WARNINGS: KISSING TOWARDS THE END. IF THIS OFFENDS YOU, GROW UP :)

My story starts on a Tuesday morning at a small bus stop in Oxford. I was waiting for a bus into town when the X90 from London pulled up. A single man came out, with huge bags underneath his grey-green eyes, running his long fingers through his black hair. I've always noticed things about people, and I saw that he had grazes on his cheekbones and a series of small cuts above his eyebrow. He met my gaze directly and said "Shut up." I glanced around for someone to save me from this weirdo, but there was no one. "Uh, sorry? I didn't say anything." I said awkwardly. "You were thinking. It's annoying." Genuinely terrified, I said, "Sorry." and decided to walk away. He took a step towards me, and crumpled to the floor. My natural worry for this odd man overcame my fear of him, and I rushed over to him, helping him to his feet. "You've been travelling for days, haven't you?" I guessed. "No food apart from what you fought stray cats for out of dustbins?"
He eyed me suspiciously. "The scratches above my eyebrows?"
"Yes."
"Well you've just broken up with your longterm boyfriend, you work as a dancer, play the piano and spend inordinate amounts of money on clothes despite living half your life in an army uniform."
I was amazed by the speed and accuracy with which he deduced these facts."I've never met anyone apart from me who could do that, and you're much better at it than I am." I said. "But you're not quite right: I'm an actress, and I'm in the RAF, not the army. But how - oh! I'm still using Robbie's deodorant, my ballet shoes are peeping out of my bag, I hold myself like a dancer, I'm wearing expensive shoes and I naturally stand at ease when I'm waiting."

"There's always something!" He muttered angrily.

We looked at each other, both wary of the other's powers of observation. Simultaneously, we both started laughing. He had a wonderful laugh, which I guessed people didn't hear much. Sufficiently convinced that he wasn't crazy (well, not crazier than me) I held out my hand for him to shake. "I'm Lillia-Ellen. My friends call me Elle. Who are you?"
His smiling face immediately closed into a frown and his lips curled into a sneer. "My name is immaterial." He said abruptly. He turned on his heel and made as if to leave, but I reached out and caught his arm. It was even skinnier than I had previously thought. "Where are you going?" I asked.
"I thought you had above average intelligence. I am moving away from you." He said coldly. Normally I would have hit such a pretentious bastard, but I had felt a connection with him, and there had been such a drastic change in his attitude that I thought it must have been due to what I had said as opposed to this being his natural way of speaking to people. I took a deep breath and said "I'm going to give you one more chance. You seem like a nice, if slightly mental person, but cut the crap. You need somewhere to sleep, and I need your name and the assurance that you're only a mild sociopath. So what's it going to be? You gonna walk away, or are you going to stop being a git and get a decent night's rest?"
He looked first at me and then at my hand on his arm. He closed his eyes and muttered to himself for a second before his eyelids flew up and he thrust his hand out for me to shake. "I'm John. John... Mycroft. And I've decided to stay at your house. Lead the way." He said his name so haltingly that I thought it must be a pseudonym, but I decided not to push the subject further. Instead, I gave up all hope of getting into the city centre and started walking back to my house. "What changed your mind? Why have you condescended to staying with me for the night?" I asked him.
"You said 'sociopath'."
"So?"
"Most people say psychopath." He said simply, and fell into step behind me.

