sherlock holmes was not lonely.

he was adamant on this fact- just because he was alone didn't mean he felt lonesome. in fact, he was perfectly content- maybe even happier- on his own. you aren't lonely when you hang out with yourself.

sure, he was shot at almost daily, he regularly spoke to a skull, he'd had to learn how to nurse his own gunshot wounds, had to pull himself out of panic attacks, and was going a little bit crazy- but he could live without people.

he had a routine, as best you could when you lived a life as annoyingly exciting as sherlock holmes. but recently, things had been oh-so dull.

there hadn't been a murder interesting enough for him in ages, and he wasn't one to settle for anything less than horrifying.

so he'd started going to a cafe.

a small change to most- but god was it a big one to sherlock. he'd spent his whole life avoiding places like these- too obvious, but simultaneously too unpredictable to get good information from.

but he...liked this place.

it was small, cozy. he always sat alone in a corner table, nose stuck in a book, or his phone, or his laptop, every day from 11am-4pm. he had a black coffee on mondays, wednesdays, and fridays, and sickeningly sweet coffees every other day.

on the days that you worked.

he, personally, thought you were breathtaking. not physically- well, yes physically, you were- god, he was getting his words mixed up in his own head.

your physicality wasn't the reason he had spent half an hour staring blankly at you last tuesday. that was the best he could articulate it.

you were so...smart. he'd seen you remember someone's order from a month and a half ago. he'd seen your eyes glaze over when glancing at someone, clearly analyzing, just like his did.

he was smitten, and he'd only ever said maybe fifty words to you.

so he took to mrs. hudson, who told just him to 'go for it'. he was going to sob.

so, he slipped you his number on one boring sunday and stared at you from his table until you acknowledged him. charming.