“I’m starting to think letting you into my home wasn’t such a good idea.” “Oh it was probably the worst thing you’ve ever done.” There was a moment’s pause before he spoke again. “Do you regret it?” “Not one bit.”

John's never seen a kid like him. He has this beautiful, crazy grace - withheld behind a smug smile and wisecracks that make John frustrated in so many different kinds of ways. And his eyes; crystal clear, decisive, cleaning through the unimportant things to find the valuables in life. He may or may not have a thing for smoking and James Bond, his favorite ice cream is mint with a chocolate swirl, and he is absolutely addicted to Pop Rocks and toffee. He enjoys pretty boys and warehouses, where he can hoard and think and be alone. Also, bumper cars, and John Watson. But Sherlock Holmes's thing, his niche, his calling in life... is to steal. Books. Wallets. Phones. Cars. Everything you've ever wanted, he's had. Everything you've ever wished for, he's stolen. Everything you are, everything you told yourself that you weren't, he owns, and he plays you like an out-of-tune violin. Does that mean that John's going to let him steal his heart? Not a shot in hell.

Q. ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪғᴇ ʙᴇ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɪғ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴅᴀᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀs ғʀᴏᴍ sʜᴇʀʟᴏᴄᴋ? A. ᴀ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴛʏ ғʀᴇᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴀᴡᴇsᴏᴍᴇ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