John's big reveal that he can't seem to get out.

I freeze. Wait. Wait a moment.

"Ohh!" I exclaim with my hands pressing into one another against my lips.

That's it, isn't it? The missing link is John. Or, more specifically, what he's keeping from me.

I need to know. I have the right to (I think), and I have the means to.

It's just a matter of getting John to cooperate the way I want him to.

##

I explode into John's room that evening with take-away (Italian) in my hands. "You're eating with me," I announce, and John stares at me over one of his books, his face the epitome of not right now and kindly bugger off.

Understandable.

I smirk and plop down onto his bed, just shy of the foot of it, keeping parallel to him. "Your anger toward me is boring. I might as well dine with my old friend, the skull, if I want utter silence. I thought I might change that. Idle chatter while dining is what normal people do, isn't it?"

John appreciates it when I try acting like everyone else. I'm never entirely positive whether or not he likes it when I do, however. He used to, but as of late, he seems to find it suspicious instead. And for good reason: I usually want something from him when I lower myself to his level. He catches on quickly. (Oh, John. You are cleverer than you seem, aren't you?)

Raising an eyebrow, John nods and takes the bag I offer him. I've noted and stored his favorite Italian foods in my head long ago, so I know the order is right even before he says, "Oh, my favorite!" aloud, muttered under his breath. He looks up at me then, smiling a little, as if to say, 'thank you for remembering.'

I look away and take out my own food in its foam box, popping it open and using the plastic fork inside the bag to begin eating. Around a bite, I ask, "Please, John – and I am actually saying please – tell me what you meant to earlier. I dislike not being in the know."

He snorts one of his giggles. "I bet you don't. The problem with you, Sherlock, is that you like knowing everything about everyone because it keeps you distant from them. You can observe things and check them off some imaginary list, putting people off to the side because you have already filed them as either 'dangerous' or 'boring.'"

I blink, stare, fork held midair. He's right, of course. I just had no idea that he could understand so much about me.

He clears his throat and sets his food off to the side, onto his bedside table. "Since you're so insistent, I'll tell you after all: I've realized over these past few months that I… well, I don't fancy anyone. I can't, not when cases with you are a much higher priority. Not when I actually…" and here he hesitates, and it dawns on me, the missing piece: through all my observations, through all my watching sessions, through every moment that was clouded by the presence of another person – Irene, Lestrade, Molly, even Mrs. Hudson – I failed to notice John's reactions, responses. I failed to see the connection, the motive, behind his slew of women so different from me, and his readiness to drop them.

He was jealous of Irene, has been in denial for some time beforehand, and upon understanding himself, he's been trying his utmost to prove himself wrong.

None of his previous dates were me. They were smart girls, but not nearly as clever and unpredictable as I am. And, later, after understanding why he felt so changed by Irene's presence, he tried to distract himself by being with women very opposite me. He thought that, if he could like one of them, it would disprove his conclusion, that he has feelings for me.

So it's entirely true, then. All the jokes, all the talk, all the tension and affection others saw or picked up that John and I hadn't.

We've been dancing around the truth; putting it off, avoiding it, because it was convenient, because it would preserve what we currently have, and because it would keep others at bay. But in the end, it's impossible to oppose forever; John and I are… compatible, to say the least. We are bonded, to say just as little.

(We're in love.)

"You have that face on," John points out quietly. "That epiphany face of yours. The one, I've learned, that means you've got it all figured out." He sighs, looks over at his meal. "Do you, then? Know what I'm getting at?"

"Yes," I say in a voice too soft and low to be my own. (But it is, isn't it? That's me talking. I'm confessing. Don't think this suits me, either.) I feel out of place. Something's wrong; I only wish I could place what. – It's not John, it's… something else. A sort of fear. I don't want it. It's making me feel sick. (Appetite soiled.) I swallow. "I know, John."

He nods. "Knew you would, at some point." He sighs again, this time with a hint of pain. "What I don't get is: why? Why you? Why me? I felt good about it, earlier, like I figured out something fantastic, but you reminded me that it wouldn't work. As much as I…" He falters again, nibbling his lip. I find my eyes attracted to the motion. "Care for you, it wouldn't do."

That's not entirely true. He thinks I don't feel remotely the same; but he's incorrect. Oh, so very incorrect. "Perhaps not," I agree anyway, "But you've missed signs as well, John. I…" Hesitate. Don't know which words to use, so I borrow his. "Care for you in the same way."

He blinks. "You do?" he says, voice brinking on being a gasp. His face is sheer disbelief, and I smile a bit to reassure him.

