Come home in the car you love,

Brainy, brainy, brainy.

The final slam of the front door makes Sherlock wonder if he went too far.

He really doesn't know what's in the folder. Something to do with him? Most likely, judging by the noises he's been hearing at night and the book thieving that's been happening. Oh, god, the noises. Sherlock hasn't been getting much sleep since he noticed them. Not that he hadn't ever gotten much before, but more that when he DOES need it (he tends to crash almost directly after cases are finished), he can't help but listen for the muffled sounds. He has tried to delete his memory of ever noticing in the first place, but it still sticks in his mind like gum to the bottom of a shoe.

It's okay, Sherlock tells himself. It's fine, and he doesn't have a problem with it, and it's just that he's worried. He worries that maybe someday John WILL tell him, and then when Sherlock tells him that he needs to stop, something won't come across right or his flatmate won't understand. Worry is somewhat foreign to Sherlock, but he identifies the emotion quickly.

The solution that he's come up with may do nothing more than hurt the both of them, but it's a solution and the most likely to work out of all the others he's thought of. He has to push John to a point where he stops being interested.

Definitely more hurtful than helpful to both sides.

As much as he tries not to admit it, Sherlock feels a little something harbouring inside as well. Not physically or passionately, just the tiniest pain in his chest that's making him more vulnerable by the second.

Another foreign emotion, then. What's this one called? Love?

Couldn't be. Sherlock doesn't have a heart, as far as he's aware of-he's known this for years and it has been reaffirmed many, many times. Heartless. Cruel. Machine. Cold. Evil. Uncouth. Inhuman. Uncaring, unfeeling, unkind. Insensitive.

No, Sherlock couldn't love his flatmate. Could he?

And even if he did, then John would be disappointed. He would call him selfish. Selfish for not allowing John to indulge in his fantasy. Selfish for saying no. Selfish for being exactly who he is.

It's not Sherlock's fault, but some days he feels like it is.

Today is one of those days.

Sherlock finds himself moving to his feet and walking himself to the window in one last attempt to see where his flatmate is going, but he's already driven off in a cab.