Sherlock was amazed by how easy it was to break into Riley's flat. He'd assumed that someone who was so shy and physically guarded would make it hard to be intruded upon; but one quick look around the back alleyway and he'd climbed up a dumpster and in through her window. It was raining, so he was annoyed that he was now soaked, but he'd still managed his way inside and that was all that mattered. Granted, he was quite tall, so scaling the wall was perhaps easier for him than the average person; but the window wasn't locked- it was even cracked slightly, as if inviting him inside- and getting in had been all too easy.

He wasn't going to just sit idle and wait for her to get home. He was going to investigate her natural environment. He'd certainly learn more about her this way, but she'd be home in less than twenty minutes according to her university schedule. He had plenty of time to figure out her habits and in turn figure her out. And furthermore, he was going to turn this into another game.

He planned to leave small clues in her apartment- to really test her intelligence. Clues that would go unnoticed by anyone but him. And maybe her. He doubted she'd pick up on all the things he would lay out, but it offered him two solutions to his current… predicament, in regards to her: he would either dismiss her because she wasn't as intellectually stimulating as he thought, and this would cause him to be disinterested; or, she was as intelligent, and then his sudden infatuation would be justified… He knew the latter was probably true, but he wanted one last chance to deny it, and be free from the hold that she had over him…

Her place was not what he had expected from someone he thought was like him. The design was contemporary without seeming barren; it seemed… homey, almost. Very tasteful but comfortable. The color scheme was white, grey, and light lilac, with mahogany floors and furniture.

He stepped further into the living room to see where he could lay clues of his invasion. Directly across from him was the spacious kitchen; to his right, the closed door to the bedroom. He noted that the door was closed and found this very interesting. The lighting was natural from the windows. Her flat was decently sized, which he had anticipated given the luxurious neighborhood she lived in, and she obviously lived alone.

An entire wall was devoted to bookshelves, which he would investigate further in a moment, after he took in the general surroundings. The opposite wall had the small windows, one of which he'd entered through, and a plasma screen television. She had a small DVD collection that was almost strictly black and white films, and a thin layer of dust was on the remote on the table, meaning she hardly watched the television. The floors throughout the living room and small adjacent dining area were hardwood. A clean white rug covered the small living area by the large, plush couch. An organized desk was nearby, with a comfortable chair and her computer. Something else he'd investigate soon.

Everything was on a shelf, in a bin, or organized in some way. The space was immaculate. There was a small dining table with four chairs- perhaps she entertained household guests often… how odd. So she wasn't like him after all. At the center of the table was a bouquet of flowers like the one she'd pinned to her sweater; they were lilac, matching the hints of this color throughout the rest of the apartment in throw pillows and curtains. Some of the flowers looked withered; they were probably a few days old but looked to be in good condition. These flowers were obviously important to her, and something she attended to regularly. So Sherlock twisted the vase and rearranged the flowers until they looked subtlety different than they had before.

She was a neat freak; that much was obvious. The kitchen was sparkling clean, and the food in her refrigerator was organized to maximize capacity. She had an assortment of frozen chicken cutlets, two massive steaks, other frozen meats, and an array of ice cream... Ah, her one guilty pleasure amidst the otherwise healthy eating. All of her food was fresh and high-quality. He took an apple out and ate it, leaving the core in her garbage. Another clue for her to find- and probably be irritated over. He also rearranged two or three items inside to see if she'd notice. She obviously liked to cook, and if the fresh and premium quality contents of her fridge weren't enough of an indicator, she also had a shelf of massive cookbooks with small tabs sticking out to indicate potential new recipes or her favorites.

She drank a lot of coffee. There was an entire shelf in her cabinetry dedicated to coffee beans, of all sorts of exotic flavors from different countries. Sherlock left the cabinet door open a half-inch. She'd definitely notice that; it was a less subtle clue than all the others. He was being kind enough to go easy on her for at least some of the clues. She'd probably want some small victory and the more clues he laid out, the surer he was that she'd never notice any of them- and he was being ever so polite in giving her one.

The living room was most lived-in, though, and it was the only part of the space he'd so far observed that was messy in the slightest. On the couch was an unfolded throw blanket and a few disarrayed throw pillows. She spent a lot of time sitting there. What did she do here if not watch the television? Read? Probably, given the massive bookshelf. Sherlock knew she was the type that could be understood via her book collection- you could tell a lot about anyone based on what they read- so he'd go back to that later, when he'd seen everything else and wasn't preoccupied by the new sights and bits of information that swam in front of him eagerly, ready to be devoured.

