My Human Heart.

Disclaimer: not mine: Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss, you brilliant writers..

Jim Moriarty: "I will burn the heart out of you."
Sherlock: "I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."
Jim Moriarty: "Oh, but we both know that's not quite true."

Sherlock on John: A drabble

And run my hands through your hair and stroke your neck and your cheek and tell you all these things which are illogical and utterly bloody pointless. But these pointless and assonine emotions won't go away, just like you won't go away and now I'm stuck in the void between friendship and something more and it is a void because I don't usually feel. I don't feel. I am married to my work; work stops me from being bored, being mundane, like you, and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade and bloody Anderson.

I contradict myself time and time again because... You're here, and you think I'm strange but you admire me, I see it in your eyes, the way you look at me like I am a genius, when to me its simple deduction. I could deduce what you had for breakfast, where and when you bought that shirt your wearing and whether you had sex with your girlfriend last night.. I can't know .

To me it has holds no interest. I could, but I don't want to. It strange it has never happened to me before, seeing the door and never passing through. Ignorance I always deemed to be childish, pointless and demeaning, knowing is far more superior.

A myriad of feelings go much deeper than: I find you attractive or 'hot' or 'shag-able' or whatever the mindless mass calls sexual attraction. In my superior way of thinking it is probably more romantic, to love someone, if I am going to use that word, for their personality, their actions and your relationship with them.

Instead basing love on pheromones and chemical reactions, which may occur within me, is common and mostly fleeting. I am infuriated by the whole paradox of this situation. I love you the heart, not your the body, not that I am of course repulsed by John's body, no not at all.

I am me, a person with superior intellect which surpasses most bodily desires, but embodies human emotions. So I wish to hold you John Watson and never let you go, I wish to be able to love you with everything my cold mind possesses.

Again, I might, I'm sure it would be pleasing. I want to kiss you Doctor John Watson and comfort you when you have those night terrors that we never speak of. So please don't look at me like that and please don't see me as nothing more than a man.

Because as much as I wish to be different, I am only human, thus I must listen to you drone on about you mundane idiotic life and be strangely and irrevocably pleased to see you in the morning. I must listen to 'Sarah', who I only slightly detest, as she does seem to be more intelligent than the average Anderson.

I wish to shut my ears to your happy phone calls, close my eyes to the happy texts. For Sarah has my heart - Damn you John Watson for giving me you, a heart for Sherlock Holmes. So please 'shut up', because I cannot say what I want to…