Sherlock really is a beautiful man. He has the clearest, bluest eyes I have ever seen. That and his porcelain skin are in stark contrast to his dark, unruly curls. His lips have the most defined cupid's bow I have ever seen. They aren't red like rose petals, and only in that, his gender, and his intellect, does he differ from Snow White. No, his lips are a delicate, pale pink. It's the color I'd imagine pink ice to be.

I wonder what they would taste like? Would they taste sweet, like icing? Like tea? Would they be warm and soft, or hard and cold? Would they darken in color if kissed? Would there be traces of his toothpaste? Would they taste differently from his skin? I wonder what he tastes like. Bloody hell, I would love to run my tongue down his throat, over his collarbone...

"John, you're staring at me."

Shit. I totally was. (God, his voice is so deep, I can feel it in my sternum, I want to drown in it...) I look away and try to hide the flush I feel warming my cheeks. I don't know why, he's not looking. He's still lying on his back on the couch, his eyes closed, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. How did he know I was staring? Oh God, I still am...

"Is there something you'd like to say?"

"No, no. Just... Lost in thought."

Rubbish excuse. But I suppose it's true... I was lost in thought...

"Hmm. You've been 'lost in thought' quite a lot lately."

Goddamn. Why does he have to see through everything?

"Yeah, I suppose I have been."

"Care to share?"

Oh God, this is it... I don't want to do this... But I have to.

"Well, actually, I'm trying to predict your reaction."

He opens his gorgeous eyes and turns them on me.

"My reaction to what?"

I look down into my lap, unwilling to be disabled by his gaze.

"Sherlock, I... I think I'm going to move out."

"What?"

I look up at him. He's surprised, angry, hurt even. Oh, God, I can't do this...

"Yeah, it's just... A little much..."

A little much, constantly keeping my hands and other body parts off of you, constantly having to remind myself to actually listen to the words coming out of your lips, reminding myself to stay an acceptable distance from you, things like that.

"A little- John, you're lying."

Sherlock sits up. He faces me, leaning forward over his knees, penetrating me with his gaze. I lean away instinctively and I shake my head.

"No, I just... I'm sorry, but I don't think I can quite handle your... Pace of life."

His eyes narrow, still disbelieving. Oh God, please believe the lie...

Apparently, he does, because the suspicion and skepticism on his face vanishes and is replaced by hurt and anger. I'm so sorry, Sherlock...

"Well..." He clears his throat. "Certainly. If you feel... If you think..." He clears his throat again. He stands and goes to busy himself with something. I drop my head with a sigh before pulling myself to my feet and going to my room. Might as well start packing...

Once safely inside my room, exhaustion suddenly takes over me. I sway dizzily and sit on the edge of my bed. Am I making a mistake?

I find that I'm crying, genuinely crying.

Wow.

Oh God, I've got such a headache. And I definitely fell asleep fully clothed. Right, there's nothing for it. I pack up the rest of my belongings, which really isn't that difficult. I travel light, generally.

If I'm lucky, I'm up before he is. Either way, I've got to get out sometime. However, as soon as I swing my door open, there he is. Was he waiting for me?

"John."

He turns to me and stops his pacing. He was pacing.

I clear my throat.

"Yes?"

"John, I just want to say that whatever I have done to upset you, I am terribly sorry. I... I want you to stay." I just stare at him in surprise. "Please stay."

There's such a vulnerability in his eyes, such blatant pleading, that I almost succumb to it.

"No, Sherlock, it's not anything you've done. I told you. I just... Don't think it's..."

God, I don't want to lie to him anymore. So I shut up.

Sherlock's face falls.

"I see..." He sits down. "It's just... Me."

"What? No! Well... Yes, but... You mustn't think of it that way."

"It's the only way to think of it." Wrong. "I understand, John." Wrong. "Nobody can withstand being in my presence very long, it's just... An affect I have on people, I suppose..." His voice is so soft. It's barely a whisper. "Right... No, fine... Everybody leaves." This last part is not meant for me. He whispers it under his breath.

He is slumped over in his chair, staring at his hands. He looks so pitiful. I sigh.

"No, Sherlock, it's not that. You're wrong. Please, just... Don't take this personally..."

Don't take it personally, Sherlock, it's just that I want to do obscene things to you almost every second we're together, and I know you don't feel the same way about me.

He says nothing.

Goddamnit.

"Sherlock, for God's sake, it's not your fault!" I go to him and kneel before him, looking up into his face. I realize too late that I have taken his shoulders in my hands, and almost instantly regret it. He looks at me. No, he looks into me. "Please understand." I'm begging you, please.

"Isn't this about how... Intolerable... It is to live with me?" He's getting angry now. He's hurt. God, he thinks I'm just like everyone else, always leaving him... Everybody leaves, he had said. Oh, God...

"No, no, I-"

"Then what is it, John?" He stands, and I stand with him. His strong fingers grip my upper arms and forces my back against the wall, knocking a few books off the top of a pile. "Hmm? If it's not because I'm the worst flatmate anyone could hope to have, or that I'm a sociopath, or because I'm unfeeling and have no heart-"

I snap.

"IT'S BECAUSE I BLOODY WELL LOVE YOU, YOU IDIOT!"

Fuck.

We stand there panting for a few moments as he processes this. I can see it on his face. My face and ears are hot. His eyebrows unfurrow, his fingers slacken, and the angry lines around his eyes and mouth smooth out into a more shocked expression.

"What?"

I swallow. No turning back now.

"You heard me. You're constantly on my mind, I can hardly concentrate on the cases. You've noticed. And I know..." I try to swallow the lump forming in my throat. "I know you don't feel the same about me, so if I am rendered useless to you by my ridiculous infatuation, then the only thing left for me to do here is torture myself, and I just can't do that, Sherlock." I tear myself from his grasp, not wanting to be faced with those wide, doe eyes anymore. He drops his hands, but remains frozen as I try to catch my breath. Now I'm the one pacing.

I can almost hear his mind whirring, trying to catch up. I have a sudden, hysterical urge to giggle, but smother it. Dots are dancing in front of my eyes, I'm breathing too fast, so I sit and lean over my knees, my face in my hands.

Now what?

Now I leave, of course. I can't stand to be in his presence for a second longer. It's too quiet, I'm driving myself spare as I try to figure out what he's thinking about. I stand up and go to collect my things. I make it halfway down the steps before he finally speaks.

"I'm... Sorry, John." I turn to look up at him, exasperation clear on my face, I'm sure.

"Sorry for what? Being so damn gorgeous?" I give him a weak smile. His jaw tightens.

I leave.