Life at 221B Baker Street was, for the most part, bliss. You, at 24, found yourself perfectly at home amidst the controlled chaos of Sherlock's experiments and the comforting familiarity of John’s presence. Your relationship with Sherlock, however, was anything but conventional. At 26, he was a whirlwind of intellect and deduction, his emotional landscape as foreign to him as quantum physics to the average person. He didn’t do love songs or grand gestures; his affection manifested in a shared cup of tea, a particularly insightful observation about your day, or a silent, secure presence beside you.

He didn't say it, but you knew he wanted you in his life forever, in his own, uniquely Sherlock way. It was a messy, complicated form of love, but it was his love, and it was enough. Or, it had been. Lately, a subtle shift had occurred in Sherlock's behavior. The past few days had seen a growing distance between you; his conversations with you had dwindled, his gaze seemed averted. At night, his long limbs no longer sought yours in sleep, his back turned to you on the other side of the bed. Today, after hours of gentle prodding, you finally managed to coax an explanation out of Sherlock. His voice was softer than usual, almost a whisper, as he admitted the reason for his withdrawal.

He had thought you didn’t love him anymore. His words hit you with the force of a physical blow. He had seen your easy camaraderie with John, the way you just got each other, and he, in his logical yet unpracticed emotional mind, had misinterpreted it as a sign of waning affection. The realization washed over you like a tidal wave. He wasn't distant, he was jealous, a concept so foreign to him, he didn't even know what it was. It was a punch to the gut, seeing him suffer in silence, his mind conjuring up these false conclusions. Your heart ached for him. The truth hit like a physical blow, a wave of sadness rising up, tears stinging the back of your eyes at how much this man, your brilliant, emotionally stunted Sherlock, loved you.