I love to watch you dance, Sherlock.
As a master of my art, it's refreshing to see someone who demonstrates significant skill with it. Watching you thread your way through all the intricate puzzles I've given you. It's a beautiful thing. I suppose I'm in love with you, in love with that marvelous mind of yours. And what's the best part is the way your eyes light up when you're doing it - when you're solving all my little problems. It's like you're a child on Christmas morning. You simply radiate joy and excitement and pleasure. Like I've just given you the best sex of your life. Except this is better than that, isn't it? You enjoy this more. Even with Irene, who greeted your with her naked body the moment you walked in her door, all you wanted to do was play mind games.
Do you know what we're doing, Sherlock? We're playing mind games.
Except there is one problem with all of this, dearest. One snag in our happily ever after - bit of grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment. I love dancing with you, sparring with you; I love someone who can give me a challenge. I crave something interesting like this more than you can understand. I want to cross swords with you forever, but I also want to beat you.
Irene wanted to make you beg for mercy twice. She wanted to be in control of you, and you wanted to see if she could actually do it. What I want isn't so different. I want you pleading at my feet, not sure whether you're begging me to stop or keep going. I'd like you on your knees. I want you to grovel for compassion, implore me to show you leniency.
And then I want to see that brilliant spark in your eyes die when I tell you no.
But then what shall I do? I'll have beaten you, broken you, killed my love. Who shall I dance with then, Sherlock, dearheart? I suppose your brother could be my new plaything, but he's not as sexy, and his face doesn't light up when I give him a puzzle.
So it will all be over for me. I'll be alone in the world.
I suppose I'll probably shoot myself then.