This is just a tiny little thing I wrote for Lit class. I hope this is decent.
Sherlock is a sweetheart. A confused, misguided sweetheart.
-xxx-
I'm sick because of you.
Oh, I know it's because of you.
Nothing I've done has helped.
Nothing I can do will help.
Because I don't know what's wrong.
How can I not know what's wrong!
Why can't I figure it out?
Why each breath comes up short.
Why each beat can't get my blood to flow.
Why I'm nauseous and shaking and feverish and flushed.
Why I can no longer begin to get close enough to touch.
What have you done?
What have you done?
I hate it. This wretched allergy.
But… because nothing's changed.
Not your hair, nor your cologne.
Not your diet or your clothes.
'Cause I would have noticed, I've always noticed.
Nothing's changed.
And it's not fair, you're supposed to be mine.
My friend, my partner…mine alone.
And now…and now, I can't even…
...
Why are you laughing! This isn't funny!
You're supposed to be a bloody doctor and you can't even-
…
…
W-why?
Oh.
...
(chuckles)
Well then.
-xxx-
It's my personal headcannon that Sherlock can figure out everyone else's emotions in a heartbeat but take forever to notice the 'symptoms' in himself.