There must be a football match tonight; I can hear collective cheering, separated by long minutes calm. Between the cheers, barking, and cars fill the air. I would shut the windows, but the inside of my hotel room is boiling. That, and the ceiling fan offers little alleviation; the heat is merciless. So I'll have to endure the noise. I can only hope that sleep with grip me soon, anointing my mind some precious silence.

'GOL!'

Really Madrid? Is it honestly necessary to put on such an exhibition, every time your team kicks a sphere of leather and latex into a net? Their enthusiasm could be put to infinitely much better use. For, oh, I don't know? What do normal people do with their time?

'NOOO!'

Evidently scream nonsense at the telly.

Is that what John is doing right now? Wasting away in front of a telly?

Wait; is it wrong to group him with normal people? I don't see why not; he's not like me, so that means he is probably one of them. Then again, what are the criteria for being 'like me'? Would that entail jumping off a building for a flat mate? Well, John never was just my flat mate. There was never a proper word for us, which made introductions difficult for me. Even Microft had trouble labeling us; he called John my Pal once. Pal? Really Microft? How very perceptive of you; one of the many qualities that made you such an ideal, older brother. Well, to be fair, I called John my friend during one of our first cases together. We were at Barkley's, and I was introducing him to Sebastian. When I introduced John as my friend, it made him shift uncomfortably and correct me. 'Colleague,' he said. I suppose he thought that was a safer word. College implies that our relationship is strictly work related. Friend on the other hand, well, that means there is an emotional investment involved. Perhaps even a romantic one. Was John worried Sebastian would get the wrong idea? Why should he? They didn't even know each other.

That admittedly always offended me; when John corrected me, or other people. The phrase 'I'm not actually gay,' still rings unpleasantly in my mind. Why was he incapable of seeing that I found his defensiveness hurtful? Surly, my discomfort was written over my face, mapped out on my features. There was no need for a skilled cartographer to read the landscape of my expression. John's words hurt me, which would be obvious to anyone with eyes. Why did he never peal back his lids and look?

Yes, John is one of them. A normal person.

I sigh, it's not as if any of that matters. Not now. Sleep; I need to just fall asleep. Something, which is unattainable tonight, it seems. A week breeze blows warm air over my exposed limbs. I didn't bother with clothes tonight, too hot. Though, the down side of not wearing knickers is that all my skin is sticking together. Not something I enjoy.

My legs are a bit too long for the bed, so my feet hang beyond the edge of the mattress. It's a thrill for my toes, but I don't like having my extremities dangling off the edge of the bed. I know it's childish, but It makes me feel vulnerable, threatened even. So I pull my legs toward my chest and hug them, I sleep better in fetal position anyway. I usually hug a pillow, pretend its John, but its too hot for that tonight. My thumb rubs my knee absentmindedly, that part of my leg was always unreasonably smooth and soft, even more so now that it's moist with sweat.

The motion of my thumb tracing the outline of my patella is soothing. Mostly because the sensation reminds me of John. I often travel back to the memory of the night we solved the hound case. Try not to overuse that memory; for fear that I'll wear it down. That I might weaken its vivacity, like an over washed sweater or an overhead song. Still, I think I'll take it out tonight, perhaps it can lull me unconscious.

That night was endlessly cooler than this one. I was already lying down on my bed when John was coming back from the bathroom. He was wiping toothpaste from his face with a tiered smile.

'You ok?' he asked. I looked up at him and grunted, I was too tiered to spare the energy to formulate words. John knew that, so he offered an understanding smile as he sat next to me. My legs were still on top of the covers, I shifted them to accommodate his body, but that only made John shift closer. He exhaled before he started fingering circles on my knee, threw the thin fabric of my pajamas. It was an innocent, friendly touch. Still, I was mildly surprised; John was not the tactile type. We didn't frequently hug or exchange warm touches. It is not to say that we were cold, far from it, we just didn't express endearment that way. We had a choreographed dance, I, the genius, would impress John with my mental dexterity. He, in turn, would lavish my ego with sweet words. I would orchestrate convoluted plans; he would follow with his pistol. There was nothing he wouldn't do for me. With the notable exception: physical intimacy. So what was it about that night that made him comfortable enough to touch me? I still don't know.

We were quiet for a while, just looking at each other until John spoke again: 'what did you see in the moor? You looked terrified.'

'Oh, nothing,' I replied. I was dreading the question, so I was eager to brush it off. He on the other hand, seemed to already know the answer, so he pushed on.

'Sherlock, did you see Moriarty?' I groaned again and avoided eye contact. 'Your safe you know.' He added softly.

