Chapter Text
It was with no small amount of astonishment that I found myself voicing the realization that had crept, almost unnoticed, into the corners of my mind:
"You’re in love, Sherlock," I said, my own words surprising me as much as they seemed to shock my friend. The notion had struck me quite suddenly, but now that it was spoken aloud, it seemed undeniably true. A smile, almost involuntarily, tugged at my lips—a mixture of both amusement and disbelief.
Said man had been pacing the room with his habitual fervour, recounting, with great animation, the details of our recent train journey. Yet, at my words, he stopped abruptly, as though frozen in place, his entire frame stiffening as if I had said something wholly unthinkable. He turned to face me, the motion sudden and sharp, almost theatrical in its intensity and his eyes, usually so piercing and filled with calculation, now widened in sheer disbelief. The cigarette, precariously balanced at the edge of his lips, wobbled ominously as he paused, smoke curling languidly into the air like some half-formed thought.
The silence that enveloped us was almost palpable, thickened by the lingering scent of tobacco that hung heavily in the air. For the briefest of moments, I saw in him something I had never seen before—a crack in that perfect, impenetrable façade. The great Sherlock Holmes, who could face the gravest of dangers with unwavering composure, now stood before me utterly taken aback. My words, delivered not as a question but as an undeniable truth, left him visibly shaken.
And then, true to form, the heavy stillness was soon disrupted by a fit of coughing as the detective choked on the smoke. Sherlock's face flushed deeply, the colour rushing to his cheeks in a way that might have been comical under different circumstances. Gasping for breath, he blinked furiously, as if trying to shake off the sheer absurdity of what I had just suggested.
When he finally managed to speak, his voice was hoarse, as though he still couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard. “What? I must have misheard you, John,” he said, blinking at me, eyes wide with a sort of incredulous disbelief.
But there was no mishearing, and the truth of it settled firmly in my mind. I leaned back slightly in my chair, an amused smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “Oh, come on, Sherlock,” I said, unable to contain the laughter bubbling within. "You’ve been going on about Lord Moriarty all evening." My tone was light, almost teasing, as I found myself more entertained by the situation than I cared to admit. “‘Liam this, Liam that.'’ I have never witnessed you fixate upon anyone so obsessively.”
Sherlock bristled visibly at my words, waving off my suggestion with a dismissive gesture that was meant to be casual, though it lacked its usual grace. “Don’t be daft, John,” he grumbled, his fingers absently toying with the cigarette stub. "He's just interesting, that's all. Ain’t got nothin' to do with all that fanciful nonsense you’re spouting."
“Interesting? That’s the issue, Sherlock.” I repeated, leaning forward a little, determined to make him see sense. “You don’t find people interesting—at least, not unless they’re criminals. And, from what I've seen, Lord Moriarty is most certainly not a criminal.”
Sherlock scoffed at this, his irritation growing by the second. “Can a man not appreciate another’s intellect without you turnin' it into somethin' else?” he snapped, though there was something in his tone that made me think he was less certain than he wanted to appear.
He then paused, a flicker of sly amusement lighting up his face, as though he had just arrived at some clever retort. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he added, his voice lower now, almost conspiratorial, “Besides, Liam might actually be a criminal, for all you know.”
I blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the statement. “What on earth are you talking about, Sherlock?”
A smile curled on his lips. “On the train, just before the murder, I accused him—right to his face, mind you—of being the Lord of Crime. And do you know what? He didn’t deny it. Not once. In fact, he practically played along.”
“You what?!" I could hardly believe what I was hearing. “You accused him—of what? Of being a bloody criminal?!”
Sherlock didn’t so much as flinch at the outburst, his voice remaining calm, with an air of nonchalance. “I merely presented a theory. A perfectly reasonable one.”
“A reasonable theory?” I nearly shouted, “Sherlock, you can’t just go around accusing people—especially people you like—of something like that!”
“I never claimed to like him, John,” Sherlock replied coolly, his expression hardening. “I said he was interesting. There’s a clear distinction.”
