Warnings: OOCness and... Nothing else, really. Just majorlite OOCness on Holmes' part. BNut hey, this is the movie-verse fanfiction! We can mold and create and re-create as we please. Right? Anyway, No complaints about it. I know.
A/N: All I have to say is this: Zark you plot-bunnies. You take my attention away from the things I need to update.


"You're not human!"

It had hurt, though her hadn't show it. Now more than then, considering the man who had said it was no longer there to assure him the words had only been in jest or that he hadn't meant them at the time. No, the man was off, helping his wife unpack their things into their new home.

After the case had been finished there had been nothing more to distract his mind from the hissed words that had been running around and around his subconscious. He was human, wasn't he? He though -Oh! how he thought!- and felt, just like other human beings. Maybe he didn't… show those feelings a good portion of the time, but that didn't mean he had none… Did it?

Sherlock Holmes sat curled up in his armchair in the sitting room, his pipe clamped between his teeth and tears stinging his eyes. The words echoed around his mind, each time louder than the last. He was beginning to doubt it would ever stop, the ringing in his ears with each cruel round. He took a long drag from his pipe.

Knock, knock, knock.

"Mr. Holmes, Watson is here to see you."

Holmes jumped slightly at the sound of the landlady's voice, startled out of his reverie. He quickly tried to smooth out his disheveled hair, though failed and seemed to make it stick out even more on end. He sighed, telling Mrs. Hudson to bring him up, as well and some tea if she would. He heard the slightly muffled agreement through the door and retreating footsteps, which were quickly followed the coming uneven steps of his friend.

Friend? His mind asked -sneered- him. Are you sure? He could have been playing you for a fool and the lack of sleep at the time had merely… taken down his defense, telling you how he really feels. That's always a possibility, and a likely one at that. After all, who would want to be friends with such a-

Thankfully, his thoughts were cut off as the door opened, revealing Watson's smiling face. Another doubt sprung up in the great detective's mind. It didn't seem at all insincere, but Holmes' hadn't either on many occasions.

Watson took a step back as he saw his friend, startled. The detectives face was chalk white, almost grey in the low lighting, and his hair was slick with sweat, though somehow managed to stick out in all directions. His old, ratty dressing gown was tied tightly, making him seem thinner than when Watson had last seen him, which he likely was considering Mrs. Hudson main worry she had told him about was that Holmes had scant eaten a thing in well over a week. The Doctor felt guilt gnawing at his insides, though he couldn't figure out why.

He quickly went over to the nearest curtain, pulling it back roughly to bring light into the room to get a better look over the Detective. Holmes groaned, covering his eyes with his forearm, though did nothing else. This only worried Watson more. That wasn't a normal reaction. Normally Holmes would yelp, cry out like a vampire about to be turned to ash, even a muttered 'gently, Watson' would have been better. Not such a… weak response.

Eyes slightly wider in sudden worry, Watson turned sharply on his heel, walking over to his friend in a few long strides as he reached out a hand to his friend forehead. The hand was quickly batted away, much to Watson's relief, though not nearly with as much power as usual. "I'm fine, Watson." he muttered tiredly, avoiding the Doctor's icy blue gaze.

A mildly frustrated sigh escaped Watson's lips. "If you say so." He fell into the armchair adjacent to his friend, studying him with a critical eye. Holmes fidgeted slightly under his gaze, apparently finding something incredibly interesting about the floor.

"Holmes," Watson started gently, though the Detective still cringed at the sound of his voice. "Don't lie to me. What's wrong?" Holmes started, suddenly looking up at his friends face for the first time in the conversation.

He opened his mouth to lie, to say he really was fine, but found he couldn't. For some reason the Doctor had always had that effect on him. "You wanted to leave, didn't you?" He blurted, though quickly tried to regain himself, but the words wouldn't stop. "I thought you were different when I met you, thought I knew. I don't know anymore. Did you ever really want to get to know me, or were you just putting up with it all? Is that why you haven't visited at all in the last month? I'm not a machine, Watson; I can't tell fact from fiction all the time. Am I wrong?" Please say I'm wrong.

Watson had a hard time not letting his jaw drop at the sudden display. Tears, unshed for weeks since his friend departure, streamed down Holmes' usually emotionless features. The breaking point had been long approaching, for years hidden feelings had been kept bottled up in the dark corners of his mind, never explored except when alone, when it seemed it might be fine for the cold façade to be cracked, just a little bit, until the sound of footsteps met his ears once more. Then all was right with the world once more, though the battle continued where no one could see.

Holmes blanched after a moment, finally thinking about his words where he couldn't have as they spilled out of his mouth. "I didn't mean to… I mean I don't…" He trailed off, once again not being able to meet Watson's eyes, lest he stopped thinking again and let another long stream of things he never thought he'd say run off his tongue.

If he'd been wrong, Holmes had thought he might be upset by the accusations, maybe yell at him for his doubts and storm out. If right there probably would have been nervous fidgeting, denying it, never meeting his eyes. Either way Holmes would have been able to distinguish the truth from actions, and he'd get his answer.

But Watson did the most unexpected thing.

He stood up in his chair, making Holmes flinch slightly at the harsh words to come. They never came.

Instead he felt a strong pair of arms being wrapped around him, followed closely by a long stream of apologies coming out of the Doctor's mouth. Apologies for words that could have backed up the accusations. Apologies for ever making his friend doubt him. And through the long stream, Holmes was sure he heard one for something the Doctor could never have controlled; an apology for never having been truly wanted by another human being, for never having been able to feel like he could have emotions, for almost being forced into this shell.

All the while tears that had been so securely kept under lock and key streamed down Sherlock's pale cheeks, and for possibly the first time, there was a shoulder to cry on, one that wouldn't push him away, like his elder brother, or tell him that 'real men didn't cry', like his father.

After what felt like hours, but had probably only been a few minutes at the most, Watson finally let go, taking a step back, as though to give his friend the space he was accustomed to.

Holmes' shoulders hitched gently with silent sobs as he kept his gaze on the floor, a whispered 'thank you' filling the quiet air.