Did you ever expect this?

A constant question on my mind, an unbelievable, incomprehensible thought that I always shoved away to the back of my mind and shrugged off with a laugh.

It couldn't be, could it? Sherlock Holmes- in love.

With a woman.

It was quite unexpected, really. I never thought I would see him connect to well to a person who was not Lestrade- or me.

A case, naturally. A woman, Julia. She had come to Scotland Yard with the case, her missing mother, possible murder. Sherlock initially didn't want the case, but as soon as he met her, he decided otherwise. She shook Sherlock's hand, red straight hair chopped right above her shoulders, bangs cascading over her green eyes. He wiggled his fingers and clenched his hand after, and he seemed a bit flustered.

She smiled and looked down at her file for a moment. "Yes, she was last seen on the east side, off of Bridgeport. Murder, I assume, she has been gone for a couple weeks." She flicked her eyes to the side and then darted them back to his.

"Yes, of course," He said, pausing before his next statement. He looked her up and down, and was clearly investigating whether she was a fake or really needed his help. "You're interested in astrophysics, correct?"

She raised her eyebrow. "Why, yes. Tell me, how did you know this?"

"East, your book," He pointed to the other item in her hand. "A Brief History of Time, Stephen Hawking. Not my favorite genre, but he is very brilliant." He smirked a bit.

I gaped a little, and looked at my watch, trying to hide my eyes from their smug grins at each other.

"Well," She said, flattered, "I am very interested in his work. But, Mr. Holmes, you have an excellent success ratio on your cases, I'm confident this one will be easy for you. I look forward to watching you solve this."

He nodded, a little flustered. "Of course. I will see you tomorrow."

She left, and he smiled. He cocked his head, a bit interested. He seemed to take a liking to her.

I, however, did not.

I couldn't stand her.

The way she dressed in a professional manner, her well-manicured teeth and inviting features. Her smile, the glint in her eyes at the excitement of his mention of liking Stephen Hawking. The way Sherlock flustered for a moment, embarrassed, like an eleven year old boy who fancied a pretty older girl. Her stance, her soft, styled hair that flowed down and highlighted her shapely neck. I'd have thought he would have found interest in a mysterious sort of type like Irene Adler, if anyone.

I thought he was interested in me, before he met her.

I never thought I was even be convinced to talk to Sherlock Holmes, let alone become infatuated with him. His ridiculous manner and brilliance interested me, and I found myself infatuated, not with his body, perhaps, but the idea of him was so attracting and curious that I crept up to it, and got sucked into his adventurous world.

She seemed nice enough, brilliant, really. He had met her for five minutes at most, but he seemed intrigued anyways. But was she really better than the man who had the courage to accept him, when no one else would?

He was humming around the flat when we got back, skirting around like an excited toddler. I glared at him the first few seconds when he was talking about the case, but he didn't seem to notice. I sighed and walked into the kitchen to grab a beer. I had started to get a knot in my stomach.

He wore his best suit the next day, posing himself in front of the mirror, checking to see if any lint was on his outfit or a hair was out of place. "What are you doing?" I asked, cocking my head.

He grumbled. "A man should present himself well, should he not?"

"You never seem to care what anyone else thinks of your appearance," I said, exasperated. I pursed my lips in order to hide the anger in my cheeks.

He straightened his jacket. "I suddenly found an interest in it."

We both said nothing as he skipped down the stairs, whistling.

"A glove," He muttered as he studied the dirtied piece of cloth in front of him, which looked like it had been run over multiple times.

I shook my head and bent down next to him. "Sorry, what?"

He grit his teeth. "Oh, pay attention, John!" I sighed and rolled my eyes. "A glove, was white at one point or another. Silk, expensive material. An older woman, fashionable, works for the government, Julia said. I would assume this was hers." He held it up with his own plastic gloves, and I felt the softness of it through mine.

His hand touched mine for a brief moment, and I shivered, but he paid no attention. I had the sudden urge to kiss him.

I had that feeling more times than I would like to admit.

It was a shame I never bothered to act on it.

He held out the glove for her to look at. She bit her lip and nodded, a little uneasy. "Yes, those are hers. She got them in Paris, a few years ago."

He had a worried look on his face, and then shook his head, getting himself out of his daze. "I can fix them, if you'd like. Easily done, just some-"

She laughed a bit. "What, you don't think I can do that on my own? I don't need a man to do it for me." He chuckled, and bowed his head down a bit, his hair falling in his face, a bit flustered.

"Well, we just need to check it out, and then you can have it back and do whatever you'd like with it."

