I knew. I knew I wouldn't be able to forget him. But I still tried. And every so often, just when I was starting to get over him, he would sweep in again, demanding to see another body, or conduct experiments in the lab. And I would let him, because I was a fool. A fool for falling in love with him, a fool for thinking he could ever feel the same about me. He rarely ever said a kind word to me, and if he did I suspect it's just because he wanted something. The only time he was ever sincere was at that damned Christmas party, when he knew he had messed up beyond repair. But I still accepted his apology, because I knew I was one of the few people the great Sherlock Holmes had ever uttered the words "I'm sorry" to.
I tried to move on, tried to see other people. I thought Jim from IT was cute and sweet, and would possibly be a good distraction. My radar definitely needs adjusting. Turns out dating a psychotic criminal mastermind is something I can cross off the "never want to do again" list.
I continued to help Sherlock, mostly because I had no choice. He never really looked at me, just through me. He never really talked with me, just at me. Until that day. That fateful day, when he showed up in the darkened lab just as I was leaving. I heard the quiver in his voice, the uncertainty. He kept coming closer, and his gaze burned with an intensity I had never seen before. He finally saw me, in whatever capacity. I knew Sherlock had changed. I knew that it didn't matter what I wanted, what I felt. All that mattered was him. I asked what he needed, ready to give him anything he asked for.
He simply replied, "You."
God help me for what I did next.