"Sherlock?" I tap the glass door a few more times, then sigh and slide the door open myself. Stepping carefully over threshold of the Holmes' basement, I call out for Sherlock one more time, not really expecting a response.
I creep to the back of the basement, where Sherlock has converted extra storage space into a workspace. Actually, he's taken to sleeping on the floor there, so I guess it's his bedroom as well. I open his bedroom door without knocking, sure at this point that it would be futile anyway.
Sure enough, he is standing there, with nothing at all blocking his ears. He isn't even doing anything – just standing in the dead center of the room with one hand on his hip and the other in his hair. Completely motionless, but for his eyes, which are twitching back and forth. He looks, I realize, like people do when watching especially compelling television, except that he's looking at a blank wall. Even when I slam the door behind me – perhaps more aggressively than necessary – Sherlock only drops both arms down to his sides and sighs with an alarming passion. He turns slowly.
"Molly?"
I laugh, not sure whether I am actually amused or just exasperated to the point of humor. "I told you I was coming."
He glances around, suddenly launching himself towards the sagging armchair in the corner. Leaning against the door, I watch him dig his phone out from beneath the cushions and then scroll through what are presumably my text messages. "Oh," he says, "right, sorry."
I only nod, even though I know he isn't looking. He's busy settling himself down in the armchair, and only once he's finished checking whatever else he missed on his phone, does he look back up at me. Sherlock gestures for me to sit – not that there are any other chairs in the room. Nevertheless, I settle myself down in the heap of blankets in the center of the room, where he sleeps.
By the time I've gotten comfortable, he's exchanged his phone for his laptop, which he now leans over with his eyebrows drawn together.
"Sherlock, I wanted to talk."
"Yes, you said." As he types, his mouth stretches into a tiny grin, and then falls instantly back into his usual scowl.
"About John."
Sherlock runs a hand through his curls, shaking them for a moment before he looks up at me.
"Who?"
"John, you know, John Watson." He stares at me, blinking slowly.
I let my head fall sideways against the wall. Of course he doesn't remember. As Sherlock constantly reminds me, he only has room in his mind for important things.
"The new boy. The one I like."
"Ah," he says, though I'm not convinced at all that he remembers. He purses his lips, looking almost wistfully at his computer screen. I hold his eyes with a penetrating stare, forcing him to speak. He shifts uncomfortably. "Why are you doing that again?"
"What?"
"The…" Sherlock waves his long fingers desperately in front of him, "liking someone thing." He spreads his hands apart slowly, wiggling his fingers as if he's trying to cast a spell.
"It's not a choice."
To his credit, Sherlock seems to sincerely struggle for three whole seconds to keep his mouth shut. But because he's Sherlock, he fails. "Of course it's a choice," he blurts out. "To enjoy someone's presence, no, but to imagine and attempt to attain a romantic partnership with someone, certainly. And with what happened last time, and the time before, I would think you'd maybe… reconsider." He trails off, glancing nervously down at me. I've stormed out on him for less, but I supposed you can get used to any level of pretension eventually. Besides, it's not like I have anyone else to talk to. Sherlock's not my first choice to talk to about John, but he's my only choice.
"Unlike you, I am but an average human being, powerless to see through the emotional veil that clouds my perception," I mutter sarcastically.
Sherlock nods seriously, and leans forward to pat my shoulder in an awkward attempt at comfort.
"Joke, Sherlock." I smack his hand away and roll my eyes. But I find myself smiling when I catch his eye. He's struggling through the last few moments between us, I can tell, trying to figure out what the joke was and why it was funny. Too late, he smirks at the joke he doesn't understand, which makes me fall against his knee laughing.
He reaches down and, in what seems to be an attempt at comfort, taps my head lightly twice. I laugh harder, struggling to hold myself together. I turn so that I am kneeling in front of him. I take his hand in mine.
"Sherlock," I say, "you're hopeless. But I am going to need your help with John."
He nods down at me, slowly, deep in thought. "John…."
I wait.
"Watson?"
"Precisely."