sherlock holmes was not used to looking at someone and seeing wonder, not disgust.

he was not used to being called amazing after deconstructing someone's entire life, after pointing out all of the things he found obvious. after doing the mental equivalent of stripping someone naked.

and you'd called it amazing.

he was stunned into silence- another thing that was novel to him- blinking open-mouthed at the headrest of the driver's seat in the taxi you were in.

he cleared his throat, pushing past his shock and suppressing the pink flush threatening to rise to his cheeks. the air felt thicker, warmer somehow. to sherlock, at least. to you, everything was perfectly normal.

"thank you," he said after a moment, words stilted and awkward. god, today was full of firsts, wasn't it? he didn't thank people, he was sherlock holmes! he was above all of those bullshit social customs. he hadn't said those words in years.

maybe that was why everyone had been so hesitant to be his flatmate.

"people don't usually say that," he added, looking over to you. he couldn't figure you out. he already had figured you out, or so he thought.

he knew that your sibling had gifted you a phone because she was going through a rough patch with her wife, knew that she was an alcoholic by the scratches near the charging port.

he knew about that.

he didn't know shit about you.