Sentiment

Featuring: Sherlock Holmes and Amelia Wilson.

Sleep didn't come easily to Sherlock Holmes, he couldn't remember the last time he had closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift off fully, having spent the past two years sleeping just on the edge of wakefulness, constantly on guard that he might be attacked at any moment. And, during the rare times that he had managed to slip completely under the waves of sleep, it had usually been fitful, even his own dreams had been filled with memories of those he had left behind, sometimes in pleasant, but bittersweet ways. Sometimes he would dream that he was on a case, John and Amelia were always there, but somehow they always seemed to be pale copies in comparison to the memories of them that he stored in his Mind Palace. Amelia's smile was never quite right in his dreams, somehow the warmth in her eyes when she would look at him would be missing, the bickering banter between them dull in comparison to the real Amelia's quick, sarcastic shots, while John always seemed to be lacking in some way, lacking in the humanity that made him Doctor John Watson. Other times, he would dream of Moriarty, dreams that would turn into nightmare that left him breathless upon first waking, nightmares that always seemed to end with everyone he cared for dead around him.

In the past two years that had past, sleep had become an even greater chore then it had been before, there were times when he had considered dabbling with stimulants just to try and keep himself awake a bit longer, but he disregarded the notion each time it presented itself to him, usually after one of the nightmares. But no sooner would the idea pop into his head, then the image of John and Amelia quickly chase it away, looking back at him with such disappointment.

"You're better than that, Sherlock," Amelia's voice would whisper through his mind, and he would close his eyes, the memory of her perfume washing over him and her face swimming through his thoughts, unbidden, "It's okay to admit to being scared and lonely, but drugs aren't the answer. Do what you need to do and come home, safe and whole".

John was usually more aggressive, calling him an idiot for even considering going down that path again and practically commanding him to suck it up and get on with it. Personally, Sherlock preferred it when Amelia's voice would bring him back to reality; she was less likely to call him some sort of creative name and order him about. Most of the time it was her, completely unbidden, her voice drifting through his mind when he least expected it and scolding him for his more arrogant moments when he did find himself forced to interact with others while trying to bring down Moriarty's web, it had become rather annoying when her voice, full of amusement and sarcasm, would drift through his mind and make some sort of little remark about his disguise or commented on something he might have said while undercover. He had tried to shut it out, finding it rather distracting, but his own Mind Palace seemed to insistent upon pulling Amelia and John back to the forefront of his mind when he least expected it.

He sighed to himself, gazing up at the darkened ceiling above his head, his mind whirling as he allowed himself to try to adjust to being safe, for once in two years, able to finally relax and be secure in the knowledge that no one was about to attack him should he close his eyes and drift away for a moment. Just being back in London, breathing in the familiar air, hearing the familiar noise of the city, had sparked something inside of himself that he had been forced to shut away in the back of his Mind Palace for the last two years. He had missed it, his city, though he might have hoped for a slightly warmer welcome back from the dead from John, his bottom lip still stinging slightly as he scowled to himself, recalling the impact of the punch that had sent him reeling back, his neck also felt slightly tender from where John's hands had gripped his throat, fury burning in his eyes.

Still, it hadn't been all bad, he found himself consoling himself, pushing aside the thought of John. He had no doubt that the good doctor would forgive him, in time, though it was still quite a blow that he had failed to deduce just how poorly John might just react. His mind drifted over the memory of the events of the evening, Lestrade's bear-like hug , Molly's delighted smile, Mrs Hudson's joyful tears, and Amelia…Amelia's reaction had perhaps been the one he had deduced most accurately. She had hugged him upon first seeing him, after saying a quick little remark, her arms winding around his neck, her body tightly pressed against his as she had gripped him as though she feared he might try to pull away. He had considered avoiding it, but he had reluctantly gone along with it as best that he could, embracing her back with hesitance. He hadn't been entirely sure exactly where he was supposed to put his hands. Her waist? That had seemed…intimate and he had been rather acutely aware of Mycroft standing just a few steps away, watching the scene unfold with that insufferably knowing look. Instead, he had settled on lightly patting her back.

He turned his head to his left, finding Amelia herself lying fast asleep beneath the covers next to him, her perfume still lingering on her skin, filling the air that surrounded her as she slept soundly, turned on her side so that she was facing him. Her hair was longer then the last time they had seen each other two years ago, falling easily to her middle back, still wearing the strange light blue dress that she had all evening, something between a shirt and a dress that Sherlock assumed was supposed to be consider 'Fashionable,' if Amelia deemed it worthy enough for her to wear. He couldn't help rolling his eyes at the thought, feeling a surprising warm sense of affection towards her as he continued to observe her, an emotional response that he dismissed as simply a result of having been parted for so long.

If she was awake now, she would have called him creepy.