"Sure, why else would I say otherwise? Come on, John. Use your head," and it's teasing and unfair, I know, but this whole moment is… well, not what I had intended. I shift in position a smidge, uncrossing my legs, leaving one foot tucked beneath my knee, the other grazing the floor. "But you are right in some sense. It might not work. It hardly works now, our 'friendship,' being sleuthing colleagues and more-or-less functional flatmates. How could we possibly function as anything else?"

John nods his head grimly. "That was my point. For slightly different reasons, but still the same concept."

He is trying to indicate, I'm sure, my asexuality as one of those 'reasons.' He thinks I'm disinterested in any form of romance. And up until I met him, it was true. I've long since convinced myself that no one could love me but my mother (and, I suppose, Mycroft, in his own way), and I had no desire to love anyone else. But then came John, and The Woman, and even Molly, I realize. People can like me, even when I don't look for their approval, and some can even love me for who I am, despite the 'insanity' (others' words, not mine) that ensues when I am involved.

John goes on, "But I think… I think we could try, don't you? Just… just like one of your experiments. A trial period of sorts. I could do that for you, I think. And if you were willing – just for me – we could…"

I pause, consider this. A large part of me (a greater deal than I had previously surmised) wants this, almost craves it. There's a thrill about thinking of John as something other than a live-in colleague, as other than a friend. It's a temptation, something quite appealing and the opposite of dull (which is strange, because I always thought love was dull and foolish). And yet…

In the short silence, John picks up his food and pokes at it, eating small bites. I still feel sick about something. My subconscious is trying to get a message across, and John is distracting me from understanding it.

Suddenly, John chuckles ironically. "Funny, though, isn't it? I didn't think – well, no one thought, really. That you would ever… feel for someone. But look, Sherlock, you must have a heart, because here we are."

I smile a little. Yes, I must have the metaphorical 'heart' every one else has. Something dully normal within me, one of the few things keeping me human.

A jolt of cold fear shoots through me. Wait. "Heart."

John looks up, his fork in his mouth. He removes it, food in his cheek, and speaks, "Come again?"

I stand, feeling white, and realize what that sensation of 'wrong' was, why this truly couldn't work, and why I've felt so timid about this: "Moriarty, John. He said he would 'burn the heart out of me.' That's why this can't –" and I growl with frustration, already turning and heading out of the room to search the flat for one of my patches, because just when I think I have this sorted out (the observations, the distractions: all of it categorized – as love, of all things – and being made slowly into something doable), a problem gets in the way. And problems like this requite some nicotine.

"Sherlock? Sherlock! What are you –" John's saying, following after me, our food forgotten in his room. He catches me by the arms and spins me around to face him (too close, too close; proximity warning: touching touching touching), and his brows are furrowed and he's trying to calm me down and keep me from my patches. "Hold on, will you? Just hold on a moment. What about Moriarty?"

"If he knew, if we tried this, if anyone –" I tense up all over, body alert for danger than isn't technically imminent. It's irrational, very unlike me, but refuses to dissolve. "Oh, but he already has guessed, hasn't he? That's why he wired you at the pool. He knew you were important to me. Didn't know the extent – neither did I, did we, at the time – but knew, at least, you were my closest – only – friend. And that's dangerous, John. That's…" My mind races with all the things I could say.

(You will get hurt. I might not be able to stop him.)

(I can't let it happen, not when my 'heart' is you.)

(I can't lose you. I'd rather be the one to die. I deserve it; not you.)

I snap back to myself and shake my head violently. "No, no, no!"

I don't want this. In fact, I don't even need it.

My face falls and John is left staring at me, concern the only expression; it's practically bleeding through his pores. "…Sherlock?" he ventures.

"Never mind, John," I tell him calmly, straightening myself and prying his hands from my shirt. "Never mind."

"What? 'Never mind?' Sherlock, we finally say to one another – and then you think of Moriarty and some danger for me, and suddenly you decide against everything?" he says animatedly, face passionate.

(Oh, poor John. I'm so sorry.)

"Yes, I have. I'm sorry, John, I am. But it would be best if we forgot about this. Carry on as usual, move on. It's not…" I blow air out my mouth and tear my gaze from his. Something inside me contorts, stirring something painful. "It's not important. Not vital at all." And I turn and feel like I could use a real cigarette. Or my violin.

John blinks, stares, gapes. He has the appearance akin to a wounded puppy. He nods, bows his head. "Yes, you're right. It's probably for the best."

He doesn't believe his own words.

(Neither do I.)