"If music be the food of love, play on
Give me excess of it; that surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die."
- William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night
SHERLOCK HOLMES
When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains is the truth.
That is the rule Sherlock lives by. For it does not do to make assumptions about any aspect of life. It is almost a guaranteed law of nature that one who does make assumptions, ultimately makes an ass out of themselves, like that blithering idiot Anderson. Sherlock is sometimes astonished that an organism with such idiocy as Anderson can function in everyday life. Really, he would expect the best of the best on the police department to be more like John. John is quite brilliant, even though his immediate exterior suggests a rather average intelligence and bland personality.
Sherlock shakes himself. This is the problem.
For the past four weeks and three days, Sherlock has been feeling... strange.
When Sherlock looks at John, he gets a swooshing feeling in his stomach. Sherlock had first hypothosized that the N-alkane-5-hydroxytryptamide he had been experimenting with may have caused him to secrete more stomach acid than usual, irritating his stomach. However, when the feeling persisted, Sherlock decided that it was not the tryptamide, but rather something pertaining to John's presence.
Similarly, when Sherlock talks to John, he sometimes feels as though his heart is constricting in an abnormal way. Sherlock was initially worried and thought he might be having heart attacks. However, when the feeling continued whenever he talked to John, he determined that, yet again, there was not something wrong with his body, but rather something that happened within his body when around John.
When Sherlock found that his thoughts too often drifted to John, he was disturbed. The first cause that came to mind was some type of brain tumor that caused him to fixate on a subject more than usual, and the brain tumor might also explain his stomach and heart problems. However, Sherlock soon realized that he did not have a brain tumor when he tricked his way into getting his brain scanned at the hospital. His brain was wrinkly and wholesome, no tumors in sight.
Sherlock then turned to the only other possible explanation. He might be possibly experiencing a common human aliment that involved the neurochemicals dopamine, oxytocin, estrogen and testosterone. Normal people referred to it as love.
"Problem?" John asks, breaking Sherlock out of his thoughts.
Sherlock takes in John's haggard face and thin lips. "I might as well ask you the same question."
John sighs. "She dumped me. As usual. Says she doesn't want to have a boyfriend who would rather spend time with his insane flatmate that with her."
Sherlock sniffs and continues playing his violin, looking away from John. He would be happy if no girl asked John out ever again, but unfortunately, it cannot be denied that John was attractive. John's strong arms, kind eyes, and adorable eyebrows made an extraordinarily charming male. Sherlock mentally chastises himself; he cannot believe he thought the word 'adorable'. What was he becoming? And anyways, John was not adorable. Hidden behind a layer of atrocious jumpers, is a muscular body. Sherlock licks his lips.
"Sherlock. Are we still going to that party put on by the Scotland Yard? I could do with a bit of fun after this god awful day."
Sherlock's face flushes as John looks into his eyes. Goddamnit. Sherlock does not have a crush like a middle school girl. He does not become infatuated with others, does not feel sexual attraction, and is most definitely not in love with his straighter-than-a-ruler flatmate.
Sherlock shrugs. "If we must," he replys and turns his back to John to look out the window
John's hand brushes Sherlock's back as John turns to trudge to his bedroom. Sherlock feels his heart hammering in his chest at the whisper of a touch.
Bugger it. There is no denying it now.
Sherlock faces the facts. He has not been poisoned by chemicals, has not had any heart attacks and does not have a brain tumor.
So the improbable remains: Sherlock Holmes, the brilliant consulting detective with a heart of liquid nitrogen is in love.
Sherlock wails away at his violin with a new found frenzy.
Sherlock remembers one of the books John made him read in one of John's moods to "enlighten" Sherlock about English culture. Sherlock would have deleted it long ago, but, well, it was John.
If music is the food of love as that bloody Quivering Bayonet person said, Sherlock thinks, then I will very well play on.
Sherlock screeches loudly on his violin. Life as he knew it was over. For Sherlock was in love.
"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." - A.C. Doyle