Amelia was really quite delicate when she was sleeping, something he was surprised to find himself thinking, her skin clean of any cosmetics that she favoured, something that Sherlock found himself thinking was rather a waste of time for her to even be bothered with. Her skin and complexion was quite good for a woman of thirty five, smooth and clear, while her lips were already full and a pleasant, natural pink colour, requiring little lipstick to attempt to enhance them. Her cheeks were full and high, her eyebrows shapely and even, while her eyes were almond shaped and dark brown, black eyelashes fanning across her cheeks as she slept. Of course, when one paid as much attention to their physical appearance as she did, it was hardly surprising that she would take great care with her skin. Of course, she wasn't without imperfections, while her complexion might be good for her age, she seemed to have semi-permanent circles beneath her eyes and without the makeup to conceal them, they only seemed darker, even in her sleep, while her hair looked dryer then it once did, not quite as glossy. The constant dying of it had damaged it, though he expected she had gone to great strives to try and repair it.

Sherlock frowned to himself, finding himself feeling rather disturbed by the interest that he was taking in Amelia's physical appearance, what did it matter? He turned his head back up towards the ceiling, glaring angrily at it as he felt annoyed with himself. He felt like a part of himself was fighting against the logical side of himself, pulling him in Amelia's direction as he absently racked a frustrated hand through his hair, ignoring the sharp, painful tug on his scalp at the gesture. Obviously, it was a mistake to even consider sleeping in the same bed as her, especially if his mind was going to start rebelling against him again like this. But…he was comfortable and secure and it had been two years since he had last slept in his own bed, he wasn't about to just give up that chance. He considered waking Amelia and telling her to take the couch, he'd changed his mind and didn't think this was going to work, after all, but again something made him remain silent, gazing up at the ceiling. He told himself it was simply easier to let her sleep then deal with her confusion and annoyance at three o'clock in the morning.

He inhaled deeply and could have cursed as his nose was assaulted by the smell of Amelia's perfume, wafting off her warm skin beside him, seeping into his very sheets and lingering in the air, tainting it with the sweet fragrance, mingling with the even more comforting smell of his room. He didn't like it, how it seemed as though she was filling the entire room and his head, leaving him unable to focus on what mattered, the possible terrorist cell that was currently placing London under threat, the case that he had been brought back to solve. But he couldn't even seem to focus on the details of the case that Mycroft had presented to him, his mind assaulted by memories of Amelia, her voice, her sarcastic remarks from their previous cases together, her perfume and red lips flashing in a wicked smile, her warm eyes as they regarded him, so utterly focused and intelligent when deducing a scene or individual, the sensation of her lips pressed against his…

Sherlock whipped the covers off himself and almost staggered as he flung himself out of the bed, glaring furiously over his shoulder at Amelia as she stirred very slightly, muttering something in her sleep as she rolled onto her back, one hand flung out across the bed where he had just been lying. He felt like his Mind Palace was being corrupted and Amelia was the virus, running his hand through his curls as he struggled to try and think clearly, but his mind seemed to be filled with thoughts of that moment they had shared together two years ago, when they had kissed. It was a memory that had occasionally popped up over the years, when he allowed himself the rare moment of indulgence in thinking of his life back in London, and while he had refused to allow himself to linger on it, it was a memory as clear to him today as it was in the moment. It was moments like this when he despised his Mind Palace, the way that it was able to preserve everything so crystal clear.

"Sentiment, Sherlock?" a snide voice, so very like Mycroft's, whispered through his mind as he squeezed his eyes closed, "Now, what do we say about that?"

"It's not sentiment," he spat out in his own head, feeling angry and disturbed by the mere notion, "It's…" he trailed off, unable to quite come up with exactly what it was.

"Of course it is, don't be silly, Sherlock. You care for her".

He gritted his teeth, bringing his hands up cover his face, sinking down onto the edge of his bed, "Not like that," he growled back, unable to deny that he did care for Amelia, but romantically? Hardly, "Sentiment is an emotional response for a chemical reaction induced by so called feelings of 'affection' or 'love,'" he scoffed in his own mind, his speech fast paced, "My emotional response to Amelia is nothing but simple companionship as a result of a close working relationship".

"And yet you kissed her and would do so again, wouldn't you?"

Sherlock froze, his eyes snapping open as he dropped his hands from his face, swallowing hard. Would he, if placed in a similar position, kiss her? The last time it had happened they had been saying goodbye, it hadn't meant anything…he grimaced as a flash of memory from their case at Baskerville crossed his mind, Amelia sitting in an armchair next to his, her face lit up by the glow of the crackling flames within the fireplace grating before them. He recalled with ease the way that he had grabbed her wrist when she had playfully hit his arm during her teasing, the way that her eyes had been full of laughter and banter, how she had stilled at the contact and her heart rate had increased, her pupils widening. He had been going to kiss her then, in the moment it had been…simple, natural, until she had pulled away and excused herself for her room. What excuse did he have for that? None, his mind seemed to go utterly blank, and he felt a almost sense of panic as he desperately searched for some way of reassuring himself that it wasn't anything more than just a fleeting moment, brought on by the stress he had been under during that night.