Sherlock moved to her desk now. It was organized with neat stacks of papers and cups to hold her pens. He sat at the computer and tried five or six passwords that he riddled out from what he knew about her and the things she probably thought about often; he tried "Seneca," "Frost," "Scream," but none of them worked. He attributed this to the fact that she might be as intelligent as him after all, and suddenly wasn't pleased by the thought. She at least knew how to make a bloody decent password, unlike most frustration, he rearranged the books and pens on her desk, and gently shuffled the contents of the desk drawers (where he unfortunately found no personal papers- just generic housing and credit card bills). Surely she'd notice- it wasn't a clue, but more of something to drive her crazy and annoy her. Sherlock smirked at the idea of it.

He moved to the bookshelves. She had a predicable collection of psychology textbooks and collective works- three of which were written by her, but they were shoved in the corner of the shelf as though insignificant. Underneath these was an array of famous literary authors: Poe, Shakespeare, Hardy, Hemingway, Mansfield, Austen, Dickens… Sherlock found this peculiar for a psychologist such as herself. Then again, she did like art…

Another shelf held biographies of an odd array of figures, including philosophers, famous authors, psychologists, historical British figures… Half of this section was also dedicated to books about government structures from various parts of the world. Another shelf held volumes of poetry and philosophical works- he noted a collection by Seneca and took it down. It looked more used than any other philosophy books. He'd examine it in a moment. Another shelf held various volumes of mythological stories and interpretation. And most interestingly was the bottom shelf, which held an assortment of children's books, ranging from contemporary works to old volumes of fairytales. These books were more worn-in than the rest, and unlike the other shelves, they were not dusty at all. One of the volumes- the Hans Christian Andersen fairytales- was moved out an inch from the other books, as though it was important. He opened it curiously to the first page and was assaulted by the sight of her personal notes, scribbled in the margins and empty spaces of each page. He skimmed the pages; some were illustrated and her notes were written over the pictures. Each page was plastered with neatly-written, small cursive tidbits of interpretation, analysis, or personal comments. Sections were highlighted and underlined in various colored pens. She obviously had a note-taking system that was intricate. Some pages had post-it notes added on as if she had more to say.

To his surprise- or his fascination and pleasure, he couldn't quite tell- every single book was like this. He opened two or three more on each shelf to make sure. The books of poetry had analysis and interpretation scribbled all over them. Small tabs also marked her favorite passages. The fictional works were like this too. As were the biographies. The children's books, too, for God's sake. The psychology textbooks. Her own textbooks were like this. But Sherlock noted that these notes were different- they were critiques of her own thought, or extensions. They weren't as… nice as the other books. Certainly not as passionately interpreted or critiqued; no, these were cold, hard insults against herself, scribbled neatly in the margins. Passages were crossed out entirely. Paper pages were stuffed in like additions to the new chapters.

The other bookcase held several canvas bins. The first two shelves had bins labeled alphabetically; Sherlock pulled them out and found that they were detailed case files of people she'd worked with. He went to "W," for "Watson," and found that Watson's case file wasn't in there. Had she known he was coming and moved it? No, she couldn't possibly know that. They hadn't spoken since her class, when he'd tailed her, and she obviously had no idea that that happened. She shouldn't be expecting him. Maybe she kept this file at her office. Sherlock sighed in annoyance.

He moved away from the canvas bins, the Seneca book in hand. He opened it. It was scribbled in like the rest of the books. The phrase "the mind is slow to unlearn what it learnt early" was underlined at one point but Sherlock noted that it was also written in the margin of the book's front cover, which was otherwise blank (save for her name written neatly in the bottom corner).

All of his observations took a sum of five minutes before he was prepared to move into the bedroom. The door had been closed- interesting to note when considering her trauma… He was about to open the door, when-

"Ah, so today's it, huh?"

Sherlock turned abruptly. There she was, in the doorway, smiling at him.

How had she managed to sneak up on him? Nobody had ever done it before…

Her hair was wet from the rain outside. It was wavy and natural and it looked- no, it doesn't look nice. It. Looks. Better Straight. He repeated this critique rapidly in his mind but to no avail, as usual. She still looked… nice. She took off her coat and hung it neatly in the front hall. She was dressed in sleek black dress pants and a white button-up silk blouse. As usual, her clothes were tailored perfectly to her body. Her heels clicked against the hardwood floor as she moved to the living room.

She'd expected him. So she had known he was coming. She had removed Watson's file. She had beaten him again…

"Left the window open for you," Riley said with effortless ease. She'd let him break in… "Knew you'd find it. Too risky to leave the door open, obviously- don't want people stealing anything- but I figured you'd find the back way easily enough."