She nodded, her hair bobbing up and down, a few strands loosely strayed around her face. "Of course." She pulled out a piece of paper from her purse and scribbled some figures on it with a pen. She handed it to him. "My number."

He looked a bit startled, and cocked his head innocently. "For?"

She smiled. "Just call me, alright?"

He agreed, and he watched her slim figure as it waltzed off into a silver car.

I considered snatching it from him for some reason, but decided against it.

The next few days he was barely off his phone. He constantly texted her about some of his cases, and she had seemed pretty engrossed in our adventures. He had been a bit abashed to call her at first, but they talked on the phone for hours on end.

That Saturday, he was wearing his tight, figure flattering purple shirt and was nervously pacing through the flat, muttering to himself and waving his hand around.

"Well, odd outfit for an evening. I'd expect you to be in your sheet." Not that I would mind, though. I liked seeing him in his natural, comfortable state, where he didn't mind going without pants in a place as important as Buckingham Palace.

He glared at me. "Very humorous. I am dressed like this because," He paused, "I've got a date."

I gaped at him and lowered my head. "A... date? With who?"

"With whom, you mean. And Julia, of course."

"The 'of course' not being necessary." I looked back at my paper, clenching my anger into my veiny hands.

He raised an eyebrow. "Very well, then. I will see you later tonight."

"Or in the morning," I grumbled to myself, looking at the skull on the mantle.

"You never know," He said as he flicked the door open and closed it hard.

I held the mug in my hand, holding it with immense pressure, and a pulse of heat radiated through my arm.

Why her? Why anyone but me? I noticed the way he stared at me in certain moments, analyzing my features with a look plastered on his face that I couldn't decode.

I thought we had more time, I thought we had the rest of our lives. As long as I didn't find anyone, and I hadn't planned on it. I never expected Sherlock to find someone else, never.

I was selfish, I thought that I always had him under my thumb.

Little did I know it was the other way around.

I decided I needed to go out, anywhere. I called up a cab on the street and texted Molly to meet me at a small coffee shop off of Laston. She agreed to meet me there in twenty minutes, and I tapped my fingers on my thighs nervously through the whole ride there.

I paid the fare and tramped a bit angrily into the cafe, where I saw her stirring a cup of coffee with a spoon in the corner. I sat down in front of her, grumbling. "Sorry I'm late, thanks for meeting me here."

She nodded and handed me a mug of tea. "No problem."

We drank from our mugs for a moment, neither knowing what to say, until she coughed and broke the silence. "Why did you invite me here, John?"

I looked up, startled. "Why not?"

She tenderly tapped the table with her nimble fingers. "You never talk to me much, much less invite me anywhere. What is it?"

I sighed. "Alright. Sherlock..." I tipped my head to the right and sighed.

She raised her eyebrows. "What about him?"

"He's... on a date."

She looked a bit concerned, looking over at the wood table and back to me. "Oh. I'm sorry, John."

I said nothing, and pursed my lips. "It's funny, really," I said, laughing. "I always thought he depended on me, but apparently I'm the one who needs him."

She bit her lip. "John."

"You know, I should have seen this coming. You know, for a moment I thought he was actually interested in me, but of course not. That he was the one trying to get me, I was the one going out on dates, he was the jealous one."

She sharpened her tone. "John."

"And now it's too late, of course." I could feel a slight sob trying to escape my throat, but I held it back. My voice cracked. "I should have gotten him when I had the chance, I should have told him-"

She grabbed my arm. "John, it's not your fault. I understand." Her eyes looked pleading, she felt bad for me. She had an enormous crush on Sherlock, she knew how I felt, possibly more. And yet she was trying to comfort me, sympathize with me, make me feel better, when I never even bothered to offer words of comfort to her, yet alone mutter a simple "hello".

I was selfish, I was angry that he betrayed me for this ridiculous woman he had just met, for Christ's sake. And here Molly was, absolutely crushed by this man she liked who treated her like an ass.

I wasn't going to do the same.

I cleared my throat and shook my head. "I'm sorry, I'm being selfish. Let's just-talk."

She nodded and started to chatter with me about the news and the terrible weather lately. I looked out the window for most of the time, picturing how much fun Sherlock was probably having with his date.

Two hours later, he still wasn't home.

They were probably still on the date. Maybe they had gone to her flat, chatted a bit, had a few drinks and gotten a little tipsy. He could be undressing her, kissing her neck, feeling her all over and she was getting a taste of that slender, pale body-

I flipped over the table next to the couch and pushed my mug off of the kitchen counter, watching as it hit the floor in slow motion and shattered into a thousand pieces. It sat there on the wooden pave, lonely and broken and needing someone to come put it back together again.

