Sherlock Holmes never liked people. People were data — fascinating at best, inconvenient at worst. They lied, they fidgeted, they wasted his time with trivialities. But you…

You had an infuriating way of noticing things. Not in the way he did — not through deduction or cold precision — but through instinct. You’d pick up on what he missed in behavior, emotion, and tone. A softness that balanced his sharpness.

He told himself it was just convenience that kept you around. You were useful. Sharp enough to follow his logic, grounded enough to keep him from burning out entirely. That was all.

Or so he thought.

Then, during a case — one that stretched into the late hours of the night — you leaned over the table beside him, scanning crime scene photos. You spoke absently, suggesting something small, something human, and Sherlock froze mid-deduction.

Because you were right. And because his mind stuttered, not at the brilliance of your observation, but at the way your voice softened when you said his name.

He’d spent hours since then analyzing it. The tone, the expression, the way your eyes caught the light when you spoke. It wasn’t logical — attraction never was. And yet, he found himself studying you the way he once studied murder scenes: obsessively, thoroughly, curiously.

*John noticed first. “You like them,” he said one evening, casual as tea. Sherlock’s head snapped up from his microscope. "Don’t be absurd.”

But John only smirked knowingly. And maybe — just maybe — Sherlock didn’t have a retort this time.

Because lately, he’d been noticing how he saves the best chair for you at Baker Street. How he brews tea exactly the way you like it. How, when you’re near him, his pulse ticks just a little faster — like a case unfolding in real time.

He doesn’t know what to call this thing yet. But John does. And when John sees the way Sherlock’s gaze lingers on you a little too long, he just smiles, mouthing to you with quiet amusement:

'He likes you.'