"Who would want me?" She smiled in a way that didn't quite reach her eyes, using self-deprecating humour to say what she felt without being truly vulnerable. Well, that is, to anyone besides him. Her sentiment mirrored his, similar and long held. He easily saw through her façade. Looking at her, using his powers of deduction, even he couldn't figure out why she didn't see what he saw. He, who wouldn't know beauty or goodness or love if it slapped him in the face, could recognize that within her lay something rare to be treasured. To his own surprise, he wanted to reach for her, to hook her arm though his, to show her in some small way that at this moment in time she wasn't alone. But before he could figure out what made him think such uncharacteristic things, she moved ever so slightly out of his reach and asked about an update on his latest case. Feeling an internal sigh of relief and trying to delete the odd sensation that had overcome him just moments prior, he stepped back into the person he is and went on a monologue about the tediously missed clues that Geoff and Anderson overlooked the previous evening. After ten minutes strolling along and talking at her, Sherlock glanced up and noted they were at the top of Parliament Hill, overlooking the city. Her grin at this moment did overtake her eyes and the green of her irises changed from the normal dull stormy colour to that of sea foam, clear and soft and enchanting. Enchanting? How are they enchanting? Have I ever used that word before? They were like that just for an instant, so brief that any goldfish wouldn't have even noticed but enough that Sherlock again was overcome with a feeling of desire to see the change again, possibly even to be the cause of it.
"There's no city quite as lovely as London, I think" she whispered, more of a breath than anything else.
"To be sure" He replied, unsure what else to say.
"I think I'll sit and watch the sunset, Sherlock. You can head back to the flat, I'm sure you have things to do and I've taken enough of your time." Her voice was peaceful, as if she wouldn't mind his absence, but not in the normal way people inferred as if it would be a joy for him to leave.
"Why do people do that? It's just the Earth's rotation causing the daily disappearance of the sun below the western horizon. What's the draw?" He made no move to walk on. She turned to face him and he felt an odd thickening of the air between him. He'd never felt this sensation and it unnerved him.
"Oh, Sherlock. Sometimes I wish I could see the world through your eyes, or be a fly on the wall of your brain. You observe so much but can't allow yourself to just see. The colours are beautiful. It's a simple pleasure. I wish you would allow yourself simple pleasures, or any pleasure at all." He gazed over London's skyline, starting to twinkle amidst the dimming sky. He desperately wished John were there to say something, anything. John possessed the ease to talk with women as well as Sherlock possessed the ability to read a person's whole life in a glance and in that moment, he found himself wishing to switch their respective talents. He wondered what she meant by wishing he would allow himself some pleasure. John frequently indulged in, or certainly spent a lot of time attempting to indulge in, pleasures of a certain nature with various women. Was that the type she meant?
"Stop rooting around in that Mind Palace for something to say. I don't expect you to understand." He didn't dare look at her; he didn't want to see in her eyes that she though he was a freak, like everyone else did. A moment later he glanced over and saw her looked at him with a half smile and no sliver of disgust, anger or even pity peering back at him. She turned back to look at the sunset and he did the same, noting from the corner of his eye that her hand ever so slightly moved towards his, then, unnoticeable to an untrained eye, she nonchalantly tapped it on her leg as if to hide the sudden movement.
The darkness of the evening descended and he didn't feel moved by the fading colours as she did but perhaps more telling, Sherlock WANTED to feel moved by them, just to have some common ground with her. He knew that in a moment she would turn and they would continue down the Heath, into a cab and back to 221B. With John, Mrs. Hudson, and everyone else around, who knows when or even if they'd have another time where she would be so open with him and that he would want to want to be open with her.
"Iris, I…I liked, or I would like" Sherlock stopped, repositioning his posture, and looked over her, willing himself to say something. But the thoughts which a moment ago were so clear, faded quicker than the evening light as he noticed she was already halfway down the hill. He felt like a small hidden door of his Mind Palace had opened and a young Sherlock, flanked by Redbeard, was peering around the door. Running his hands through his curls and then shaking them, the door slammed with fervor and he strode silently down the hill, his long strides easily catching up with her shorter ones.