"How did you-"

"What, you really think I didn't see you following me home after our little classroom tango?" she said plainly. She moved towards the kitchen and opened the fridge, looking at its contents curiously.

"See you helped yourself to an apple," she added, still with an ease that made him… uneasy. "Do you want something else? I assume you'd die before you let me cook you dinner, but I was going to make some for myself, anyway. I have two steaks if you want a bit of a heavier meal."

Steak. He did remember seeing two in her fridge… Had she planned this? Their meal would be just like their dinner da- no, not a date. It. Was. Not. A. Date. She was right- he'd damn near starve himself to death before he let her offer him diner. He didn't need her help. He didn't want her cooking. And she was being so casual, so- inviting, in her home, the place that he assumed would be her private place for serenity and peace, away from the chaos of the outside world that had hurt her…

What was she doing? She kept playing him hot and cold. She pushed him out, and yet… She was offering to make dinner for him? This was all so strange to him… He regretted coming almost instantly. Maybe that was her point. Maybe this was a game she was playing- acting warm to get him to leave.

"Stop," Sherlock said.

Riley cocked her head to the side. She looked so ethereal in the kitchen light, with her damp hair and no makeup. No, he reminded himself. Stop.

"Stop what?" she asked.

"Acting so casual."

"I'm not 'acting' anything out, Sherlock."

"Yes, you are. This is… this is your private domain. Your home. And I broke in, and you just-"

"You didn't break in, I let you in."

He frowned at the painful reminder that she'd outwitted him. Riley closed the cabinet door that he'd left so slightly ajar as though she was unwilling to acknowledge that he'd done something to throw her off. She pulled out a few pans to start cooking.

"You have an odd assortment of books," Sherlock said.

"They're all for psychological work."

"Heavily annotated."

"Of course. See anything else you like?"

Sherlock looked around the apartment again. What could he possibly say to insult her? To get her back for how… casual she was being? He couldn't think of anything…

"Fairytale books are hardly psychological," was all he could come up with.

"Those are for when I did a case study on children. A lot of them feel it's easier to relate their traumas to a bedtime story they were once told, and from there I had to-"

"Tales of your work don't entertain me," he lied dryly, "especially with children."

Riley rolled her eyes- half-playfully, and half in annoyance. She then glanced over at the closed bedroom door.

"I assume you went into the bedroom, too," she said softly.

Her voice was fragile and nervous. The idea of someone being near her bed, the ultimate stigma of sexual activity, obviously bothered her, considering her trauma. Sherlock hesitated. Something about going in there now, when he was looking at her, seemed… too cruel. Could he lie about it, though, to throw her off? He decided not to respond and let her interpret that how she may.

"Right," she said simply. She put the steaks in the pan and they sizzled quietly. Sherlock was observing her carefully; she had a methodical approach to everything- she cut vegetables neatly in perfect slices. She seasoned the meat generously and flipped it over, doing the same to the other side.

"You don't use measuring cups," he said. In fact, he didn't remember seeing any in the house.

"Cooking is an-"

"Oh, don't say art," Sherlock said in annoyance, "cooking is following a recipe. You ignore the guidelines and your meal is ruined."

"And how do you think chefs come up with new recipes? Just by following older recipes?"

Damn it. As much as he hated cooking and art, he knew as a scientist that innovation came from experimenting- from not following the rules. And she was right. Again.

"Besides," she said, "I don't need a measuring cup to estimate how much of something I need. It's not that difficult to calculate in your head."

Sherlock walked closer to observe her work- and to annoy her, as he assumed hovering over her and critiquing her cooking would probably do so. When he reached the kitchen and stood a few feet away from her, she stiffened instantly- and then relaxed. She was learning not to do that around him… And he still liked the thought that she was adjusting to what he sad, like she was following his commands, and giving in to his will…

He smelled something curious as he got closer- not the smell of the food or flowers…

"You're wearing perfume," he said curiously. "You don't seem like the perfume type."

She looked over her shoulder at him. He was inching closer but she didn't tense up. It was obviously difficult for her; she wanted to run away from him- to tell him to get out. But he had no idea she felt this way because she looked perfectly relaxed. She was better at hiding it than he realized…

But he did notice the slightest flinch in her palm as he got within a three foot radius of her, and that she shuffled her feet a bit as though uncomfortable. An idea struck him suddenly. A fool-proof way to push her away by pulling her in. And her reaction would certainly be interesting. It'd tell him just how severe her trauma was, even though she had a pretty good idea already.

