This was real fun writing, I've got to admit.

Next chapter will indeed be longer than this.

Thank you for your lovely reviews!

I turned him gay. He's not surprised I turned him gay, that's for sure. Yes, I didn't really turn him gay. He's not gay, but Benedict's gay. Or, well, Benedict's not real. God, what am I talking about? He's not gay and he's not a Benedict either. Though Martin's convinced of it, and really likes him. Not in the Jim Moriarty wants him kind of way. Not that of a man with tinted eyelashes sort of way either. More in the "He's super-nice," I don't think anyone's used the term super-nice about Sherlock Holmes before. I've heard several other synonyms, but never super-nice. I can only imagine him posing as Benedict - this more fashionable, charming, person, which is how Martin talked of him as. I was genuinely surprised. He wasn't trying to scare Martin off, which was something I had expected. Well, he was trying to be a gay man, and he was also trying to be someone else.

Of course despite the reassuring phone-call from Martin, I didn't feel like staying in the flat – what were we supposed to talk of again really? Sherlock was just using my flat anyway. I doubt he really wants to have any sort of conversation with me. He might lie that we both dated in college, and then he realized who he really was with me, but then again - none of this is real. Of course if there's one woman who can turn him gay – it's me. Oh, god, don't. Don't start. None of this is real remember? So, anyway, you might say I ran off quite quickly to meet Julie for a coffee. Despite being ahead of schedule by two hours, which gives a girl some reasonable amount of time to think. The conclusion is – I'm mad. I'm completely and utterly delusional. He might have given me a brief compliment on my attire, but it was obviously to be nice. Last night I had my tongue stuck down in Martin's throat. I shouldn't even be spiralling into this direction. He's obviously compensating for the fact that I was hysterical in the living room, obviously, right? I wish I knew what he was thinking. Oh, there's Julie.

She sits down, takes one look at me, and says, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I say twirling my cup in its place.

This is my fifth cup. I can see the waitress eyeing me.

"Weren't you on a date with Martin – oh – was it that bad?" she asks making a grimace patting my hand sympathetically. I almost laugh. Sex, really, who can think about sex, right now? Of course I can, but I just can't imagine Martin and me. Wait, what? Yes, of course I can. I imagine it'll be absolutely wonderful. Absolutely!

"No, I had to work," I lie easily. It's a simple lie. I've got to keep it up. "So, no time for that," I add with a chuckle.

"No wonder you look cross," she says grinning ordering herself a coffee, from the waitress, who eyes my cup as well. I just ignore her.

"There's someone new and irritating in our department though," I say giving a loud sigh. At least I can talk about him, without talking about him. It's a relief I have to admit.

"Oh, who?" she asks.

"Some chap named Benedict," I say, "He's just so infuriating. He uses my things, keeps asking me for favours, and is just horribly maddening to be around."

"He's basically a reincarnate of Sherlock Holmes, then?" says Julie giggling.

I almost spit out my coffee, before controlling myself.

"Basically, it means, you fancy him," she adds winking at me, while I attempt to recover.

"No, I don't!" I snap feeling a flush of red spread on my face.

Julie just laughs and looks at me in disbelief.

"Molly, you were just the same when you fancied Sherlock. First there came the round of denial, and then all of a sudden you confessed you found him attractive. Though this time something might actually happen," says Julie grinning. "Of course I suggest getting rid of Martin first."

"I don't fancy Benedict - anyway he's gay," I say sharply.

"He is? So he told you he was gay?" she asks looking at me curiously. Obviously she doesn't believe that for a second.

I just make a face, before sipping more coffee, directing the conversation into another realm. I am not fancying Sherlock Holmes another time. I admit I find him attractive yes, and it is distracting to have him in my home, but I do not have a crush on him. If I did indeed have a crush on him I wouldn't be heading over to Martin's right now, wouldn't I? Of course I wouldn't be here, of course not. I'd be at home fawning over him, and trying to be sexy, which I won't. That is ridiculous behaviour anyway. I'm not doing this to make him jealous either. This one is for me.

The moment Martin opens the door, I grin at him cheekily.

"Err - Molly- hello," he says looking a bit startled to see me there. "I didn't know you were coming." I raise my brows seductively, before giving him a long kiss, but he's not responding. I separate from him, and see that someone is sitting in his living room – on his sofa – oh yes. If your mind went there, then you know more than me.

"Benedict!" I say overly enthusiastic, not trying to sound like I'm at all mad. Sherlock is indeed sitting on Martin's sofa, in Martin's home.

