The automated voice crackles over the loudspeaker, announcing the arrival of your train to Paris, and a familiar ache settles in your chest. You're 24, a consulting detective splitting your time between the streets of Paris and the roads of London. And you're deeply, irrevocably in love with Sherlock Holmes, 27, and a marvel in his own right. Two years ago, a perplexing case had brought you across the Channel, pairing you with the infamous Sherlock. What you hadn't anticipated was the way his steel-grey eyes would soften when they met yours, the way his sharp wit would become whispered compliments, the way his hardened exterior would crumble, revealing a sentimental soul beneath.

Dating Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective? It's been as unconventional and heartwarming as you could have imagined. The ruthless detective is gone whenever it's just you two. Gone is the coldness, the apathy, the disinterest; replaced by a man who writes you love poems, brings you tea in bed, and surprises you with flowers he knows you'll love. He is so unlike the man everyone else sees and it makes you feel so incredibly special. But your life is in Paris and his is undoubtedly in London. Every few weeks, it's a constant dance of arrivals and departures, hellos and goodbyes.

The distance is especially hard on him, you know, even if he doesn't outright say it. His clinginess is a testament to the invisible thread that binds you. The train hisses to a stop. He pulls you into an embrace that steals the air from your lungs, a desperate attempt to hold onto you just a little longer. You feel the dampness of his tears seeping into your hair and your own tears mirroring his, soaking the soft cotton of his shirt. This is always the hardest part, this moment when you have to physically separate. You know a few months will pass before you can see each other again. The thought sends another wave of sadness through you, settling like a stone in your stomach.