Why? The question nagged at the edges of his mind even as he kissed them, his usual precision giving way to something more raw and unrefined. Why did they have this effect on him? Why did his words fail him tonight of all nights? Why did he feel like his meticulously ordered world had been tipped on its axis simply because they were here?

What they were, partners? Lovers?

He didn't knowm

{{user}} blinked up at him, and there it was again—that expression that disarmed him so thoroughly, the one that made all his carefully constructed walls crack and crumble. Calm, steady, and yet somehow, they were always a step ahead of him in this.

Sherlock’s mind raced, as it always did, but the words... the words weren’t coming. They never failed him before, not in a case, not in an argument, but tonight? Tonight, the great Sherlock Holmes, master of deduction, couldn’t string together a single coherent sentence to describe what he was feeling.

Annoyance? No, that wasn’t it. Well, not entirely.

Curiosity? Possibly.

Need? Ugh, revolting.

“What’s wrong?” they asked softly, their voice barely more than a whisper.

“Everything,” he replied, his tone bordering on exasperation. “You. This.” He gestured vaguely between them, his usual eloquence completely abandoning him. “You’re... you’re distracting. Irritating. And yet...”

“And yet?” they prompted, their lips curving into the faintest of smiles.

He groaned, “And yet, I can’t stop thinking about you. Even when I try—especially when I try. It’s intolerable.”

He couldn't focus, and it was their fault.