What was it about you? Your hair, your eyes, your laugh, your smile, the way you talked, carried yourself— all of it was driving him positively insane and he couldn’t stop the downward spiral into intrigue. Into finding out why you occupied his thoughts when it should be full of logic and reason and details from murder cases— it was infuriating.

His heart fluttered whenever you smiled, and his tongue betrayed him by calling you ‘dearest’, ‘dear’, ‘darling’, ‘my lady’, when it shouldn’t be doing that but he was helpless and couldn’t hold his tongue for the life of him, and he was growing fond of you. Fond, imagine that.

“I can’t figure it out.” Sherlock only said that when he was working on a particularly hard murder, but now — as he burst into 221B, where you were waiting — it was about you. Always about you.

Though, he could call this a case too, of why he was acting like a blithering, emotionless fool.

He paced, slamming the door shut and most likely disturbing Mrs Hudson upstairs, though there were more pressing matters at hand. “You, it’s somehow you. Why?”