When we got to the front door, I started searching in my bag for my keys. It normally takes me a while to find them amongst all the gunk I keep in there, but this time it seemed like I'd really lost them. I was on the verge of tipping the entire contents of my bag out onto the driveway when I heard a familiar click and creaking sound. I looked up to find 'John' standing in my doorway, looking around the entrance hall. Both annoyed and amazed by the fact that he was able to break into my house so easily, I slammed the door shut behind me, forcing him to take a few steps forward onto the welcome mat. "Wipe your feet, and take your shoes off. You've been tramping through fields in them for days." I said, pointing to the trail of mud and grass stains he had already created on the limestone floor. I chucked my bus pass into the bowl where I kept my keys and spare change, and waited impatiently as he took his scruffy black shoes off and placed them next to my cowboy boots. I noted that, like all his clothes, his shoes must have once been quite nice and certainly good quality. Interesting.
I quickly pushed open the doors to the rooms on the ground floor, showing him where everything was. I then told him to wait in the kitchen as I went to get him some clean clothes and some towels. "You can have some of my brother's old stuff." I told him. "You'll have to be careful not to ruin it, but it should be around your size." Shoving the bundle of clothes at him, I showed him upstairs to the guest bathroom and told him not to steal anything, though I thought petty crime was probably beneath him. I made us both tea and got him one of the last of my father's expensive cigars : I could tell by the callouses on his hands that he smoked, but from the state of him he probably hadn't had the money to finance that habit for a while. I had guessed correctly - when he came back down, he took the cigar with a grateful sigh and lit it with an expression of extreme serenity on his face. Now that he was clean, he looked like a different man - quite an attractive one, at clothes fit him well, and the style certainly suited him. And if the shirt was a few sizes too big, it was only because he was so emaciated himself. "Would you like some food?" I asked. "I was going to eat in town, but now that you're here I might as well attempt to cook, because you most probably don't even know how a toaster works."
He glared at me haughtily and declared "I know perfectly well how the physics works, I just lack practical experience. Anyway, why would I need to know useless information like that? It wastes space that could be taken up with more important things." I laughed incredulously at him, and said "God, you're just like my brother. At least he recognises that it might be quite useful to know how to feed himself though! But the number of times I've had to tell him not to put spoons in the microwave..."
"Spoons would have no adverse affect, only forks would cause a problem."
"I know, he says that too. I'm still terrified he'll blow up the house!"
I said as I busied myself making pasta.
"Worry is one of the most pointless of emotions." He said, looking around the kitchen. Suddenly, he got up and left, coming back a minute later with a violin from the music room. "Whose is this? It hasn't been played in about ten years."
"No, it hasn't. It was my brother's, but he gave up during his GCSE year. You're welcome to play it if you want."
He gazed at the instrument almost hungrily, and placed it lovingly underneath his chin. I don't know what I was expecting to happen, but it certainly wasn't for a strange solo version of Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto: Finale to come from the strings as his fingers expertly manipulated the bow.

He continued playing for a long time, stopping only to eat an entire bowl of pasta ravenously. I recognised most of the pieces he played, and I wondered at how easily he remembered the complicated series of notes. He caught me staring at him as I washed the plates up, and he suddenly said: "Name the composers whose pieces I've played just now in chronological order."
"Tchaikovsky, Vivaldi, Bach and... Was that last one Mozart?"
"Exactly. Most people would have got half of those wrong, or at least messed up the order. So what's different about you?"
I shrugged. "I like music. And I listen more, I guess."
"No. Most people listen, but you... Process things." He shook his head as if to rid it of something. "I'm too tired to think about this now." He continued. "Show me the rest of the house and where I can sleep for an hour or two. Then you can tell me about the town and find me a phone charger." His imperious tone made me laugh. Who did he think he was, ordering me around like that? Then again, he looked exhausted, so maybe he wasn't himself in spite of the shower and the food. Deciding to let it go for now, I did as he asked and made up a bed for him in the guest bedroom (he couldn't sleep on the sofa as it was a very odd shape, and he was hardly going to know how to make a bed himself!). Then I got him a pair of pyjamas, and left him to his own devices. Knowing full well that despite appearances John could be a serial killer/rapist/thief, I took the precaution of locking his bedroom door.

He came out of his room (I assume he picked the lock) and into the kitchen exactly two hours later. Even with such a small amount of sleep, he looked a lot better, and I was struck for a second time by the alertness of his oddly coloured eyes, and the peculiar beauty of his face. I also noted that his three-day stubble had disappeared, replaced by a small nick on the left side of his jaw. "Not used to a straight razor?" I asked. He looked at me sharply. "This is exactly what I was talking about earlier." He said.
"Well, I can't help noticing things about you I'm afraid, so you're going to have to live with it. Anyway, you wanted to know about Oxford. So shoot!"
He took another long look at me and then started asking his questions. They all concerned the layout of the city and where he was right now. Apparently, he wouldn't have needed me if he had his phone (Google maps appeared to be his best friend), but it had run out of battery some days ago. I had found him a phone charger, but he surprised me by not plugging it in until he had taken the SIM card out. "Are you all done with your questions? Because I have a few of my own, 'John'." I said finally.
"I'm afraid they will have to remain unanswered."
"Why? I let you into my house, gave you food and clothes, and a place to sleep. Don't I deserve a little information? I could be harbouring a fugitive!" A startled look flashed across his face, disturbing the sneering mask that fixed itself onto his features every time I queried his identity. Bingo. "Who are you, and why do you call yourself John? You clearly were well off at one point, as your clothes are expensive and well made, yet you've spent days outside with no money to buy food or shelter. You're running away from something or someone powerful, aren't you? That would explain why you took the SIM out of your phone: you don't want them to be able to trace you, something which they must have the resources to do." In the middle of my tirade I noticed that the too-big shirt I had lent him had fallen away from his angular hip, revealing a gun tucked into the waistband of his trousers. My voice rose about an octave, though I tried to keep calm. "And you've got a Sig Sauer P226R, even though they're army issue and you're not in the army. So whose gun is it? And why do you have it?"
My barrage of questions seemed to have an affect on him at last, and he stood up. "I don't have to tell you anything!" He shouted
"What is your NAME?!" I shouted back.
"I told you, my name is immaterial! Now stop asking bloody questions!"
"Your NAME, NOW! Or you get out of my house."
"I was Sherlock Holmes!" He roared at me. This last statement seemed to take it out of him entirely, and he clutched onto the back of a chair to steady himself, his hands shaking uncontrollably.
"I was Sherlock Holmes." He repeated. "But now I am no one. Dead men have no names."

