It was stupid. (Stupid, stupid stupid.) Oh, how stupid it was. Sherlock saw the signs. How could he not? He frequently gloated (only pointed out the obvious) about them. No, he saw all the tale tell signs, yet he never took the leap. (Stupid.) Every time he understood why, another layer of stupid was added. It was a giant puzzle that only seemed to gain more pieces as time went on. (Improbable but the only explanation.)

Sherlock was used to stupid for the most part. Oh God, how the world was just brimming (overflowing, swollen) with stupid; it was hard not to gain some immunity to it all. This time though, this time was more insufferable than most. (Unbearable.) Why? Because Sherlock himself was being stupid. (Oh, such a stupid, stupid man.) Sherlock and stupid didn't agree when they were in different rooms. (Shut up.) Having stupid being in such close proximity to himself made it... impossible. (No. Almost.)

But yet, here Sherlock was close to stupidity. (Intimately close.) That itself was more stupid (stupid stupid) than Sherlock felt like handling. Of course, he could just stop being so stupid. In fact, he could fix that right here and now. (Stupid. Stop stalling.) John. John was the reason for all this stupid, and John was in the cab with him. John was sitting next him, close to him, much closer (almost touching, almost perfect) to him than they would have sat before the Fall. (Fall? Sentimental.) He always sat closer now. Idiot. (But not stupid. Never John.)

Of course, finding changes like this particular one (Abandonment issues? Trust issues? Both? Probable.) were not unusual. (Idiot.)

John had changed after the Fall. Some changes could arguably be for the better. (Other things gave him happiness... all distractions. Idiot. Not of importance.) Some were unarguably for the worst. (Idiot.) Some were just different. (Too many changes. Much too many. Idiot.)

One of those changes was a simple acceptance. John had accepted Sherlock as a sort of lover (not friends but not not friends) after the Fall. The media portrayed John H. Watson as a widower; a poor man who lost his husband but still kept fighting. John never fought back against these claims. (Changing... Idiot.) He fully but quietly embraced (does not want to classify) the role. He went into mourning (depression returned in full, stopped eating, still thin) and barely said a word (still). There was one thing said fairly early on before the press had slowly forgotten the story in lieu of other, more interesting tales. It had stroked up such a fuss. (All too loud.) Almost every paper had it. (At least it was important.)

"John admits to being in love with Sherlock"

Sherlock had taken up reading all parts of the newspapers while in hiding. (All so stupid.) He used to only look at obituaries (Interesting. Cases. Are they friends? Who did it?) and sometimes a few choice articles (mostly stupid). Now, he skimmed through as many as he could. It was his only way of still feeling in touch with the world. A terrible (Was it?) excuse of one, but one that was still better than nothing. (Maybe.) After he saw that article, he bought as many different newspapers as he could find.

It always a boring story.

(John did say it though.)

Perhaps it wasn't such a boring story. (What to think? Idiots made it oh so hard.)

John was practically barraged daily by people asking him how he felt about the "deceased". John, for his part, never said a word. (Never? Must have. Stupid papers always failing to see the importance.) Not until he eventually whispered those (fateful) words one day. "I might love him." They should never have been heard. Oh, but the reporters were like predators with much too sharp of hearing for their own good. (Stupid vultures.) It was then glamoured up and stuck in stiff stories to be paraded about like some sort of prize. (Why must everyone be stupid?)

It was disgusting. (Everyone was stupid. Everyone.)

The reason for this sudden confession though, that was what intrigued Sherlock. He suspected what happened. (Knew. Always knew. His one guess.) Sherlock wrote an blog post that last fateful day. (Dangerous but necessary to curb the stupidity within.) He had signed it off with a "I'd be lost without my blogger." (Stupid.) It was as close to a love confession as you would get from him. (Obvious even to idiots.) Sherlock deduced (Guessed. Stupid. It was a guess.) that John read that post which was only confirmed with the simple comment. ("I'm lost without my idiot.")

Sherlock smiled at the memory. Only John could understand. (Sentimental idiot.)

A complete idiot. (Yes, but idiot in a good way.)

That was the root of all this stupidity. The good idiotic (such an idiot) in the world. The idiotic that has only been found in John. (Such a rare specimen.) Sherlock wanted it. Sherlock wanted to study it. (Only him. Always him.) Sherlock wanted to keep in under his own lock and key and never let anyone else have it. John. (No. His John.) He wanted his (his?) John. (All so stupid.)

That leap was never taken however. (Stupid.) At first, it was a general uninterest. (Stupid) He had no interest in romance or sex anymore. (Dull, boring, unnecessary.) Then that clear cut reason started to fade. (Stupid.) John… John could be the exception to that rule. (Please.) Sherlock saw that. Not only that, Sherlock craved that. (Stupid. Stupid for an idiot.)

Maybe it was all just a desire to keep things the way they were. (Stupid.) The theory basis. It wasn't that either however. No. (Too obvious, not all the facts supported it.) Their friendship had changed from before. John had become ever so willing since the Fall. (Not yet ready to label... No. Doesn't want to overstep. Nervous.) Something broke (one of those dreaded changes) and it was never quite fixed. (Idiot.) John couldn't restrain himself anymore. (Yet he did. Patience. Waiting for an opening. No. Many openings have been given... Broken. Can't fight. )There was a need so apparent (Touching hands, much too long stares. Longing. Licks of lips. Normal? Different. Aversion to eye contact. A change. A hateful change.). It was all so apparent to Sherlock it almost hurt that no one else saw it. (Could no one else see? Couldn't they just see?)

(No. People were to see. John was to see.) Sherlock shifted closer to John; nuzzling him slightly.

"What are you doing?" (John. So tired. Can't run as long. Out of shape. Didn't think he would need to keep up anymore. Idiot.)

"It is obvious. Deduce it." (Break your rules set in destiny.)

"Not now."

"Humor me." (Please. Please.)

"You are close."

"Go on."

'I'm tired, Sherlock." (No.)

"Go," Sherlock whispered dangerously low, "on." Sherlock snaked his hand into John's. (A real touch. Please. Please.)

"Sherlock."

There was a warning in that voice. ("Stop that.") Yet, John's eyes and posture said things as well. The complete opposite things. (Oh, such delicious, opposite things. Oh... stupid... Please? Please.)

Sherlock tilted his head and ghosted his lips over John's. John opened his mouth. (Was it to be a warning? An invite? Please.) Sherlock pressed his mouth unto John's. Calm. Precise. (Stabilizing... Please...)

(A pound. No. A push. Please no.) "Not in the cab."

Sherlock pulled away. "Please..." (No. No. Stupid. Stupid.)

John (John). John's eyes. (Glazed. Half lidded. Sad?) Pulse (racing). Both of theirs? (So hard to concentrate.)

"Sherlock." (John.) "Sherlock, I..."

"Please (please)."

"I'm broken."

(So am I.)

Stopping (we are here). "(Please.) John."

"(What are we doing?)"

(I don't know.) "Run with me."

Why?

"I'm lost without you." (I love you, John.)

"I lost myself." (I couldn't stand life without you.)

"(We will find you together.) I love you."

"Idiot. (And I love you too.)"

"Stupid. (You are the idiot.)"

(But that is okay.)

A/N: Confusing (maybe it was intentional?)... but okay (I think). I just wanted to do something different. Sad. (But just a little happy.)