"Why are you here?" I ask, through gritted teeth, before sending Martin a dazzling smile. Martin looks sort of awkward where he stands between Benedict and me. Sherlock is sending me a smile I've never seen before, quite the toothy one, behind a pair of specks he's acquired for his role.

"I was going to text you. The thing is I went to your flat, and you weren't there, but Ben was." Ben now, they've shortened their names now. Is this the point where Sherlock is going to start calling my boyfriend for "Mart" or "Marty"?

"So, you brought him here – how very nice, then," I say feeling sick to the stomach. This was too much. This was absolutely too much. I was going to shag my boyfriend, but instead I find Sherlock residing on his sofa. Why was Sherlock on his sofa? I can understand why he was on mine, but Martin's sofa was definitively not the sofa to be at.

"Well, I wanted to show him some of my paintings," says Martin grinning quite happily, directing my attention to the gigantic paintings resting by the window. I stare at them trying to be enthusiastic that he's indeed painting, since he said he had been struggling a while – until I spotted the bottles of beer on the table. Sherlock Holmes doesn't drink. I glare for a second at Sherlock, as Martin turns his back – Sherlock just looks at me mildly amused quirking a brow in reply. Martin returns his face to me again, and I put on a big smile "Those are amazing!" I can feel my face hurting, as I step towards them, and admire their vibrant colours. I'm not really sure what they are supposed to be. "You get what I'm trying to say, right?" he says to me, and I nod quite happily several times, before throwing daggers into Sherlock's direction.

"Yes, of course, so, well, err, isn't it time for you to leave Ben – I thought you had that thing?" I say looking quite cross.

"No, my schedule is all cleared up," he says in a very un-Sherlock manner. I've never seen him so nice. What is going on? Well, two can play this game.

"Really, oh, right, but Nigel called again. He seems quite desperate to speak to you," I say sitting down besides him on the sofa patting him on the leg, which turns out to be more of a slap to be honest. Sherlock catches on quite quickly.

"I don't really want to talk to him, right now," says Sherlock putting on quite the realistic portrayal of someone who'd had his heart broken. I look at Martin awkwardly for a moment, before standing up, and whispering to him "You couldn't let us be alone for a mo, could you? I just need to talk to him alone for a sec." Martin just nods sympathetically, takes his bottle of beer taps it on Sherlock's, before walking off in the direction of his bedroom. A route I do wish to make with him. I turn quite hastily to look at Sherlock, who looks at me from his sitting position on the sofa. He's reverted into himself again.

"What the hell are you doing?" I whisper furiously.

"He came to the apartment," he says stating the obvious.

"So, you could just have sent him off," I say gesturing wildly.

"He was going to wait for you," he continues calmly.

"So?"

"He started to fiddle with my things. He's clever enough to put two and two together. It was the quickest way of getting rid of him," he says.

"I've seen you get rid of people quicker than this. This isn't quick. What are you playing at?" I snap leaning closely, while eyeing Martin's bedroom door.

"I had intended to leave just before you came," he says standing up from the sofa, going into the direction of the coat-rack putting on his leather-jacket. I stare at him astonished ignoring the leather-jacket. I just realized that he'd played along and he'd played along nicely, which he hadn't needed to at all. He could have brushed him off quickly, but instead he was continuing the charade.

"Thank you," I say rather reluctantly, as his hand is on the door-handle. He just stops, but doesn't turn to look around. Soon enough he's gone through the door, and left. I stare at the shut door after him. He did indeed try to avoid this. It was obvious he didn't want to be there, despite his cheery mannerism, which was a display to Martin of course. Martin sticks his head out of his bedroom. "He has left then?" he asks, walking over to me, and holding me around my waist before muttering, "Poor chap."

For a moment I forget.

"How so?" I ask and Martin looks at me baffled.

"Obviously he's not OK. You could see it on him really. He pretends he's all happy, but it's obvious that this Nigel bloke has riled him up quite nicely."

"Yeah?"

"The moment you appeared was the first time I'd seen him look genuinely happy," Martin says, giving me a peck on the cheek.

I stand there in confusion, as Martin walks off putting the kettle on, fetching us cups.

"Really?" I say feeling a bit dazed. Again, this is Martin. Martin doesn't even recognise him at all. Martin is apparently more delusional than me. He obviously had to be if he was under the assumption – that that smile was a proper genuine smile. Sherlock Holmes did not smile, and if he did smile – he did not smile to me.

"Yeah, really," he says smiling at me, "He said you knew him so well."

I feel quite caught of guard, as Martin hands me my cup.

"I haven't seen him in a while. He has never been one to talk about his feelings," I say, and it's the first true thing I've said to Martin, since entering his flat.