That sentence would have been ludicrously melodramatic if it hadn't been delivered by a man with wild eyes and a gun. Had it been anyone else, I would have laughed in their face, but someone with a name like Sherlock Holmes sounded like they needed to be taken seriously. I stood up slowly and helped him into a seat. His hands were still shaking, so I went to get him another cigar and a cup of tea. I took the gun away from him and inspected it: it was loaded. I put it away in the corner out of his reach, pointing towards the wall.
I took a deep breath and watched as the blue smoke rings from the cigar chased their way up to the ceiling. "Tell me what happened." I demanded.
Suddenly the very picture of calm, Sherlock Holmes put the cigar down on the ash tray, closed his eyes and placed his elbows on the arms of his chair, with his finger tips together. "I think it would be best," he remarked, "to begin at the beginning. I am - or rather, I was until recently - the world's only consulting detective, and I used to live in 221B Baker Street, London..."

His story was one of the most bizarre that I had ever heard. I mean, who had arch-enemies whose names they couldn't reveal in case I was unknowingly employed by them? And I couldn't understand who this John Watson guy was. Was he Sherlock's boyfriend, or what? If he was, he must be heartbroken right now, thinking that Sherlock was dead. And if he wasn't his boyfriend, Sherlock must be at least 30, so he had to have some kind of relationship going on with someone, no matter how pretentious he acted sometimes. Come on, those cheekbones!
None of these were things I really wanted to ask Sherlock himself, so I contented myself with being torn between wonder and pity. Wonder at how this man seemed to live in a completely different world to mine, one that contained murder mysteries and moonlit chases through London. And pity for him, because no matter how hard he tried to pretend that he knew everything, Sherlock was obviously lost outside Baker Street. Unfortunately, he saw me staring at him and recognised the pity in my eyes. It seemed to disgust him, and I can only suppose that what he did next was a depressingly pathetic attempt to get me to change that emotion to admiration.
"Human emotion is pointless enough without it being aimed at me."
"Emotions are pointless? You really believe that?"
"Of course. I have distanced myself completely from anything that could impair my abilities as a detective, including experiencing love, pity, or caring about things. It's easy to be disdainful about something you cannot feel yourself."
I snorted in derision. "Bullshit. I've never met a single man incapable of experiencing a certain type of... Well, I suppose you could call it an emotion."
"I will be the first then."
"Oh, I very much doubt it Mr. Holmes. You may be different, but you can't resist this. It's ingrained in every man. Trust me, I wish it wasn't, but it is."
"Whatever this is, I'm sure I'm above it."
"All right. Let's test your theory." I stood up, and motioned for him to copy me. I wasn't normally this forward, but he had seriously pissed me off. I had a feeling it was part of his skill set. Moving around the table to where he was standing, I took a step towards him, so that I was about a metre away from him. I took his hand in mine, slowly rotating my fingers so that I was in a position to take his pulse without him noticing what I was doing. I counted the beats in my head as I kept taking small steps. To my surprise, they were still regular by the time our noses were almost touching, so I leaned forward and lightly raked the bottom of his lip with my top teeth as I kissed him softly. As I had expected, his body remained rigid even as his pulse skyrocketed. Point proven, I stepped back and laughed. "I took your pulse. It seems that not even you, Sherlock Holmes, can be above the simple chemistry of sexual attraction!"
"I took your pulse too. It increased the second you were less than a metre away from me." He retorted.
"Ah, but I'm not the one professing to be 'above' human sentiments. I think you're a lot more human than you like to think."
I got the vibe that he didn't like to be bested.
"Stop inflicting your opinions on the world." Was his only answer to my comment. He turned on his heel and went into the living room, where he curled up on the sofa in catlike position, face buried in the plethora of cushions. What a child!

