I don't own Sherlock or anything by the brilliant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

So, I really should've have wrote this. Not only do I have two unfinished stories on this website already, but I'm in the middle of what can only be described as "academic purgatory" for the next 6 days. But as the Bard replies in William Blake's "Milton", "I am inspired!". So thus I was compelled to write this.

Enjoy my procrastination!

Chapter 1

The two men were alone in the London flat. Bach's Violin Sonata No.1 in G minor rang throughout the comfortable and strangely furnished home on 221B Baker St.

Sherlock Holmes sawed away on his violin as Dr. Watson read the paper in his favorite chair.

Yet abruptly Sherlock stopped playing and threw himself rather dramatically onto the couch. He settled back, eyes on the ceiling, and let out a loud sigh.

"I thought you had solved the case already," Watson replied not looking up. By now he was rather used to the violin playing and occasional theatrics of his flatmate.

"I did," Sherlock responded, eyes still on the ceiling.

"Well then, what seems to be the issue?" Watson asked.

"I feel…strange."

"Strange, eh? Hmmm, wait, you feel things?"

"Don't be tart, Watson. It doesn't suit," came Sherlock's bored voice.

"Fine. What is this strangeness you're feeling?" the doctor paused, "You're not ill, are you? Everything has healed up from the confrontation with Moriarty?"

"Yes, I'm fine, Dr. Watson. I'm bored.. And restlessness. Just strange. Not myself," he bit out the last few phrases, decidedly confused by his peculiar mood.

"Could this be about Moriarty? Are you still trying to puzzle out where he's gone? How he escaped?"

"I suppose. He is my most diabolical enemy. And crafty to boot. And I did so enjoy sparring with him. Or at least I think I did. Now it feels like…a foolish game. And one I'm not eager to play again."

"Ah," said Watson with the air of someone who understood exactly what the problem was. Sherlock glanced away from the ceiling at the short syllable, disdainful of Watson's knowing look. Watson continued to read the paper, ignoring Sherlock's expression.

"Well, do enlighten us, doctor. What seems to be my problem? With all the cash you spent on that psychiatrist when we first met, you've bound to have gleaned some knowledge of the human psyche. It might help you with mine."

"You won't like it," said Watson, turning another page.

"Come now, dazzle me, my dear Watson. It must feel good to know something that I don't."

With the sigh, Watson looked up from his paper and simply said, "The game got personal."

Making a face, Sherlock flopped back on the couch as he began, "I suppose. Moriarty needn't have gone after you—" but he was interrupted.

"Oh, this isn't about me. I'm in danger all the time. Being near you is a hazard. Like being in the middle of a battle. And I've been to war. No, it was more than that."

Alert and skeptical, Sherlock straightened into a sitting position. "More than what?" he asked in a questioning tone.


"Molly?" said Sherlock, incredulous, "You mean Molly Hooper from St. Bart's? Mousy Molly who can barely utter a coherent sentence in my presence?"

"That's the one," Watson said.

"And tell me, my dear Watson, what has Molly to do with any of this?"

"Moriarty went after her because of you.," Watson replied.

Throwing himself back onto the couch, he said "Well, that much is obvious to anyone. I'm not impressed."

"I haven't gotten to my main point.."

"Which is?"

"You have feelings for her. And Moriarty knew that."

A snort of derision flared from the patrician nose, "Try another theory, Watson. You've been reading too many mystery stories or romance novels or whatever twaddle Sarah keeps around her apartment. Besides, I thought I couldn't feel things."

"Sarah reads true crime novels. And you pretend that you don't feel things, makes it easier for you. I warned you, I said you wouldn't like it," Watson said.

"I don't like it, but mostly because it's inaccurate, illogical. Feelings for Molly? No, no indeed."

"The gentleman doth protest too much, me thinks."

"Well, go one then. You haven't dazzled me, but you have amused me. Tell me more about these 'feelings' I have for the morgue dwelling, cat loving spinster."

Looking up, Watson smirked, "You do have it bad. You're usually blunt, but insults about Molly? That's rather telling. When was the last time you saw her?"

"I haven't seen Molly in nearly two weeks. She's out of town" he said matter of factly.

"She's avoiding you."

"What? How do you know that?"

"It's rather obvious."

Frustrated with the direction of this conversation, "How?"

"She might move to Leeds."


"Yeah, some change of scenery after the whole incident. She got offered a good position up there," said Watson.

"But….I need her here."

"And the plot thickens."

"Not in that way. She's my in at St. Bart's. Despite my crime-solving prowess, very few people let me do as I please. She gets me access to the things I need," said Sherlock.

"And you're in love with her."

He shot up, "What? Now I think you're the one with the mental problem. In love? Me? And with that particular woman? Love is a fickle and trival emotion made up by poets and greeting card makers. It's merely chemicals going off in our brains. And I don't even have the chemicals to mix up that particular concoction," he snorted. "Love? Love indeed."

Suddenly serious, Watson put down his paper and gave Sherlock his full attention, "One of these days, Sherlock, you'll have to acknowledge that you're part of the human race. For all your powers of observation and deduction, you never turn those keen eyes of yours inward. You might be surprised by what you unearth."

Suddenly speechless, Sherlock settled back on the couch. The conversation did nothing to quell the strangeness.


If you got the first line's reference to Doris Lessing's The Golden Notebook then you deserve a cookie.

What say you? Did you think this scene was in character? What did you think of the dialogue between Watson and Sherlock? Where should this go?

Please review! I love feedback.