Dear Sherlock,

Why, why, why do I feel this way about you?

You are the single most arrogant man that I have ever had the ill fortune to meet.

I'll never tell you that walking back to my flat every day, I imagine what it would be like to walk next to you the whole way home. I have to walk quickly to catch up with your long strides, but with your arm draped over my shoulder, it's worth it.

I've never told you that.

And when I do get home, Sherlock, I picture you hanging up your coat in the front hall. Sometimes you'll make tea while I change out of my uniform, and I can almost hear you puttering around in the kitchen, making much more noise than you should ever make.

And for once you make me smile.

I'll shake my head and walk out of my room to see the floor strewn with the books that you brushed off of the coffee table to make room for the tea tray, and I laugh and run into the kitchen because you've forgotten the biscuits.

You always forget the biscuits.

But I don't really mind because once I've got the biscuits out of the pantry, I turn and you're there. Just standing there. But then I catch a glint of a smile on your hardened face, and I feel your big hands firm around my waist, and after a thousand moments, you begin to pull me to yourself.

I jump as the doorbell rings, and slip away from your grasp to scurry to the door. Blushing, I thank the mailman, and place the letters on the coffee table.

They can wait.

Because I won't enter the kitchen again, I sit on the couch and sip my tea with a shaky hand. Then I imagine you'll come in and sit on the couch, not too close, but not too far away either. You'll stir your tea thoughtfully, and then sometimes we'll watch a show together.

Or sometimes we make our supper.

Or we'll talk.

And then sometime I'll imagine that we just listen to the silence together.

But Sherlock, never once in my daydreams do you show off like you always do. Never once do you flatter me so you can get what you want, or prove me wrong and brush me aside.

I like to think that, in my dreams, Sherlock, you're not the man you act like, but instead are the man that you are too insecure to be.

You're not like other men, Sherlock.

You don't wink or flirt or play the field. You're different. You're better than that. And maybe that's why I respect you the way I do.

There hasn't been one man who has wanted me for me. Somehow I picture that you could. You wouldn't want me for what I could give you, but you'd be interested in what I thought, what I want, and you'd try to please me.

But then again, I remind myself that I'm not like you.

We're not the same, you and me.

Sherlock, you have strong opinions, and I do too. Only, you say yours while I keep mine hidden. You say whatever is on your mind, while I stay silent. Too often you hurt me with words that I would like to believe were unintentionally said.

I have feelings.

And they can be hurt.

And they can be broken.

And you've done it yourself on many occasions.

But that's not who you are. I want the man who's there when no one is looking. I want the man you won't admit that you are.

You tell me I'm too timid.

I wish I could be brave.

But I'll never be brave like you, Sherlock.

I'll never post this letter.

Truly yours, if you'll have me,

-Molly Hooper