I glanced up at him, unconvinced. 'Its not me I'm worried about.' Several expressions passed threw John's face, until he settled on one.

'Oh.' The one syllable hung in the air, he gulped it away loudly. His body stiffened as he licked his bottom lip. Had I revealed too much? Didn't think the knowledge that I worried about him would be some sort of awkward revelation. Evidently it was since his countenance suggested that he was uncomfortable, yet also pleased. So he liked that I worried, but he did not know how to respond. Interesting. I decided to press on.

'Really John, be practical. What would I do without my blogger?' That made him chuckle, he liked it when I said sentimental things in a bored tone. Never understood his sense of humor.

'Oh I have no idea. I suspect you will have to go back to performing without an audience.'

'I'd go mad.'

We locked eyes until we broke into a chuckle that turned into a contagious laugh. His grip on my knee only tightened. Without thinking I grabbed his hand, it felt natural at the time. His features softened as he squeezed back.

'NOOO '

Seems Madrid is loosing, pity. They have a good team. Does make my job easier though, tomorrow everyone in the city will be hangover and peeved. With any luck, Joaquin Lloas, the next man on my list, will be among the mourners. Meaning he will be off his guard.

Spaniards, truly lovely people, but sport fanaticism and afternoon siestas are their chief downfall. Moriarty really should not have trusted so many. Thank goodness he did.

I shift my legs again, really can't get used to the Iberian climate. Far too hot and dry, my skin is both sticky and itchy, most of it flaking off. My once immaculate scalp is now irritated and leaving a powdery layer of dandruff on my pillow. Clearly my scalp does not take well to all the cheep hair dyes I've been using for the past year. This month I'm sporting a coppery hue, the texture is wiry and burnt. You really haven't seen split ends until you've seen the straw I pass off as hair. I barley recognize myself anymore, which is the point. Still, it's off putting to not remember what I used to look like. Whenever I take out old memories I'm a blur, just a gas of emotion flouncing about and lecturing. John on the other hand, I fastidiously reconstruct. -and if I imagine very hard I can even smell him, the scent of his freshly washed skin, wrapped in warm cotton and wool.

He had an incredibly subtle smell, wore nothing artificial since his bath products were all unscented, as was his detergent. His smell was completely unique and natural; I relished any whiff I could get. I now regret wearing so much cologne; it overpowered or completely masked John's smell. Unless I sniffed him up close, not something that was very opportune or appropriate. Obviously.

Regret, It's all I have now. It's the one emotion I always come back to when I think of John.

Move my mind to other things. My body, muscles and nerves complain under my splotched skin. It feels as if I've been run over, oh right. I was. Should specify that it was my fault for running toward incoming traffic. In hindsight that was a hasty move, but necessary to gain vital information on Lloas. Besides nothing was broken, just a bit bruised and sore on the right side of my pelvis. Should be almost unnoticeable discomfort by tomorrow afternoon. By that time I'll have taken care of Lloas and be on a bullet train to Sevilla. Just another dull day.

Its quiet now, the game must be over. Families have likely turned off their telly's and are now in the process of getting into bed: brushing their teeth, putting on their pajamas, drinking manzanilla. The usual nightly ritual.

What are you doing now John? As I peel skin in the dark and Spaniards scream at a match?

I have two possible realities for John. The first, being that he has moved out of Baker Street, into an insipid apartment. That he works in a hospital during the day and comes home at night to a woman. In this reality he has forgotten about me completely, he hesitates to even mention tales of me, as if I were an imaginary friend. Real stories, but not believable enough to be worth telling.

The second possibility is that he is trapped in Baker Street. He sits in our empty apartment, broken, and holding on to past victories, to feelings for me. He still loves me and can't get over me.

I don't know which option is worse.

It should be obvious, I gave up my life for him to be safe, to be happy. I live every day knowing I may die so that he can live; so that he can move on, make a real life, with a woman. Besides, what makes me think he even loves me? He never said it, not in so many words. I've never said it myself. Should I have? A woman would, someone like Sarah, she would know what to say to make him feel appreciated, important. I only thanklessly ordered him around; I put him in the line of fire. Got myself burned.

Besides, say everything I wanted came to pass. That John and I would meet and he would love me, would our bodies even fit together? What sense could I make of his military, chiseled abdomens; the hard corners were his skin stretches over bone? He is so compact and small, would the weight of my body break him? Do we even have enough angles to slide into? Think we should never have met; our bodies were not made for each other. A stupid thought.

I simply pray he is not alone on a bed, feeling broken. Like me.