I clenched my fists to my side and hurled out a series of curses and statements that I would not like to repeat. I was just so angry, and I didn't know why.

Maybe he was inside of her, maybe she was sucking his cock, him moaning and coursing his fingers through her hair. He was so happy, so excited to be involved with such a person. He treats me like shit, insulting me and constantly buggering me, yet he's so friendly and warm towards this woman he barely knows.

I knew it wasn't true, I knew he cared for me more than he showed. But I didn't want to admit it, I wanted to be the victim. I wanted to be the person that everyone felt pity for, the "winner" in the contest of who was better, who was less of a jerk in the relationship.

But it was all my fault, all of it. I pushed him aside and saw other women, leaving him alone in the flat to tend to himself. I was too late, he had already accepted the fact that I could never love him and he moved on, like a normal human being.

It was all my fault for him leaving, I should have told him before he met her, kissed him as his eyes widened, but eventually giving in and softly opening his mouth to mine. I should have wrapped my arms around his neck, sang to him, listened to his bloody violin playing at 3 in the morning.

I had expected him to stay. I thought he would be the one waiting for me, arms constantly open, a hopeful expression on his face until I finally gave in and embraced him.

I had underestimated him, and that is why it hurts so much.

I had expected him to be less than human.

He came home an hour after the incident. "John, what's with the mug?" He looked over onto the floor, a bit angry.

I shook my head. "Sorry, it was an accident. I'll clean it up." I sulked over to the closet and took a broom out, sauntering back to clean up the mess on the floor. He watched my figure sweep the broken shards of the mug into the dustpan, a crumble of the stories that the small object held within it.

He grumbled, and I looked up. "Oh, yeah. How was your date?" I asked, a bit crudely.

He raised an eyebrow. "Wonderful, very intriguing woman. She plays the cello, apparently a concert player." He flopped himself down in his chair, obviously tired.

I chuckled nervously and put the remains of the mug in the trash and sat on the chair opposite him. "So, did you two do... anything?" I asked, rudely.

He looked a bit angry. "Why do you need to know my personal involvement with her?"

"Well, I was just asking. It's just interesting to see you interact with a person this way. You seem very interested in her." I looked down at the table, holding my hands together.

He scowled. "What, you don't think I'm capable of basic human emotions?"

"Well, you never have shown interest in someone as much as you have showed towards this woman. I didn't think-"

He stood up in front of me. "What, you don't believe I'm capable of showing love and affection towards someone? That's I'm what, a machine, an object to you?"

I was shocked, and found myself almost unable to say anything. "Sherlock, you even said you're not one for basic emotions, for something as trivial as love." I stood up to face him, hands on my hips.

He moved his head towards the wall, a terrifying look on his face. "You don't see, John. I thought YOU were the only person capable of understanding that I am human, I can feel things." I could hear his voice crack, as he was trying to compose himself. "You were the only person who knew, I thought you were."

I stood there, defenseless, trying to form a sentence that could express how I felt, but the words felt jumbled on my tongue and didn't make any sense. I wanted to kiss him, to run my fingers through his hair and reassure him that I did care for him, I did love him.

He lowered his hands, and looked broken into a million pieces. "You're just like the rest of them, you don't care. Why did I ever think you would?"

I grabbed his hand as he started to turn away. "That's a lie."

He snarled. "When have you ever shown that you care for me, John? Julia treats me like a human being, doesn't make rude comments or pester me, she respects me-"

I shook my head. "Sherlock, I do care, more than you know."

He pulled his hand back. "I can see everything, John. I don't see any emotion you show towards me."

"You don't see, Sherlock. You can't see what's right in front of you."

His gaze softened a bit, and he narrowed his eyes. "John-"

"For Christ's sake, Sherlock, I'm sorry. I should have told you earlier."

"How lo-"

"Longer than I'd like to admit." I gulped.

"John, I thought-"

"I'm sorry, forgive me. It's all my fault, I expected you to wait for me."

He unclenched his fingers and they hung loosely at his side. "I had no idea, John. If I had known, if I had been able to see it, I would have waited for so long."

I said nothing and we gazed into each others' eyes for what seemed like hours, although it was only a few seconds.

"It took me a while-"

"I would imagine so."

"Are we just going to stand here, or..."

He raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Isn't it custom for the one who just confessed to do so?"

I smiled and chuckled. "Cliche," I said, as I pressed my lips on his and wrapped my arms around him.