"I imagine it isn't a very long list."

At the time, Sherlock had barely registered what Mycroft's question; far too busy hearing all the pieces click into place as he realised who the coffin was for.

In all honesty, he expected Mycroft to be right - he wouldn't think the list to be very long, and six years ago it wasn't. Six years ago, he'd barely put his parents on the list. Six years ago, even those who tried to care for him wouldn't make the list. Six years ago, he barely remembered what love was.

Now, he let himself contemplate his brother's words. Over the course of six years, ever since John came into his life and he moved under Mrs Hudson's roof, he'd learned to care and even how to love others, meanwhile realising just how deeply he could love. Now, he could happily list his overbearing parents along with Lestrade, whom he no longer viewed as merely a means to his next high. He could list Mrs Hudson who brought him tea every day - not because she was his housekeeper, but because she cared. He could list the Watson's: the man who taught him the care, the woman that trusted him, and his darling goddaughter. He once could've listed Victor Trevor, the friend that made him who he was today. He could list Molly, whose friendship he valued deeply and had carefully worked to restore. He could even list his siblings, who both cared in their own, unique way.

Then there was John's suggestion.

John believed him to be in love with the Woman, or at least have some romantic attachment towards her that would 'complete him as a human being'. Despite learning how to love, he didn't know if he was capable of romance, and the overwhelming amount of intimacy and openness that it required. She too seemed hardly eager to jump into declarations of love, though she definitely understood it better than him. Did he care for Irene Adler? Absolutely, there was no arguing the incredibly dangerous rescue mission he took for her. And yes, he felt they'd reached a level of open and vulnerable intimacy during their time in Karachi, and that time in Paris...and New York, Rio de Janeiro, Montenegro, Sorrento, Finland, Turkey, Prague, Amsterdam, New Jersey and, most recently, High Wycombe. But to be in love? No, most definitely not. That wasn't for either of them.

When he considered it, he knew that his relationship with Irene was the closest he was capable to a 'romantic relationship'. He regarded her as an admirable intellectual sparring partner, a talented work associate, and most definitely a thrilling sexual partner.

Partners, he liked that.

The Woman and he would never be in love, or have a typical romantic relationship, but he held some kind of love for her, and they shared an intimacy he never had, and never would again share with anyone else. Their guards were at their lowest and their highest around each other, depending on the situation. They communicated in many ways unique to them: words and body. John might tell him this is what a romantic relationship entailed, but again: that wasn't for either of them.

He brought this up with her in High Wycombe, after discussing the Black Pearl, having dinner, having dinner and debating the stupidity of her relocation to the UK...not necessarily in that order.

She gave a lazy chuckle when he questioned if she thought they'd ever have that kind of relationship, replying, "Oh dear God, no. Not a chance, darling. Far too ordinary for us, don't you agree?"

"Obviously," he freed his arm from underneath her and rolled onto his back, letting out a deep sigh as he did.

She shifted so she could see him, read his expression and seek his inner thoughts - of which she has proven to be particularly good at finding.

"Then why do you ask? You didn't seriously worry that I thought that, did you? If so, Mr Holmes, you flatter yourself far too much," she grinned.

"Don't worry, Miss Adler, I assure you I wasn't." He didn't meet her gaze, focusing on the ceiling. "It was just something...when we were at Sherrinford."

"Ah," she realised. She knew that his first encounter with his sister was a particularly emotional topic for him. "What was it?"

"You remember the coffin for Molly Hooper?" He heard her hum in recognition. "Well, when Mycroft asked who it was, he stated it wasn't a very long list, and the John recommended you."

She rolled over onto his chest, forcing him to face her. "Hmm," she 'thoughtfully' traced her fingers around his chest. "And is it? Who loves you, Mr Holmes?"

"More than I thought." He began to retaliate by steadily drawing circles up from her lower waist to her shoulder blade, revelling in the goosebumps that formed underneath his touch. "It's a shame that when playing the Game, loved ones tend to be weaknesses."

"Indeed," she breathed, inching her face closer to his. Her delicate fingers strolled carefully across his collarbone, inching their way up his neck as he choked, feeling constricted in the lack of oxygen between him and Irene.

He knew she understood the dangers of loved ones all too well, a solid reason to keep herself distanced from...well, everyone. "And did you want to know," she whispered, as their noses grew a hair width apart, "if you should add me to the list?"

He stopped his fingers in the middle of her back, dragging them down to meet her ribcage. He tapped a nonsensical rhythm teasingly light against them, resisting the urge to grin at her heightened breathing rate and quicker pulse. He leaned forwards off the bed, lips brushing momentarily against her ear before challenging, "You tell me, Miss Adler."

He leant back and saw that her pupils had doubled in size, and this time he couldn't hold back the smirk.

She pressed a kiss to his chest, "I love working with you." She slid her hand down his chest, landing where her lips had just been, "Tracking down the dangerous and kicking some arse."

She kissed his shoulder, "I love playing our game; the rush, the anticipation of waiting for you to find me. Seeing if you'll come."

She kissed his jaw, her voice dropping drastically, "I love the song you wrote about me."

She kissed his forehead and he tightened his grip on her, "I love that big, sexy brain of yours."

She kissed his cheek before muttering in his ear, and he could feel her smirk, "And I love the sex."

Before he could move again, she had pushed herself back, allowing him to see her face properly. She spoke again, her voice back to its normal volume, a taunting smirk on her lips, "And I guess your company isn't so bad."

Not allowing her to make another move, he pulled her down, crashing her lips to his. After a Lord he didn't believe in knows how many minutes they broke apart in a sigh of relief, and it registered to him that, though her words were genuine, their bodies had been playing a familiar game - one he'd just lost.

She beamed in victory, cheeks flushed with something else entirely. "I suppose," she pondered, "I do love you, Mr Holmes - just as you love me. But not at all in the way Doctor Watson assumes." She kissed him briefly on the lips, before finally confirming his theory, "That's just not for us."

No, he thought, it's not.

But ordinary people are boring.