It was nothing special. An absolutely ordinary day. Especially if you were to gauge it by considering my compatriot's countenance.
Nary even an eyelash was batted by one Sherlock Holmes, even as he and I hurried through streets cramped with retail outlets, each one a chintzy façade, bursting with hearts, flowers, and the other paraphernalia so appropriated to the capitalist-created 'holiday' of Valentine's Day.
As pseudo-romantic as it all was, still, something inside me craved for Holmes to acknowledge it somehow, even so little as a disparaging remark about what a lot of commercial, sentimental tosh it was.
But nothing.
It was as though Sherlock Holmes saw nothing extraordinary of retailers plying such superfluous amounts of over-priced fancy chocolates, or cuddly animal toys declaring amorous messages, and the like. I suppose he simply did not take notice, as this detail of the day was of no consequence, hot on the tail (as we were) of our current conundrum-cum-investigation.
But I noticed. Unfortunately. Indeed, I could not help myself.
The day carried on nonetheless, without regard for the errant pangs originating somewhere within my depths, a longing of sorts, for the opportunity to organically arise in which I might deduce my feelings for Sherlock aloud, with the expert himself. My fear of rebuke and unrequite had thus far kept my silence, but a silly hope that my companion might broach the subject of his own volition (and, more hopefully, of his own desire) stayed me to my post, at Holmes' side.
The irony of the day was most apparent when, by chance, our investigations led us to a brothel in the heart of London. Not that I coveted Sherlock's company foremost for carnal considerations... No, but the mind can wander quite frightfully some nights...
At any rate, there we were, in a den of carnal knowledge, on this insipidly celebratory day of 'love', and Holmes had no knowledge - or wisdom - himself, about my thoughts of him.
But the man is a detective, not a mind reader - I remind myself.
Though, to be forthright, if he was of clairvoyant pedigree, I'm not certain that that would foster any improvement to the situation. Although he might then be able to elucidate my own thoughts for me, it is also possible he would disapprove of what bare truths he might uncover. Ah...
Ah, but back to the brothel.
Sherlock was not satisfied by the place - in an investigative sense. And he declined the proprietor's contact card as we left, again foiling for me the natural means to segue into some semblance of a conversation (no matter how crass or awkward) about Sherlock's proclivity and/or preferences of a passionate persuasion.
But it was not to be, and so we carried on for the remainder of the day, in pursuit of enlightenment (albeit each of us to different ends). And it was not until nigh on dusk that we finally abandoned our search, and succumbed to our dejection that no victory was in sight this day.
"Well..." Sherlock said, as we reached the foyer to my flat. "Goodnight."
I ascended only the first step to the entrance. "Yes, goodnight..." I said, hesitating.
Surely, this must be the moment. Or else it could be that a thousand more moments pass by, and to what avail? Have you not survived skirmishes, and pain, and countless other complications in life, so-
"What is it?" Sherlock asked.
"Hm?" I replied, suddenly in a faltering panic.
"My dear Watson, there is something you wish to say, I'm sure of it." He looked at me expectantly.
"Ah," I said, swallowing. "Ah, yes. Would..." I cleared my throat. "...Would you..."
I'm certain I had rehearsed this in my imaginings a hundred times over, but it was vastly harder now, with my heart throbbing in my chest.
"...liketocomeupforacupoftea?" was all I could manage.
"Hm," Sherlock said, now studying me quite intently and curiously.
As the moment lingered to the point where I believed I might just faint from having my breath held too long, Sherlock replied, as though pulling his decision deductively from the evening air, "Yes."
"I would love to." He added.