He said the words hello and goodbye within two minutes of each other when he met you and in between he drew your eye, piqued your interest, summed up your life and cut you dead.
In black and white he glowed amongst the matte of the lab and you couldn't look away. Even then, you couldn't have stopped yourself from following him to 221b Baker Street, wherever that might be, whatever that might entail.
He said hello. You said hello and the landlady said hello. He said, "Make yourself at home," and then he said goodbye.
And then he said, "Want to see some more?" And you said hello.
In the riot of the room, in the puzzlement of the chase, through the sites and sounds of London, you couldn't not follow. You said, "Amazing," and "Extraordinary," and for once he seemed a loss for words.
She said, "Hello, Freak," and somehow he never got around to saying goodbye, just left you there.
In a warehouse, in a London you never knew existed, you didn't say hello, but you certainly said goodbye. Because he texted hello. Because despite his not saying goodbye, you couldn't seem to say goodbye to him.
He is insufferable. He is beautiful. He scares you. He fascinates you.
He makes you text hello to a serial killer. He says goodbye and come with me and you do, despite the pain in your leg that he tells you isn't real.
He says he doesn't do hellos, no time, no time, not important. It's the strangest conversation you've ever had.
You run through that other London, the one you never knew existed. It's the most amazing thing you've ever experienced.
Somewhere in there you've said goodbye to that pain in your leg.
There are police and it's almost surreal, all spinning wheels, flying insults and in between, brilliance. You couldn't not follow him now if you tried. If your very life depended on it.
He doesn't say goodbye again.
But you follow again.
After, he says hello, properly this time, and almost thank you.
He continues to be insufferable. You continue to be fascinated even though you don't want to be.
There are more non-hellos and even more non-goodbyes. And non-do-you-need-help-with-that-or-anythings.
You try to go back to a normal life, one with dates and jobs and other boring things. He doesn't let you. You know you don't really want him to.
Someone else says hello, and for a while you don't even realize it. More dangerously, neither does he.
When he says he'll get milk and beans you don't realize he's saying goodbye.
You're willing to say goodbye to everything for him. For the second time you have rendered him nearly speechless.
There is a moment where you say goodbye to one another without saying a thing.
In the deafening noise, the searing pain in your lungs, the edge-of-unbearable fear, you still think of him. There's someone digging through the rubble. There's a breath on your face. There are lips pressing against yours. Am I dead, you think. Is he saying goodbye?
"Hello," he whispers against your lips, "I don't think we've met. I'm Sherlock Holmes."