According to research, it is stated that it takes approximately four minutes for someone to decide if they're in love. If they are attracted to someone, if they fancy someone. Call it what you will. I only know the science of it because that is the only part that matters. It doesn't even matter what the person bloody says. Fifty five percent of the decision is from the desired partner's body language. Thirty eight percent is from the tone of voice and only that left over seven percent of what that person says really matters. No wonder.

When first desiring someone it is lust that lets the process begin. Driven by testosterone and estrogen, and that is all. Then there are the three neurotransmitters that trigger attraction: adrenaline, serotonin and dopamine. Then comes attachment coated in oxytocin. Vasopressin is released after sex. I suppose my brother would remind me that I don't have any knowledge of that portion.

After nearly five years and four minutes with John Watson I have made the extremely disadvantaged decision that I am in love with him. I don't particularly want to be, but I suppose these things cannot be helped. Three years without him was quite enough. Being reunited after those three years, I thought then would be the proper time to tell him. After all, it was a long time. A long time of destroying Moriarty's web. A long time of making sure no one would lay a finger on John. After all, I had in fact experienced missing him. I know that he had missed me too. However, it is three months later after the initial reunion and I have still been ignoring the fact that those three neurotransmitters took action long ago. What would be the point in acting on this decision anyway?

I stare at the body on the sofa in front of me. Lestrade coughs a bit into his gloved hand. John shuffles his feet behind me. My mind needs to focus. Do not think of John behind you, think of the body in front of you, Sherlock.

The body: female, around twenty six years of age, brown hair, green eyes. To the normal mind it would appear that she had no physical wounds that could have caused her death, but I see it. Her bare arms are covered in hives. Blotchy, pink, protruding. I look around the flat. Allergy: obvious. Look in the refrigerator, look in the cupboards. No, stupid! On the counter: peanuts. The lid is off. How would one not know they were allergic?

"Was she poisoned? She called, she said there was an intruder in her house," Anderson asks. I roll my eyes.

"Anderson, shut up, you're putting me off!"

She called, said there was an intruder, but there was no struggle, it's obvious the allergy killed her. She knew she wouldn't just have hives; she'd get an anaphylactic reaction. So: Suicide. How did I not know this when I walked in the bloody room.

"There was no intruder, she lied. There, on the counter, peanuts. She was allergic. She killed herself. Now, is there anything worth my time here to look at?"

John looks at me and smiles. He looks pleased. Pleased with me. I feel a pang of pride. Ignore it, not worth it.

"Sorry Sherlock," Lestrade says, "we were under the impression she was attacked in some way, and since there were no visible injuries…"

"Mm," I grumble, and then make my way out of the flat. John follows me out. Love hearing his footsteps in time with my own. No, don't use that word.

"Hungry?" John asks as we slide inside the cab. I shrug. Am not particularly hungry but if John is then I will certainly pretend to be. I dislike that I like the way his hair is getting long and I don't like that I notice that he needs to shave yet he still looks charming. I don't like that his trousers fit him snuggly and I don't like that he looks so well rested from sleeping in late this morning. He slept at his date's house yesterday evening. It bothers me, and I wish it wouldn't. But it bothers me endlessly. Did he touch her? Did she touch him? Did she whisper to him in the middle of the night with her lips on his neck?

It's a strange thing to think of. John's sexual activities can make me so bothered, so jealous, and angry. But if I think about it, would I myself be able to perform those acts? While it's true that I am attracted to John, and that I so immensely require his company and affection, I do not know if I truly wish to put myself in the acts of a libido. I wouldn't know what to do; I fear I'd freeze, back away, run away. I want to hold him, kiss him, but what then? I am terrified. I walk on dangerous ground with even the thought of John perhaps reciprocating my feelings for him. Are the same chemicals being released for me? God no, of course not.

I must stay silent.

The risk is too great. I would much rather have John Watson in my life as my very best friend for forever than not have him in my life at all. If I speak, I fear I would lose him. He wouldn't want to hurt me but inevitably would. We would hurt each other. So what's the point?

Those three years apart. All the times I wished I'd told him I was alive. And when we did rediscover each other, the look on his face. Amazement, then anger. There was swearing, I was hit in the face, one broken nose, split open lip, blurred vision for five seconds. He is so strong. And then he hugged me. He did not cry, of course he wouldn't. He's John. He's resilient and secure and does not cry. But he held me, tightly, he said my name. I apologized endlessly. I wanted to kiss him. And then over a cup of tea I explained everything. None of this matters now: irrelevant.

What is the use in any of it?

I must stay silent.

"Starving."