Life Confuses; Love Infuriates

"You never loved me, did you?"

My voice was cracked, hardly sounding like my own.

"All those nights that you fell asleep in my arms… You never once said I love you. I see why now. I was just a toy to you! You really are the cold heartless machine everyone made you ought to be!"

"You don't understand-"

"This is our last night together, and you refuse me a single smile, something to tell me that you still care! What on this earth is wrong with you, Sherlock?"

"Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!"

I found the usually mysterious blue eyes pricked with tears, and my heart sank. The look given to me was filled with heartbreak and devastating agony.

"I can't smile at you because I'm not happy! I couldn't tell you I loved you because I knew you would leave! You would never be mine! And now I know it to be true!"

The cried protest took me aback, and I could only watch as the delicate form collapsed face-down onto the couch.

"Oh, no, no, no," I found myself murmuring as I knelt beside my crying flatmate. "Please, Holmes, I didn't mean it."

Sherlock Holmes. The most beautiful woman you would ever find. She was utterly gorgeous, drawing the attention from every man on this earth. Her heart shaped face and mischievous icy blue eyes. Obsidian black hair flowing gracefully, it fell just beneath her shoulders. She would have been divine in a dress, every perfect curve of her body would be accented in the most extravagant way, but what she usually wore made her seem angelic. She would wear only wear dress clothes, usually black trousers and a deep purple long sleeved blouse. Her favorite coat was a pitch black trench-coat, and she had been wearing it for probably the past ten years, not to even mention that beloved scarf of hers. She would still look perfectly beautiful in that, more so than any other woman I had ever seen. She was just so perfect yet so not (by society's standards anyways; I thought she was perfect).

"Go!"

The order wasn't angry; there wasn't an ounce of discontentment in her voice as I began running my hand up and down her back as I usually did when she was distraught. Her voice was filled with sorrow, devastating sadness. It was pleading with me, as if I were hurting her.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," I apologized as gently as possible. Her eyes wouldn't meet mine. Her arms were crossed on the seat cushion, her face buried in them. "Please don't cry."

"I'm not."

I shook my head, moving to massage her shoulders. "Don't lie to me. I can see your shoulders heaving up and down as you cry. You need to relax."

"Stop it, please," she begged, muscles tightening as I tenderly brushed my lips across the back of her hand.

"Why?" I questioned softly, leaning in to whisper in her ear, "Don't you like it?"

"I'm the heartless machine?" she finally cried in protest, snapping away from me to stand beside the fireplace. She wouldn't meet my eyes, hands clutching at her sides. "You're leaving me to go with Mary! Why should I bid you a happy farewell?"

I set my jaw. "You know I love you-"

"Then why are you leaving me?!" she argued, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"For the love of God, you were dead. How was I expected to be at the beck and call of a dead woman who never once told me that she loved me?" I shouted back furiously, but I was in no way prepared for her answer. She gripped the mantle of the fireplace so tightly that her knuckles turned white with effort, and her voice was filled with such a distressing level of sorrow I had never seen in her before. She let out a strangled whimper, sobbing, "I didn't know I had to say it for you to believe it! How many men have I turned down because their very voice repulsed me? How many hearts have I broken because they were too plain or cruel for my taste? Their very touch made my skin crawl! Why would I allow you to take my hand if I didn't long for the touch? Why would I settle close in your arms if you were like all the others? Why- Why would I kiss you if I didn't want you?"

I turned her to face me with more force than necessary, and I pulled her tight to my chest so she couldn't get away, one hand tight around her back and the other on the back of her head. I placed my lips against hers, hungry and searching for a response. She gave me none, but she didn't protest the action either, merely hanging limply in my arms.

"Please," I whispered, nuzzling her cheek with my nose. It used to always make her smile when I did that, but not anymore. "Please, don't let me go like this."

"I can't do this anymore," she protested somberly, and I could tell each word sent a pang coursing through her heart. "You have to choose. If you choose her, I wish for you to know that whenever you visit, I will greet you as a friend for that is what you will be. Nothing more. Nothing less. What was will be through, and what will be is friendship-"

I cut her off with another kiss, pulling at her gentle, soft lips with my own. I just wished for a response. Finally her lips began moving with mine, her delicate hands matting themselves in my hair as she relaxed into my arms.

"Is this…" she breathed once we parted minutes later. "Is this your decision?"

I nodded, tenderly stroking her cheek. "It's alright. I'm not leaving."

"What about her?"

Mary. How would I tell her…? No, that wasn't important. It didn't matter.

"I'll deal with it," I promised, resting my forehead against hers. "I'll take care of everything. Oh, Sherlock, I'm so terribly sorry. I don't know what I was doing."

She didn't say anything, merely settling closer in my arms, her face hidden in my chest. She took deep breaths, and I later found her to be ridden with a dreadful fever. I served her hand and foot as I rid her to bed rest the rest of the day. She was out like a light once I had her settled in bed in her dressing gown. She was dreadfully pale (paler than usual) except where her cheeks flushed a red hue with fever. Her skin was clammy yet oddly warm, and she appeared so pathetically weak and small beneath the covers.

"No, no, no," I soothed, tenderly stroking her forehead with the damp washcloth as she stirred sometime later. "It's alright. It's alright."

I'm not sure whom I was reassuring.

I placed a tender kiss on her cheek with the murmur, "Just rest. I've got you. Nothing will harm you. I'm here.I'm here."

I placed the cloth back in the water, wringing it out before placing it upon her brow. "Oh, I really hurt you. I didn't mean to, Sherlock. I'm so dreadfully sorry."

I left her side for a mere minute, running to get her some water, but when I returned to her, she was awake, but barely. Her eyes were mere slits, and she was trying desperately to keep them open but to no avail. Her hand clutched at mine as if it were her life line. Her voice was soft, despairingly pained. "J-John?"

"Hush now. Hush. I'm here. I'm here. Come now. I need you to drink this. Can you do that for me?"

A shake of the head.

"Darling, it will help you…"

Still she protested.

I dipped two of my fingers in the water, tenderly brushing them across her lips. I couldn't help but smile as I ran a gentle hand through her hair, my other hand staying by her mouth. "Refreshing, isn't it? There's more if you'd like it."

I dipped my fingers in the water again, gently running them along her lips. I did this repeatedly until she began kissing my fingers, and I knew her to be longing for more water. I swiftly replaced my fingers with a glass, gingerly tilting her head back ever so slightly.

"Little sips, my dear," I murmured softly, lifting her chin with the tips of my fingers. "That's it."

She said something, but I didn't make anything out. I leaned in closer, confused at what she was trying to say. Then I felt her small, nimble hands rest on either side of my face, and her lips gently pulling at mine. She couldn't keep the strength to do even that, however, and she soon fell back into the pillows. I began pulling the covers back around her, making sure everything was okay, but then I heard it. It was soft, quiet, and weak, but I still heard it.

"I love you."