Disclaimer: This small ficlet is again inspired by the fabulous art of 'thebritishteapot' on tumblr, in particular, this one: .com/post/19088181949/love-is-chemistry

LOVE IS CHEMISTRY

I've been re-reading this stupid fantasy book for over a week now. That's outrageous. I totally understand that Mummy doesn't have enough money to buy us new books every now and then, but how is it that she always buys books for Mycroft and not for me? I mean – they think I'm too young or what? Or too smart for reading? Probably. That's it. Mycroft is way more stupid than me.

Pfff... I hate these fantasy books of his. I prefer the detective stories – although, they are too predictable and I know the end... on the second page already. Though, this girl who rarely comes to the kindergarten – I believe her mother is not well at all – told me that the detective stories are her favourite ones too. Clever girl. She likes detectives. She once told me she likes me cause I am a real detective. Irene, I think, was here name.

Anyways. Boring. Boring... Booooring.

'I'm so bored... Nothing interesting here.'

Did I actually say that out loud? Never mind. There's no one around to hear me. No one cares.

'Think, Sherlock!'

This Irene girl told me that something about the brain was good; that thinking was appealing. Ah, yes – 'brainy is the new sexy,' she said. Well, thank you, I'm brainy all the time. And no one has ever told me I'm... well, sexy.

'You need some distraction, Sherlock...'

I sigh. No one around; no more detective books to read... Mummy has thrown away all my instruments for future experiments – and that's just because I've put the neighbour's cat on fire. It was an experiment! Besides, the cat was too old to last even till the next month.

'Some excitement...'

Even John is not around. His parents took him to their posh villa outside London. He is ok – his family have some money to buy him all the stupid guns and soldier trinkets he wants. Mine don't. That's why I'm reading these cheap and idiotic fantasy novels. Blah.

'I need some satisfaction, definitely. Let's think... Satisfaction – scientifically speaking – is caused by the dopamine.'

So far so good, Sherlock. Bravo! And now what? Where would you take this dopamine from?

'If I were an adult... I would try smoking...'

Is it good, actually? Mummy is always coughing when she's having a cigarette. Though, her lame friends like it – it's always too cloudy and smoky in the room they have their meetings in.

'But I can't smoke... I'm just seven. I'll try it one day, probably...'

Right. Next option? Drugs?

'Drugs are expensive and... well, kinda illegal.'

Blah. Not a solution here. Next?

Think, think, think. What do adults actually enjoy? Smoking? Already checked – not working. Drugs neither. Drinking? Well... Mummy drinks occasionally. But she has always been telling Mycroft and me that out Daddy died of cirrhosis, so... it won't work. Plus, I've seen Mummy being first aggressive and then extremely sick at heart, after taking just a sip of whisky. I won't drink. Ever.

Well... Smoking, drugs, drinking... Sex? Is it sex? I've heard one of Mom's friends complaining about her lack of sex-life with her husband. No idea what's that all about but Ma and all the other women in the room started 'aw'-ing at her sympathetically. So, I presume, it's a big deal not to be satisfied... sexually.

'Well... I don't have any clear ideas about sex...'

Nothing. My head is completely empty.

I hate sleeping but I should try it, probably – it's the only thing that can make the hours till John's arrival at my house go faster... Right. Just sleep, Sher-...

'Hi, Sherlock!'

I've fallen asleep! It's 5p.m. already! John is here!

Though... I'm still extremely bored. I want to die. I feel so useless right now – a complete waste of my mother's uterus.

'How are you? Are you still bored?'

No, I'm absolutely fine. Well, of course I'm bored! Do something! Humour me!

Silence. Awkward silence.

'I need do-pa-mine.'

Silence again.

'Dopamine?'

'Yes, dopamine. I need it. Didn't you hear me?'

'I always hear you when you say you need something but it's usually a subtext. Are you hungry or something?'

Hungry? Me? Food is bor-... Oh... Oh! Oh, wait! I've read somewhere – it must have been in Mummy's magazines – that dopamine and thus, satisfaction, can be transmitted by a kiss...

'You seem to have a lot of dopamine, John!'

I stand up and kick the stupid book away. I don't know what a kiss is but I've seen some pictures in the magazine and I've seen some of the dull soap operas Ma is watching every single afternoon. They are making an odd 'mwah' sound while pressing their lips against each other's. It's... It's not that hard, isn't? I can try that. I wonder if it'd work, though. But I'm desperate for my dopamine – otherwise, I would die out of boredom, I swear.

'Give me some dopamine, John! I need some. Get me some. Give me some. Please!' no answer, 'Please!'

I've never begged in my life. Now I'm doing that. Twice. The Irene girl has mentioned that... I don't remember what her precise words were, though. Doesn't matter. I need my dopamine. Now! Hurry up, John!

'Would you?'

'Oh, well... How exactly?'

I don't know how to explain it, really. Just say 'yes', please...

'If you really, really need it, I-...'

Oh, shut up, stupid John!

Aaaaaaah, mwaaaaaaaah! Was it too loud? Wait! Am I still with my lips pressed on his? Is he-... Oh, God, his face is pink! He is blushing! Ohhhh... I feel myself blushing as well! B-... but... my lips are still over his. I quite like that, actually. I can feel my hear bumping – it'll rip off of my chest. Right. This is then the story of how I die. Goodbye, John.

I stop it. He stares at me. He is not pink any longer – he is tomato red. I wonder how red I am at this precise moment. But at least I'm not dead. Phew. I think my head is spinning around now. Ah... I know what happened – I've just taken an over-dose of dopamine. Right. That's it.

'Uhm... Sherlock?'

'Yes, John?'

I cough. Why does my voice sound so... soft?

'Do you think... May I have my dopamine back now, Sherlock? I feel a bit uneasy...'

'Is your head spinning, John?'

'Yes.'

'Is your heart beating very fast, John?'

'Yes, Sherlock, it is.'

Mrs Watson enters the room to tell John it's time to go home. She is watching this stupid telly drama at 6p.m. too.

'Mummy, what do two people feel when their lips touch?' John holds up his dark-blue eyes at his mother. She smiles, stroking both our heads. I hate it when someone does this to me. I'm not a pet or anything, for God's sake! Stop it!

'They feel their hearts beating really fast, Johnny. And their whole world starts spinning and spinning around – their heads are in something like a blur. Why do you ask?'

'And why is that?' John hesitates answering her question.

Silence. John cleared his throat, thinking about an excuse for being that unusually curious.

'It's one of Sherlock's experiments – he is researching the characteristics of dopamine.'

'Ah, I see. Well, dopamine has nothing to do with a kiss. It's love.'

I've heard this word before but don't know what exactly it does mean.

'And love, dear children,' Mrs Watson takes John's hand, 'is chemistry.'

John is looking at me and he sees I'm looking at him too; he tilts his head aside, chuckling a bit. He then stops at the door while Mrs Watson is talking to Ma.

'Sherlock?'

'Yes, John?'

'Promise me that from now on you won't do any chemistry experiments without me.'

I smile. I can still feel the redness all over my face. I see it on John's as well.

'I promise, John. I'll be lost without my dopamine-provider.'

He chuckles and the door is slammed. I'm alone again. But not bored. No. I think I'm hyper-enthusiastic now. I may even re-read one of Mycroft stories. It's not such a bad idea, actually.