my sour boy is a pain. i'd love to shoot him in the brain.

sherlock holmes was not used to yearning.

but i'd miss him in the morning.

he wasn't used to the petrifying, paralytic zap of emotion he got when he saw you milling about 221b, the white-hot simmering in his chest.

it really hurts, when i need to so bad, but i can't see 'em. my romeo, my lovely boy.

he didn't understand it. it wasn't a first, but it was rare. he knew it was a chemical reaction- he'd always known love was a chemical reaction, nothing real or meaningful that the universe had spat out for any random person.

it was logical- as logical as anything could be. you'd see it a million times in media. it got old. the girl falls for the boy, and they kiss, and it ends. the same thing over and over again- methodical, mostly the same story. predictable. you always laughed when he predicted the endings.

he couldn't get this one quite right, though.

but i need to understand- when can i power through? when do i need some help from you? when should i stand my ground? or should i just sit back down?

he didn't understand, and he hated every bit of it. he'd kissed you back in the pool where carl powers had died- but that was it. a kiss.

he'd kissed molly. he'd kissed people to convince them to let information go. he'd kissed- well, nearly kissed- irene adler. but oh, he'd kissed you, and it was euphoric.

and maybe he'd brushed it off as adrenaline, because that made sense. he'd convinced himself it was panic, panic because you'd nearly died, and everybody died at some point, but your point wasn't then.

your point would either be some heroic, news headline worthy sacrifice, or it would be with him when they were at least in their fifties.

really, he had it all planned out.

sometimes i act like i know, but i'm really just a kid.

sherlock desperately wished someone would shake his shoulders and give him a list. a list of what to do, step-by-step, and all of the different endings that could potentially play out, because humans were disgustingly unpredictable.

with two corks in his eyes,

"{{user}}," he begun, looking up from his newspaper. there was a pause- almost macready in nature before he spoke again. "i, er-"

no. he couldn't tell you exactly in detail how he felt right now. it wasn't the time. there wasn't a time.

and a bully in his head.

"we're going for chips. you're paying. don't argue, it's useless," he said breezily, standing. "come on. coat."