If I wasn't everything that you think I am, everything that I think I am…would you still want to help me?

Sherlock Holmes


Unrequited love does not die; it's only beaten down to a secret place where it hides, curled and wounded. For some unfortunates, it turns bitter and mean, and those who come after pay the price for the hurt done by the one who came before.

Elle Newmark, The Book of Unholy Mischi

Every once in a while, it feels safe enough to hope.

Safe enough for her to take a moment to go over something he said, or did that day; safe enough for a tiny flame to light up in an otherwise dark room.

Safe enough to smile at the universe.

As fleeting as a candle left out in the storm, his smiles, whispering bits and pieces that set the pulse at the base of her throat racing – almost as if it wants to outrun her thoughts (those sane, sensible, you're-in-too-deep-now-girl thoughts she really ought to take notice of at some point or another).

"You're wrong."

Because it's one of those feelings that make it seem as though a supernova has just gone off somewhere deep inside your gut. Gnawing at you day and night - burning, scorching, blazing so hard it hurts.

And you know what's funny?

Sometimes it's a good kind of hurt.

"You do count."

And, okay, she knows it's stupid and a fantasy, and one of those never-gonna-happens that nonetheless have a disobliging habit of prodding at the back of your mind, of course she knows.

In the very same way that she knows it never works if you wish for it (not even if she bets against herself that she can walk to the hospital without once setting foot on the lines of the slating. Not that she does that. Well, not often.) because he's Sherlock Holmes and it shouldn't matter, not really, but heaven knows it does anyway.

"You've always counted and I've always trusted you."

She'd thought things might go that way (as opposed to, you know, her suddenly being magicked into a drop-dead gorgeous heroine of the hour, easily acting aloof and nonchalant. Dream on, girl). Instead there she stands, with that crooked, twisted, lonely ('I'm fine') somebody that's really so much more – so bloody more than the whole damned galaxy put together – even after everything.

Toxic because the stupid feeling's still not gone.

A/N: Please don't shoot me if this is the worst, most confusing and annoying thing you've read in a while *ducks head in shame*

Have a lovely day,