Sherlock's always watching. Because when Sherlock watches, Sherlock sees.

And he sees the invisible, the things that everyone else can't. And it's those things that help solve the case.

Sherlock rarely watches people. Except for him. Sherlock watches him a lot.

The two of them seem to fit, though no-one can really understand why.

Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson. Even their names seem to suit each other. As though someone crafted them specifically for each other.

Sherlock saunters into Scotland's Yard a lot. Even before John he was exceedingly arrogant, and he had good reason to be.

But since John, he has become almost unbearable. He will swagger into my office, take one look at the case file and explain it all to be at 500 miles per hour and then smirk at my obvious lack of intelligence. Glance over at John to check he was still listening and then smirk some more.

John's intelligence isn't anywhere near Sherlock's, but he exceeds pretty much everyone else's. John can understand what Sherlock is wittering on about, and if he can't he has the patience to wait for Sherlock to explain it to him.

That's another thing.

With John, and only John, Sherlock is prepared to explain himself and how he worked it out. I think partly, Sherlock likes to show someone how he worked it out and flaunt his genius even more, but some of the time Sherlock gets this look on his face as he explains some of it to John and then waits for him to work out the rest.

It's almost like pride.

Except it can't be because Sherlock doesn't do emotions like pride or friendship, he just doesn't.


Sherlock was always possessive.

Even as a young boy with his toys, he never let me play with them, though being an older brother I rarely wanted to.

Sherlock treats John as though he's his toy.

His, and only his.

Sherlock got very jealous at the Christmas party, when one of my friends Jemima was flirting outrageously with Dr Watson, though he'd never admit it.

It's quite funny to observe actually. Sherlock was never the type to make friends or lovers and it seems that now he has one he's determined to keep him all to himself.

He dictates a lot of Dr Watson's life style, to keep the good doctor near to him at all times.

And it's not as if John seems to mind.

Mummy, is quite taken with Dr Watson, she likes his kindness and gentlemanly behaviour. So if, more likely when, the two do finally get together Mummy will approve. As will I.

Sherlock watches John a lot. His eyes always flicker back to him a lot of the time. He finds small excuses to touch John. An arm guiding John through the busy streets of London. An imaginary eyelash on John's cheek.

And when John does something that catches Sherlock by surprise, which is surprisingly enough, quite often, Sherlock's eyes widen in shock and then amusement and then something that looks a lot like love.

Except it can't be.

Because Sherlock doesn't do emotions such as love, he just doesn't. Or so he tells himself.


Sherlock was never mine to have.

He was mine to lust after and cry tears over, but never mine to touch or laugh with.

I would always be the doting assistant, who could look but never touch.

I find it hard to hate John. I tell myself I should, I should hate him with every essence of my being. But for some reason I can't.

Because John is too nice, he always smiles at me when he comes to the lab and talks to me as an equal, not a lesser being. He never looks down on me, and would always find something to compliment me about.

So do I hate him? No, I don't. But I hate what he can do.

I hate that he's the only one who can call Sherlock name and Sherlock will look up instantly. I hate that he's the only one who can make Sherlock giggle at the most inappropriate times. I hate that he's the only one who Sherlock will text if he needs something doing. I hate how he's the only one who, if Sherlock's ranting about something can bring him out of it with a touch to the arm.

It's not John's fault. It's not his fault at all. He didn't try to make Sherlock fall for him, which he is and fast.

Because when John's in the room with Sherlock it's like John is the Sun and everyone else is the moon. There is no comparison.

Sherlock's got better with manners, he says thank you a lot more and even please. No doubt it's living with John. He smiles at people and doesn't insult Sergeant Donovan within the first five minutes of being in a room with her. He's started to take time to listen to other people's ideas, even if he immediately blows them off. He's started to become more human.

Except he can't be.

Because Sherlock isn't like other humans, he just isn't.


Mr Holmes has started to bring a man with him when he comes down to where we all stay.

The homeless network he calls it.

The man is smaller than him, but he eyes are warm.

He's not as clever as Mr Holmes but then who is?

But that doesn't mean that when he talks he doesn't reek of intelligence.

The man is called John. Mr Holmes says his name a lot when he talks, he manages to find a way to slip it into sentences a lot. And John looks at Mr Holmes as if he's God.

John saved me once.

I had a cut on my leg, quite a bad one from where my ex had stabbed me. John ran over and stopped the bleeding. He used his clothes as bandages and took me back to him and Mr Holmes' flat. He used a needle to sew the wound back up and gave me medicine so I couldn't feel the pain.

He was always talking to me as he worked, so I didn't get too scared. I listened to what he saying, but I found myself looking at Mr Holmes who was staring at John in a kind of awe. His eyes were filled with an emotion I couldn't place, and when John had finished, Mr Holmes cleared his throat and left the room.

It was all quite odd.

Another time, I saw John give his coat to one of my friends without a second thought, Mr Holmes stared at John in the same way he had done back in his flat.

A few weeks ago, Mr Holmes and John came running into the tunnels where we had decided to stay and sprinted right up to my mate Danny.

When Danny had asked who John was Mr Holmes had said.

"He's my friend,"

Except he can't be.

Because Mr Holmes doesn't have friends, he just doesn't.


Sherlock Holmes has a weakness.

He tries not to let anyone know about it, but it's so obvious I'm surprised no-one has called them out on it yet.

Because good old Doctor Watson is just as much in love with Sherlock, as Sherlock is with him.

It makes me ecstatically happy.

Because now that Sherlock has a weakness I know how to beat him.

I know how to burn him.

I know how to break him.

And all because of the doctor whose heart is bigger than the world.

Sherlock pretends he doesn't care for the doctor, to keep him safe. Keep him safe from people like me. Sherlock goes to extraordinary lengths to keep him safe. He even asked his brother to put John under protection. That's how worried he is. Ridiculous isn't it?

Because Sherlock knows the day is coming. The day where he wakes up and John has gone. Or the day John never returns home from work.

He'd put himself in danger to protect the doctor.

Except he won't.

Because he's Sherlock, and Sherlock supposedly cares for no-one, he just doesn't.


Sherlock cares for Dr Watson.

I could see it from the minute they came in laughing on a case together.

Sherlock worries for Dr Watson.

I can tell from the look on his face when John walks down the stairs and his limp is back.

Sherlock prefers Dr Watson to his dreadful skull.

I could tell the minute Sherlock decided to put the skull back into the airing cupboard and talk to John instead.

Sherlock misses Dr Watson.

I can see it plastered all over his face when John goes to visit his sisters for the weekend.

Sherlock loves Dr Watson.

I can see it every time John walks into the room.

Except he shouldn't.

But the thing is, he does.