Sherlock was leaning over the microscope, and the computer by his side beeped constantly, but none of those beeps showed him the answer that he was looking for.

Molly was discussing something with John across the room, showing him some blood splatters and bullet wounds. They seemed to be having fun.

By Sherlock's side, analysing some mud on a test tube, was Molly's work colleague and new intern at Bart's. She was taking glances at the computer once in a while, awaiting the results patiently.

It was when Molly laughed heartedly that she raised her head and smiled, as if to herself, observing Molly with barely contained admiration.

"Have you told her?"

Sherlock's voice was only loud enough for her to hear it. It was nonchalant, uninterested, and denoted much more the will to show off than an actual care for the answer. The girl didn't respond straight away, caught off guard.

She looked at him, who was now facing her and made a slight movement with her head towards John.

"Have you?"

There was a hint of a smile, a playful question. She was clever and she knew what she was asking.

Sherlock caught his breath quickly, surprised by the question, surprised that she had seen it. Was he that obvious? He looked at John and then his eyes met the floor, with a defeated smile.

He didn't answer though, and the girl smiled, going back to examining the test tube. She didn't need an answer, she knew it. She recognised infatuation when she saw it. And Sherlock was not the type of person she could demand an answer from, or even expect one.

Sherlock looked at John once more, a sad expression on his face. Then, he shook his head, took a deep but silent breath and got back to work.

Getting involved wasn't always a choice, he realised. Love was still a chemical defect and it was crippling him to the point that when John came to his side later on, asking how he was fitting the clues together, Sherlock had to avoid looking at him because he feared that he might not be able to ever look away, to show too much.

John had never seen it, of course, John never saw anything. Sometimes he wishes he could just shake him and tell him, but who was he trying to fool? He was a coward.

So later that day, when the computer screen showed the right matches and he put on his coat to give his successful results to Lestrade, with John close at his heels, he looked back at the girl and they shared a brief look. A look that was as if an agreement to keep a secret, and in a way, a sign of empathy.

A few years ago, Sherlock would have called her ridiculous. Nowadays, he understood that some errors were simply human.

He had never felt so human.