Sherlock reached for Riley's left wrist, which yielded no cooking utensil, and held it. She turned around to face him, staring up at him with wide, green eyes. God damn it. DAMN IT. She had expected him to do this somehow… Otherwise she would have been caught off guard. She would've flinched, or pulled away, or ran to the other room for safety… She probably would've slapped him, too…

He felt a flash of heat. Her skin was so warm and soft… She looked even more flawless up close… She was… radiating…

He'd pushed any thought of touching her out before, because he genuinely believed it never would've happened, but… here he was, holding her wrist delicately in the soft light of her kitchen, staring down at her petite frame, wanting to… to hold more than her wrist…

No. No! He felt like he was about to start shaking from holding himself back. He tried to maintain his composure but he couldn't… He couldn't resist a small smile because touching her made him feel so damn warm. She stood perfectly still. Her pupils were dilated. Her pulse was racing- he counted it as he held her wrist. But she wasn't scared… no, she was…

She felt like him.

This was all new to Sherlock, and he was learning to let himself feel it, just as Riley was unlearning how to avoid feeling… But he didn't want to.

"Don't you know you're supposed to ask for permission before you touch a woman?" Riley said darkly. Evidently, she didn't want to unlearn her physically shy habits just yet.

Sherlock's eyebrows raised automatically in surprise. She was angry now- not surprised, not shocked, not scared… She was angry that he'd tried to touch her when he obviously knew she didn't like it. Sherlock supposed most people would be, but then again, she wasn't like most people…

"I will when you stop pulling me in to make me want to pull myself away," he said.

"You've been doing the same thing," she said, "and maybe I genuinely mean it."

She looked… sad. And uncomfortable. He let her wrist go and backed up, across the kitchen and away from her. He moved towards the dining area table and sat. Her back was to him as she continued her cooking work. She was ignoring him now- their friendly banter had come to an end after his move, and she seemed like she wanted nothing to do with him.

Were all women like this? He'd swear them off if that were true. He was boiling- about to burst- with rage, frustration… attraction… interest… What was she doing? What did she want? He was reminded of why he didn't deal with emotions, or people for that matter, and why that was perfectly okay… up until he'd agreed to this stupid bet and went to dinner with her.

His fists clenched tight at his sides in frustration. She let the skillets heat up and moved to the table. She sat across from him, picking at the flower arrangement to fix it as though she knew he'd messed it up.

"Would you like some wine?" she asked. Back to being warm. He didn't understand her...

"You don't drink," Sherlock said.

"I'm offering it to you," she said, "not for me."

"No."

"So you won't be staying."

He thought about it. Something… that burning desire he couldn't ignore, but was trying so hard to get rid of… made him want to stay.

But again he said, "no," more firmly than the first time. And she frowned.

"So why did you come?"

Sherlock stared at her with his eyebrows furrowed in frustrated confusion. Surely she wasn't that aloof. He was about to say this- to accuse her of this ludacris, uncharacteristic moment of stupidity, when she said-

"I know why you're here," she said, "I mean, why did you come to scope out my flat at a time you knew I'd burst through the door at any moment?"

DAMN IT. Sherlock felt a flash of heat. She stared at him and kept fixing the flowers. She had figured out another clue and he hated her for it. He really did. He really, really hated her right now. How could she so easily pull him back and forth, between these two extremes? How did she make him hate her when she was nice but want her- or rather, want to investigate her further- when she was cold? He was about to get up to leave but something in her soft smile begged him to stay; it was obvious even in their silence. It had crept so suddenly, removing any trace of the frown that'd occupied her beautiful- no, not… not beautiful- face just a few moments ago. Stay. Her smile didn't ask. It wasn't a simple "please" attached to the request. It implored him- begged him- to stay.

So… he did.

He stared at her. And she stared back at him. She was beautiful. He reasoned that it was only logical to recognize this; her face was perfectly symmetrical, her body just the right proportions… He didn't have to be attracted to her to appreciate that she was attractive… did he?

She didn't glance away as most people would after such a prolongued gaze. Her smile didn't waver. She was just… smiling. At him.

And before he could stop himself he started to speak. He was going to burst if he kept this to himself. He was suddenly furious again. Looking at her across the table… The way she made him want her… Did she do that on purpose or was it unintentional? No, she was definitely doing it on purpose, when she knew that he wasn't capable… didn't want to… to feel attracted. He was going to explode into a thousand pieces- pieces that she apparently knew so well, and could analyze just like he could analyze anyone but her… He was furious. He said, "you are the most frustrating-"

"Careful," she interrupted gently, "frustration's an emotion. Wouldn't want to get mixed up in those."

His leg twitched and he was about to stand again to leave. Her plea to stay- that smile- was still plastered on her face. There she was. Smiling. Even when he was trying to insult her… And the urge to leave suddenly evaded him…

"You pretend you don't have a heart because you're afraid to admit that- just like anyone else- you have one, and it can be broken. Everyone breaks, Sherlock."

