Decapitation. Death seemingly instantaneously. In reality, fifteen to twenty seconds before consciousness actually fades. Yes. There we go. Alibi, suspect's alibi; compare? No, not as airtight as the jury had made it out to be.

Text Lestrade. Clueless bastard. But necessary. Gives me cases. Need those. Need them like air and also—

Door, opening downstairs. Momentarily tense; client? No, clients ring bells, and besides, I know those feet, the plodding of those trainers. Know them well. Know how the weight of the feet inside them is distributed (simple matter of checking the inside of shoes, a few for an accurate study).

And there he is, through the door, the door to 221B. Tossing a Union Jack pillow across the room. Hits me in the head. Toss it back, he laughs and steps out of his shoes. Socks; one has a hole. Look at him, Sherlock, look him up and down.

Lunch with coffee, probably burger. Low-quality. Giving him indigestion. Happens sometimes. Could make him Alka-Seltzer. Remember Alka-Seltzer is on other side of room. Reject idea but save as a note for later.

Jumper. New one. Factory-made but artfully made to look by hand. Bad replica, but he must like it.

Old jeans, hole at the knee. Not gone to work at all today.

Piece of paper, clutched in fist…

Woman's handwriting.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh.

Turn back to microscope. Have already analyzed this thrice. Sperm. Obviously. Text Lestrade again; can't be the sister of the bride, they don't tend to utilize semen. But for now look again and again and again and again and again and he's turned away now, safe to look up.

"I'm going out tonight."

Out. Oh-you-tee, fuera, aus, dehors, parlez vous francais? Non. Non. Non.

"Oh?"

"Mm-hmm." Kettle. Boiling. Should probably go fetch it. Honestly couldn't care less. Thinking. No tea, no anything. Will possibly have shot glass of water at midnight. Sometimes helps me think. Don't want tea.

"Tea?"

"Sure."

Oh.

Hustle. Rustle. Don't look up; burn on table. Looks like tube line from Victoria to Piccadilly. Focus on that. Don't look up. Don't speak; don't even breathe, breathing's boring, breathing's trivial.

"Here."

"Thank you."

Don't look up Sherl—oh. Tilted-eyebrow-washed-face-combed-hair-looking-forward-to-date-oh.

Tea. Drink? No. Expectant look. Yes.

Good tea; he always makes the best.

"What time?" Ask him things, keep him interested, else he'll leave. Do I want him to leave? Yesnomaybe.

"Pardon?"

"Are you going out, what time are you going out?" Oh. So painfully oblivious. Should hate him. Should think he's worthless. Don't, though. Whoops.

"Meeting her at half eight."

"Where?"

"Cinema."

"Dull."

Dull, lusterless, lackluster, lacklust, lack, lust, lust, lust? Dull.

"Not every date I go on can be as exciting as the ones you set up, Sherlock."Exciting. Anagrammed, letters pulled out: Exit. Cite. Tix; colloquialism for tickets, tickets, what film will they see tonight? Risk one look, Sherlock; ah, yes, the new one with the purple men, he'd been wanting to see that for a while. Wish I could say I'd take him. Wouldn't. Hate cinemas. They throw me out.

"Have a bloody great time, then." Voice; bit too sharp. One octave up. Oh. Ah, no. Stop that. He looks hurt; I've upset him. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Force voice to normalcy (boring). "I mean it."

"You don't."

Sees through me. Always. Seen through me since day one. Help. Sliding down something strange.

Experiment; congealed in its petri dish. Distracted, Sherlock. Won't do. Can't solve anything like this. Distract, extract, contact, bladvak, no, stop rhyming, that's primary school. Delete history of rhyming poetry later. Has not once helped. Thought it might; was obviously wrong. Rare. Twenty-five percent chance you'll get salmonella if you order rare meat at a certain restaurant near the heart of London. Don't know why I know this. Consider deletion. Note.

"Going to change." Consider possible interpretations of word "change." Like some of them better than others. List out nouns and adverbs in French in a whisper, along with definitions. Another pillow, aimed at my head. Toss it back; his hair rumples. Oh, oh, oh.

Don't say anything. Think that if I try, the wrong words will fall out. Right words? No, wrong. Wrong, right, wrongright wright rong.

Time. Passes? Probably. Don't know. Don't care. Footsteps, shuffling back to the kitchen. Wearing his good shoes, the dress ones. Black. Leather. Hair nice. Good shirt. Hate him. Hate every fiber and every skin cell he sheds on my bloody desk when he sits there, which is often. Except for…don't, actually. Can't.

Stab. Flare. Supernova. What on earth is this? Stare at own stomach. Diagnose possible conditions, rule each of them out just as quickly. Conclusion. Oh.

"Don't stay up all night, yeah?" Hand, claps me on shoulder. Start. Not expecting touch. Also not expecting stab-flare-supernova-oh-oh-oh.

Lips. Played up in a smile. Waiting for response. Must I give one? Seems I must. Lips. Oh. Distracted, Sherlock, won't do. Cease and desist.

"No promises." Promises.

Feet, stairs. Door open, closed.

Play violin; sounds come out wrong, all wrong, flats too flat and sharps too flat as well and naturals too bloody unnatural (oh). Put it away. Useless tonight. Consider cutting up the sofa to find out the color of the foam inside; have fantasized about doing this for quite some time. He would kill me if I destroyed it. Might do it anyway. Name of the game: spite. Yes, oh.

Think. Possible scenarios. Good date, bad date. Possible name for game show. File away. Could be useful; can't see how. Never know. Filed. Bad date, he'll get down the biscuit packets and watch telly. Go to bed early. Good date, varies. Depends on how good.

Could not come back at all.

No, Sherlock.

Lips; his. Consider them. Memorize them, Sherlock. Feel temples beginning to hurt. Consider getting aspirin. It's a good ten-meter walk. Decide against it.

Stab, stab, stab of pain. Not expecting reaction like this; catalogue it, Sherlock, analyze. Smell theoreticals. Push away, get out out out. Grasp at sides of head. Trivial motion, will not help, and yet I do it anyway.

Wait up? Could sit right here until he gets home. Suddenly restless. What is he doing? Film: crap, decent, wonderful-amazing (oh; a big one, the first one, in fact)? Company: good, bad, ugly? Lacing fingers together? Sitting in the back or front? He likes the back. Will probably sway to her will if the issue arises. Gentleman. Fuck you, fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou.

Rewind. Scratch that; record scratch, cat scratch fever. Anagram? Letters, not rearranging, Sherlock. Nohj-hojn-onhj-these-don't-even-make-sense (oh).

Sleep. Go to sleep.

Can't afford to see his expression; itchy crawly feeling on my skin. Don't want to watch him come in the door. Don't want to see. Schrodinger's cat, remember, Sherlock? The observer determines the outcome?

Dead-cat, live-cat, good date, bad date.

Sleep. Sleep is easier. But first…

Enjoying yourself? –SH

Don't wait for an answer, don't wait for anything, Sherlock.

Sleep now; less pathetic. Dead cat? Alive cat? Somewhere-in-between-cat? Lucky-cat, fuck-me-cat, play-me-a-song-cat, leave-and-never-come-back cat?

Stab. Wonderfulamazingfantastic.

Oh.