“Love is a psychological and physiological phenomenon, made of synapses and hormones, endorphins and dopamine receptors, pheromones, experiences, commonalities, mutual attraction. Not the muscle of the heart. Inexact metaphor. Designed for poetry, not accuracy.” First person, present tense story told from Sherlock's point of view. Written in early 2011, prior to series 2.

It all started with a trip. Sherlock had been acting weird, and everyone thought he was just stressed, so he and John go on a trip to Fiji. Yet, what was supposed to be a relaxing vacation from the stresses of detective work only opened the door for much more stress and confusion when John begins to have strange feelings around his colleague, Sherlock Holmes. And Sherlock is still acting strange.

"Do you just carry on talking when I'm away?" A post-Reichenbach BBC Sherlock story. First person present tense.

Disclaimer: massive spoilers for the series finale. Triggers for pretty brief suicidal thoughts. They both know it. They say it to each other in looks and tentative touches, when House is rubbing Wilson's back when he feels as if he's about to hack up his lungs. In those moments, he doesn't have enough headspace to think, "House loves me," but sometimes he doesn't have to think it. Sometimes it's just his touch on Wilson's back and a few gentle words swathed in sarcasm. He knows. They both know. And what if Wilson was a star? And what if House was the universe, and what if he loved Wilson and let the oceans of time dwindle so he could be with him; only him, forever? What if there was a utopia?

He is lavish. Masterful. Intellectual, inexplicable, overt. Sexual. Sherlock Holmes defines extravagance. He isn't exactly the best thing for John's tireless, bland stability. John works the nine to five and tries not to lose sleep over the small things - like the labor of his fiancée's expectations, and the sirens that fill his head with noise after curfew. He finds comfort in art, and drinking. Besides the war making its presence known, slowly creeping its black tendrils into the heart of Bristol - John's life is quiet. Given that, he's not surprised when he is dragged into Sherlock Holmes's orbit. There is no manual to help him navigate the moment their eyes first meet; he presents himself as the perfect distraction, a beautiful incendiary miracle. John thinks that maybe he was hoping for this, because: Sherlock is potent, and inflammatory, and perfectly willing to make John's life hell for his own self-indulgent pleasure. With one touch, John's sense of self is corrupted. And what does it matter if the world implodes? It was never kind to them to begin with.