Thirty-Six Questions to Fall in Love

Sherlock's Frustrations

"That's funny," he muttered. "I thought you didn't care enough about love to be irritated by it."

"Well, I am irritated by it, John," Sherlock fumed, now at the other side of the room again. "Why don't I understand it? Nobody I know understands it. Why is it even there? Why must we have sexualities and feelings and preferences and relationships instead of just increasing the population like other animals? It's all so complicated and I don't understand why it has to be." He sat down, plopping his forehead into his palms and sighing, his fingers clenching around the strands and curls of his own hair. "And why have I been so previously incapable of feeling like normal people?"

"Are you..." John narrowed his eyes. "Are you, by chance, sexually frustrated?" John smirked trying to hold in his laughter.

Sherlock bared his teeth almost like a rabid dog. "Shut up."

"What I mean is, have you ever... been in any sort of relationship before at all? Maybe you would understand better if you had the chance-" John moved closer.

"Love is overrated," Sherlock complained, finally cooling down a bit. "I don't need it. It would only make things worse when it ended."

"I'm not only talking about romantic feelings, Sherlock," John said hesitantly, a bit concerned as to why there was so much emotion from Sherlock regarding a simple human tendency. "Have you ever... What I mean is, in your life... was there ever a time where you... with a girl - or a... or a man, now that I think of it - did you ever have-"

"John Hamish Watson," Sherlock mumbled down at the floor. "There is water boiling for tea and, unless you would like to be boiled yourself, you're not going to want to give me the urge to go and splash the kettle on your face."

"The reason I was asking is because, you know, it's healthy... And when you're deprived of... things, then things become more frustrating and, well, closed-off. I mean, prostate cancer is more likely-"

"Let's ask some more questions, John," Sherlock interrupted abruptly, taking out his phone, opening the website necessary and throwing it to John like a frisbee. "My brain is too worked up to remember what these were. And you're asking this time."

"Fine," John sighed, barely catching the phone as it hit him in the chest. "Question ten: If you could change one thing about the way you were raised, what would it be?"

Sherlock turned to John with an air of nervous annoyance, staring him down almost defiantly and raising his eyebrows dramatically as he spoke. "Well, I don't know, John," he said. "Maybe if they'd put Mycroft up for adoption-"

John interrupted suddenly, a small, unbelieving smile playing on his lips. "No," he marvelled. "There's no way."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, his hands folded on top of each other under his chin. "There's no way... what?"

John sat, unmoving, still smiling in disbelief. "There's no way you don't love your own brother. I know you do."

Sherlock coughed in false repulsion. "Oh, John," he sighed. "I don't love... people." He almost spat out the word. John shook his head in a whimsical sort of confusion, and Sherlock cleared his throat to move the conversation along.

"Next question."

John looked quickly back down at the phone, and then back up again. "Aren't I supposed to answer, too?"

"You haven't answered yet?"

He chuckled dryly. "I have not."

"Oh," Sherlock replied. "Then move it along. I really wasn't paying attention." He took a breath and glanced to the side, waving a hand dismissively as John sighed in annoyance.

"Were you not listening to anything I've told you during this whole experiment?"

"It wasn't a rule on the list."

John's eyebrows sunk on his face as he stared at Sherlock, irritated.

"Fine," the detective said suddenly. "I'll listen from now on."

John took a breath, his voice not even having the chance to make a sound before Sherlock lost his patience and stood up, walking away from where they were seated and down the hall. "Bored," he said. "I'm so bored. I tried. I'm sorry." He walked into his bedroom and flopped down on his bed, much to the dismay of John, who now considered himself five hundred percent done. He clenched his jaw, standing up and walking over to the bedroom, grabbing Sherlock by the arm and dragging him roughly back out of the room.

"John-" Sherlock interjected before being silenced.

"You, Mr. Holmes," John ordered, "are going to sit your arse down and listen if you want to validly test this bloody stupid article. Do you understand?" He threw Sherlock down in his chair, and he felt content seeing his startled and possibly confused facial expression. Sherlock looked at the floor, furrowing his brow, and then back at John.

"Are you going to play your 'I'm a military doctor' card on me now?"

John shook his head, sitting down in his own chair. "No," he replied, "But I very easily could."

The consulting detective raised his eyebrows. "Is that a threat?"

"Is it?" John asked, shrugging. Sherlock pursed his lips, looking up at him intensely and clearing his throat.

"You were saying?"

John Watson shifted in his seat, now put off-guard at the sudden attention that he wasn't expecting to receive. "Um..." He reached over and flicked a down feather that had floated onto the side-table and reminded himself to let Mrs. Hudson dust every once in a while. "I think that it doesn't even matter."

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed, trying his hardest not to zone out. "And why's that?"

"I guess I don't like the fact that people can use their terrible childhoods as an excuse to be a bad person. Children who grew up rich are greedy and arrogant because they didn't get enough attention growing up. Children who grew up poor view the world as this terrible place with terrible people because they had such traumatizing experiences. Nobody's happy and everybody blames it on something out of their control. It doesn't really matter how dreadful your childhood was, there are good people who grew up with nothing. It just matters what you choose to do now. In this moment and every moment after that. How can we ever live in a good society if everyone is constantly living in the past? But I suppose if I reflect on my past... Dad hated Harry when she... when she told us... you know. And she was never a good sister either. She was distant and... aggressive. I don't know. I guess I was lonely, maybe I'd wish I had a friend... like you. I knew lots of well-adjusted people with childhood friends they're still close to. Imagine if we'd met earlier, how different life could have been."

Sherlock scoffed. "Lonely?"

"I'm sure you won't understand," John added disdainfully, "because you don't get lonely."

Sherlock no longer seemed bored. Now he looked more inquisitive, his eyes squinted just enough to show that he was storing the information somewhere in his mind. John, who was done answering and too uncomfortable to add that he still was lonely, stared at him for a few awkward moments before looking down at the phone again.

"Eleven," John said. "Take four minutes to tell your partner... I mean, your... colleague... your life story in as much detail as possible."

"Really, John?" Sherlock said "colleague?"

"I- Well I don't know, Sherlock! We're two grown men trying to fall in love for the sake of science. I don't think calling you a colleague is the most ridiculous part of all this."

The sides of Sherlock's mouth turned up, almost forming a smile. "That's fair."