"Oh! Erm...John...yes, well I suppose I should-"
"Yes, me too. Let's....let's not discuss that again."
"Right."
_______________________________________________________________________________
Waking from his sudden flash back, Sherlock jumped from his sunken chair, and started to pace with the speed of a coke addict.
"Why! Why do my emotions betray me when I'm at my fines?" Sherlock languished, violently throwing an old, sodden birdcage. "Is that even mine..."
"Emotions? Now, that's a new one."
Already hyper from his missed dose of Adderall, Sherlock squeaked.
"John, damn you. What do you want? And why are you in my room? You never ask to come in."
John stepped forward slightly, attempting to regain his military stance. "Well, I need some...guidance."
"Advice? My experience on your matters do not apply...oh, ask anyway."
Watson balked, internally slapping himself for getting this far without knowing how to bring up the question. Okay, deep breath. You can do this.... wait, no, no you can't! Abort mission!
"It's, uh, it's Sarah. You haven't told me if you like her or not. Remember, she was the one we almost killed about six months ago..."
"She is most definitely not the original question. Your sudden interest in the left side of the room gives that away. I have no time for you to act like a schoolgirl. Tell me your real question, or leave, as I must figure out why I suddenly own a birdcage."
John laughed, and with an evanescent burst of confidence, grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and said, "See, this is why I can't move out! Sarah can't take the place of you, even she thinks so."
An awkward silence permeated the room, faltering the smile on John's face and turning the wheels in Sherlock's suddenly keen hormonal preceptors.
"John...what was your question?"
"I-I can't say. You won't understand. Go figure out your birdcage dilemma. I'm going out."
Blushing and stumbling, the clumsy soldier tripped out of the cluttered mess, slamming the door behind him.
Sherlock could hear whatever was left of his flatmates' dignity vaporize hearing John yell at a honking cab to, "get the hell out of his way." He felt sad at John's leave, why was he sad? The explanation already had made its appearance, but he was refusing to accept it. The signs pointed straight towards the obvious conclusion. Picturing John made his stomach lighter, and his heart pound.
No, stop it. You are married to your work.
Thoughts racing the speed of a jet engine, Sherlock entered his mind palace, executing any remnant observations about John. In the midst of his eccentric battle with hypothesis on the birdcage, the blood in his brain shot out towards his heart, destroying the mind palace and leaving him gasping for air. Everything was light, so very light, and even though he could no longer think clearly, Sherlock concluded he was severely dehydrated.
Close to fainting, he collapsed on the abused chair harboring a stack of newspapers torn and highlighted for clues. He needed a doctor. John...
The name now triggered the accumulated emotions to rush back, seeping into the darkest regions of his heart, his brain, his soul. They had come into existence merely last week, but look at the multitude of effects already in place! He unlocked their prison cells in anguish, and unable to suppress a wheezing gasp, he lurched forward, grossly sobbing, but simultaneously laughing in hysteria. Tears blurred his eyes, and he folded himself in half, shaking with frustration. The emotions from John and the ancient sedated hormones from childhood blended, causing excruciating pain from beatings, hurt from harsh comments, happiness collected from nice, fleeting moments, and the incredible, indescribable loneliness.
An hour passed, and then two. Exhausted and somehow, lighter, Sherlock collected himself and sat upwards, knocking over the few remaining articles flopped over the cushions. There he sat in silence, contemplating his new human experience. Controlling his breathing, he found it was perfectly in sync with a beeping, coming from the battered birdcage. With a sudden realization, he flung himself onto the ground, peering into the enclosure. Inside, a small, stuffed golden bird was glued to the perch, gazing up at Sherlock with cold eyes. A small flashing red button was visible through the open beak, and the beeping grew more anxious and desperate. Scrambling to stand, Sherlock found with dread the emotional trauma he had endured emptied his body of any remaining moisture, making his head so light he could not stand, and gravity was slowly forcing him back to the ground. In a last ditch effort, he attempted calling for Ms. Hudson, failing miserably with his hackneyed vocal cords.
Sherlock looked to the bird. It was expanding. He slowly laid on his back, only feeling regret, and slurred out four words.
"I need a doctor."
The bomb exploded from the caged animal, flames erupting wildly in the colors of a phoenix.