Her analysis had come swiftly and easily. It wasn't a statement, or an interpretation- it was a fact. They both knew it.

"Just like you did?" he asked.

"Yes. Just like I always will."

"Yeah, well, you've done the same to guard yourself," Sherlock said, "and quite well up until this point. The tip to any game is never let your opponent differentiate between a bluff and when you truly have all the cards in the palm of your hand."

"I've never pretended I couldn't feel anything. I've just made it harder to happen so I know when it's authentic. So I'm harder to break."

"Hard to get," Sherlock said. "Not hard to break."

"You have to get someone to truly break them." She paused, as though she was unsure if she should continue speaking; but in a flurry she continued to speak anyway, with hurried but precise and careful words. "Did you ever consider that I played 'hard to get' not just because i'm genuinely uncomfortable with all this, but also because I knew that not giving in so easily was the only way to keep you interested? And that keeping you interested was something I wanted?"

He contemplated this. She was playing the same game that he had been playing all along. She was just as confused- just as backwards- as he was.

She truly was just like him, except… she could feel more easily.

And she actually wanted to.

She rose from the table and turned to the kitchen. The skillets were sizzling, ready to cook; she took the meat from the fridge and gingerly put it in the skillet.

She shook her head lightheartedly from the kitchen and stared at the skillets in concentration as she spoke. "You can trick Watson, and you can trick my students, and maybe even other psychologists, but you can't fool me, Sherlock."

You can't fool me. He contemplated this. Fool her… was that what he was doing? No. He was doing this for his own benefit. Because something about letting her in… Something in the silence they shared, or in the words she'd shared… It threw him off. He could not do this and still rely on his senses. He could not be with her and still be himself…

"You were so… closed off when I first saw you," Sherlock said. "You flinched when someone got closer than you wanted-"

"I still do." She hadn't before, when he'd grabbed her wrist… did she want that?

"You played games. To figure me out, like you ever could, and-"

"I still do."

"But you didn't want me to figure you out too easily, if at all. And you were vehemently in denial that this was anything more than just a game, just as I was."

She hesitated. She obviously didn't still feel like this anymore. Maybe she never had to begin with…

"One day you'll realize that not everyone likes to play games all the time," she said. "People like you are few and far between. And sometimes people genuinely want to know you as a person. You, Sherlock. All of you. I hope for your sake that the day you realize all this is soon."

"'The mind is slow to unlearn what is learnt early,'" Sherlock quoted.

She stared at him. The record player had stopped now; they were in silence. She felt sorry for him. But before she could respond and tell him so, and before he could notice the sadness that plagued her sparkling green eyes, his phone rang. It was DI Lestrade.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked.

"An apparent suicide," Lestrade's voice cooed into the phone.

"You wouldn't be calling me if it was just a suicide."

"There's some signs of foul play. Come down. I'll text you the address."

Sherlock hung up. Riley had turned the skillets off and was putting the uncooked food back in the fridge.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked.

"Crime scene, right?" she said. "I'm coming with you."

"No, you're-"

"You got to see me at work. It's my turn. And if you don't let me come with you I'm sure I can find you."

Damn it. Sherlock sighed heavily and gestured towards the door. She grabbed her coat and keys and followed Sherlock out to catch a taxi.

She scooted in and Sherlock checked his phone for the address. The cabbie zoomed off and Sherlock looked over at Riley. She was looking out the window- away from him. Cold again.

She had a habit of dangling herself in front of him like a prize to be won, but as soon as he got close… she pulled herself away… And when he got to … He was doing the same to her. He knew that at this point he'd be a fool to deny that he was somehow, in some way, interested in her in a way that he'd never felt towards any woman before… Or anyone, for that matter…

Was that something he wanted? Sherlock's mind buzzed in the cab. Her silence made him uneasy again. He hated it… He hated her, sitting next to him, legs crossed, hands folded idly, looking out the window at the dreary rain, with the sting of a faint smile on her face… What was she smiling about? Sherlock looked back out his window and thought about how to handle this situation. He'd just now realized it was something he couldn't avoid… No matter how hard he'd tried over the last few weeks to squash her out of his mind, she was there, and he had to do something about it…

He either had to unlearn his habit of solitude, or learn to have both her and his undistracted senses in his head at once. Could he do it? And once the really knew her- once he figured her out… Would he still care?

Sherlock knew it was only a matter of time before their games of pushing and pulling wore them out, and they either got too close at the same time, or too far away at the same time…

He wasn't sure which one he'd rather have happen at this point.