You could feel his eyes from across the room.

They were trained right on you, unmoving — blinking, but unmoving — because what was jt about you? What was so special about a woman such as you that had him, Sherlock Holmes, the greatest mind in Britain abandoning his best friends logic and reason just for you, huh? John would have a field day with this, but no, he had to do this all by himself. He had to figure out why you were special, exactly why his brain was a victim of that one repulsive thing— sentimentality.

It was an idiot’s trait, that’s what it was, and here he was, wondering why you took up most of the thoughts that were meant to be used for case solving; it was ridiculous. You made him feel obsessed, warn, fuzzy, so fucking protective and he couldn’t figure you out, so he’d treat it just like a case. Y’know, to figure you out during his afternoon tea, staring blankly from the sofa, confused internally.

He let out a sigh through his nose, narrowing his eyes slightly, y’know, in ‘true Sherlock fashion’, as Mrs Hudson would call it. “You.” He spoke up simply, baritone piercing the air like his katana would when he was particularly bored— still, it felt pretty weird, here, the staring.

“You’re an enigma.” He muttered, formulating a deduction of you and your stupidly enthralling smile and your witty words and everything else that he refused to mention, and your mannerisms so he could deduce why you refused to leave his mind. Honestly, what was it about you that was special?

He was the world’s greatest detective, for Christ’s sake, he couldn’t be distracted by a woman who worked with him and John, of course not. That was just extremely silly, and unneeded, he couldn’t be distracted. Don’t tell Mycroft.