I tried speaking to him, but nothing would elicit a response. I eventually gave up and started learning lines instead. About an hour later, I was brought back to the real world by an exclamation of "I'm bored!" From next door. "I'm not surprised, you've been sitting there doing nothing for over an hour!" I called back.
"Find me something to do!"
"Find yourself something to do!"
"Don't be ridiculous, it's your house!"
I rolled my eyes. I was about to retort that if he was bored in my house he could jolly well go be bored on the streets, but I suddenly had an idea. This guy thought he was clever, but I had no idea how much of that was justified. I should give him a challenge - not code breaking, because he said he'd beaten one of the nation's best cryptographers... A treasure hunt would appeal to his childish nature, but he would most likely consider that beneath him. But a fact hunt... If I chose interesting things for him to find out, it would shut him up for a while and make him feel like he was doing something worthwhile. Hmmm.
"Sherlock! How about finding out three things about me:
Where I went to uni, my nationality, and how many languages I speak. You're allowed free rein when it comes to rummaging around the house, and you can ask me two direct questions." I was sceptical that he would participate in something so obviously childish, but it was worth a try.
There was a pause, and then I heard him spring to his feet. A moment later, his head appeared around the door. "I need an incentive for this to be fun."
"Uhhhh... If you get all of them right, you can stay here indefinitely. If you get one wrong, you have to tell me I'm right about you having emotions. If you get two wrong, you have to stop being so cocky, and if you get them all wrong you..."
"That won't happen. Laters!"
With that he disappeared completely.

Over the course of the afternoon I heard various banging noises coming from all sides of the house. I passed him in the corridor as I went to get something from my room, and I hardly recognised the tired and dishevelled man I had picked off the streets only this morning. His eyes had darkened in colour, and were shining brightly; his strides were long and measured; his fingers were tapping out a rhythm on his thigh; and there was a small, almost mocking smile on his face.
He came back downstairs after a surprisingly short period of time. "What profession did your parents hold?" He asked.
"They were both lawyers."
"What are your middle names?"
"How did you know I had more than one? Natasha, Joy and Victoria."
"Simple deduction, quite dull actually. You're half French and half Welsh, you speak French, English and Spanish and you attended Oxford University. Either Worcester or Trinity College, I'm not sure which."
"No."
"Sorry?"
"Very close, but no. I speak Russian, not Spanish, though I studied Spanish for two years when I was 12."
He looked at me through narrowed eyes. "Oh of course! Stupid. Stupid! That notebook had letters that looked Cyrillic."
I grinned triumphantly (yes, I'm a bad winner) and said "Well, I think that all that's left for us to do here is for you to tell me just how right I was in guessing that you're susceptible to sentiment."
"Don't be ridiculous. You caught me unawares. Under normal circumstances my heartrate would have remained entirely constant."
"Oh come on! Just admit you've lost."
"I maintain that it wasn't a fair test."
I stared at him coldly. "I don't want to take on the role of 'corrupter of your innocence', Mr. Holmes. Don't make me."
"If you had given me time to prepare, I would have willed myself to keep calm. Not that I would have needed much prompting."
Angered by this slight against me, I hissed, "Fine. Have your 'time to prepare', and match your iron willpower against your body. I have no doubt that your body will betray you."
"I don't have time for this!" He said dismissively.
"I expected more from you. Too complacent to admit you've been beaten, and too cowardly to try again. Look at the poor man!"
His head whipped round and his eyes met mine.
"If you hadn't said those last words, you wouldn't have had to embarrass both of us by doing this. Now you're going to have to live with the consequences."
"Don't be stupid, Sherlock. I'll give you two minutes. Use the time wisely: Prepare yourself."
"I'm quite ready now, thank you." He announced sarcastically.
"Good."

I stepped towards him and repeated what I had done earlier, except I didn't bother taking his pulse. I wasn't measuring his heartrate this time, I was seeing how long it would take before he reacted to what I was doing to him. Consequently, instead of breaking the kiss almost as soon as I'd instigated it, I placed my palms flat on his chest as I pressed my lips against his. His mouth had already been slightly open, so before he could close it I slipped my tongue in and kissed him properly. When he didn't react, I pushed him forcefully so that he was backed up against the table and made sure there was no distance between our bodies. I could feel every inch of him against me, but he wasn't moving at all. Just as I was thinking that I might have to try another technique, I felt his tongue move with mine. I closed my eyes and savoured the moment - strangely enough, he was a very good kisser - before stepping back. "There we are. Well and truly double crossed by no one but yourself." I attempted to turn around and leave the room, feeling quite proud of myself, but he caught my arm. I was suddenly aware of how similar this situation was to when we first met (could it have only been this morning?), but in reverse.
"What do you want, Sherlock? Are you going to try and claim that that wasn't a fair test?"
"No. But all good experiments require repeats to be accurate." I caught sight of an expression I hadn't yet seen before in his eyes before he slid his hand down to my wrist and moved his other hand so that it was cupping my neck just underneath my jaw. His mouth imprinted itself on mine and I felt his entire body pressed against me. I broke off for a second to ask "Is that your gun, or...?"
"It's not my gun." He growled. I smiled and said "I don't think I quite recorded the results properly. Would you mind if we tried the test one last time, Mr. Holmes?"
His only reply was to pin me against a wall and kiss me again.