Oh, he could fully admit that he did care for Amelia, he could even admit that she had earned his respect and admiration, he found her to be unusually intelligent and intriguing, capable of challenging him in ways that few had, all without ever needing to diminish herself by stripping naked or attempting to seduce him. But this…this was different, he cared for John, he couldn't say he had ever felt the slightest hint or desire to kiss him, but perhaps it was simply due to the fact that John was a male? He reluctantly dismissed that theory when he considered if he had ever felt the desire to kiss Molly Hopper, easily concluding that the same emotional response that he had felt in that moment that he had kissed Amelia and almost kissed her at Baskerville was not present when interacting with Molly. Of course, without being placed under the same circumstances, it was still rather difficult to say if the emotional response was solely based upon Amelia, or if any women he was familiar with might have triggered it. He wondered if it was possible to try and test the theory between the two women, but he had to shake his head clear of the thought, knowing that Amelia would certainly notice something was going on and Molly would likely see it as something deeper, which could prove problematic in the future should he end up hurter her feelings.

He hated apologising.

Still, Sherlock found himself trying to rebel against the idea of feeling any sort of romantic attachment towards Amelia, it simply couldn't be the case, he would have noticed if he had been growing too close to her well before now…surely? He frowned deeply, carefully sifting through his memories of their cases together, his annoyance towards her at the start of their partnership, his reluctant admittance to himself that she was an intelligent and capable detective of her own right, his eventual respect and admiration for her, before he had began to view her as actually being a friend, someone he trusted and even came to rely upon, but when exactly had his feelings towards her changed? It came shockingly easy to him, the moment he stopped viewing her as an annoyance or as a capable detective, but as a woman who, for whatever reason, seemed to be loyal towards him and care enough to possibly taint her own morals just to try and protect him.

When she brought down Irene Adler, knowing full well that doing so would likely place Adler into a position were she would likely end up dead or spending the rest of her life running, Amelia had still taken her down, helping to protect him for the fallout and preserving what was left of his dignity at the time for having been almost fooled by the Woman. It had been that moment that he had been forced to admit that she had earned his friendship and caused him to start considering her in a different light. From then, it had been a slow progression, but even he could see the threads of affection slowly weaving between them in his own memories, until it reached a boiling point when they had kissed. He trusted her, he respected and admired her, and…yes, he cared for her, deeper then perhaps one ought to care for a mere friend.

Sherlock frowned deeply, glancing back over his shoulder to Amelia as she slept on, utterly oblivious to the reluctant conclusion he had just come to, accepting it with still some resistance. He didn't want to feel like this, he never imagined himself even capable of it, but yet…here he was, feeling sentimental towards another human being, even though it still made him want to cringe and deny it, even when it made him want to get angry at her for inducing these confusing emotions within him, even when he could admit that it wasn't as though it was something new, it was just that he had been ignoring it before now. He had known, at least since that night by the fire how he felt, how she felt, though they had easily avoided the subject, why else would he kiss her? Why else would he find his thoughts drifting to her so often over the past two yes, unbidden? Why else would he find himself feeling jealous of the notion that another man, Robert Cook, of all people, possibly earning Amelia's affection?

He sighed heavily and turned slightly to get back into bed, his eyes feeling heavy as he hesitated slightly, Amelia's arm still lying draped across the pale grey sheet. He gently reached out and pushed her arm aside, back onto her side of the bed as he climbed back into bed, pulling the covers over himself, finding himself overwhelmed by the scent of her perfume again. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply as he absently listened to Amelia's soft breathing beside him, finding it strangely comforting, though he would rather really jump off Bart's roof then admit it aloud. He wasn't sure exactly what he was supposed to do now that he had finally admitted to himself that he might just have feelings for Amelia Wilson, but that would be another problem for another day, after their case was over. Perhaps it was time he considered finally getting that musical piece he had lingering in his mind down on paper since their kiss…with that thought in mind, Sherlock drifted off to sleep, for once looking forward to the peace that slumber would provide him.

Ooh, I love getting to poke around in Sherlock's head a little bit and see what pops out. It's always interesting, I love getting more of his perspective about his relationship with Amelia. I actually first wrote this piece probably over a year ago now, but due to The Speckled Blonde still being written, I had to wait to post it, so I'm pretty excited to finally get to show it. I hope you guys liked it and if you have any other ideas for one-shorts you would like to see, please let me know. I'd be delighted to hear them. Please review :)