I threw up my hands in exasperation, feeling my patience wearing thin. “For heaven’s sake, Sherlock! You’re completely missing the point!”
“I’m not missing anything,” he replied with infuriating calmness. “You’re the one making a fuss over nothing.”
I sighed, sinking back into my chair. Arguing with Sherlock about anything remotely personal is like trying to move a mountain. I’ve seen him pick apart the most complex mysteries with startling precision, but when it comes to his own emotions, the man is as blind as they come. It’s remarkable, really—this paradox of his. He can read the subtlest clues in a crime scene but remains utterly clueless when it comes to himself.
It was in the midst of this frustrating back-and-forth that I noticed we weren’t alone. Inspector Lestrade had entered the room at some point and was now leaning against the doorframe, watching us with a raised eyebrow. He’d clearly been observing our little argument for a while, and I couldn’t tell if he was more amused or bewildered.
The man cleared his throat, breaking the tension in the room, and both Sherlock and I turned to face him. I felt a wave of embarrassment wash over me, realizing how absurd the whole scene must have looked from an outsider’s perspective.
“Good evening, Inspector,” I said, feeling somewhat flustered. My tone was far too polite for someone who’d just been caught in the middle of a ridiculous argument.
“Evening, Sherlock. Dr. Watson,” Lestrade greeted us, offering a measured nod and briefly lifting the tip of his hat. His eyes, though weary, held a trace of amusement as they settled upon Sherlock, who responded with a languid wave of his hand.
"Is everything all right?" Lestrade asked, his tone deceptively casual, though it was clear he had sensed the lingering tension in the room.
I cleared my throat, feeling the flush of embarrassment creeping up the back of my neck. "Yes, yes, of course," I said a bit too quickly, forcing a smile that I hoped looked natural. “Just a... difference of opinion.”
Sherlock, however, was already eyeing Lestrade with a sharp gaze, his earlier irritation momentarily set aside. “Lestrade,” he began, “why don't you save us the pleasantries and hand over those files? You’ve been hiding something under that coat since you arrived—I could see it from a mile away.”
Lestrade opened his mouth, but Sherlock wasn’t done. “I hope this isn't another one of your ‘natural deaths,’" he added, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smirk. “Surely Scotland Yard cannot be this inept?” His voice had an edge of mockery, but it was noticeably mellower than it had been earlier this morning.
I couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at the shift in his tone. Only a few hours ago, he had been nearly impossible to speak to, his mood soured by the whole fiasco with Hope’s case. Yet now, there was a certain ease to him, a calmness that wasn’t there before. Could it be…?
I shook my head slightly. Perhaps this “Liam” of his really had some strange effect on him. Sherlock's fixation on him had been... unusual, to say the least. I had teased him, of course, suggesting there was more to his interest, but his reaction had been almost defensive, which only made me more certain I was onto something.
Although the thought still amused me, I wasn’t ready to reopen that particular conversation. And if what I suspect is proven to be the case... I might need to publish this very case only posthumously. The last thing I want is to see us both prosecuted for what is, at its core, merely an expression of humanity.
Lestrade, for his part, seemed a bit taken aback, though not surprised by Sherlock's uncanny observation. With a slight sigh of resignation, he produced the thick folder from beneath his coat. “Alright, alright, Sherlock. No need to embarrass me in front of Dr. Watson. This one’s different. A locked room, with no apparent way in or out—and the victim... well, see for yourself.”
Sherlock’s interest was piqued immediately. His eyes gleamed with that unmistakable hunger for a challenge as he snatched the file from Lestrade's hand, flipping through it with practised speed. “A locked room, you say?” he muttered, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Intriguing."
And just like that, our earlier argument was completely forgotten, swept away by the thrill of a new case. Sherlock turned to me, his eyes gleaming. “What do you say, John? Ready for some fun?”
I couldn’t help but shake my head, exasperated as ever. How does he manage to leap from one topic to the next with such ease? Still, there’s no denying his enthusiasm is infectious.
“What are we waiting for, Lestrade?” Sherlock said, already reaching for his coat. “Lead the way!”