A/N: Cherie (Guest): In the case of the context 'analyst' was in, it's actually correct. And yes, I did get the reference, Earth Girl.

I had a huge writer's block with this, so I'm posting it today... I meant to post it Sunday, but that didn't go as planned. I hope you enjoy it!

Two Weeks Later

Isabel stepped outside into the cool mid-November rain. She had to clear her mind, get away from the place she called 'home'.

She felt like she couldn't stand Sherlock, he was just so... Odd. But, yet, she felt completely different around him. She didn't know the exact reason why. The only logical explanation she could come up with was basic human biology: pheromones. But that still didn't help with anything.

She soon realized her clothes were starting to get soaked, even though she had only been outside for 20 minutes. She briskly walked back home, eager to retreat into the warmth. Once she reached the flat, she stepped inside, taking off her coat. She reached the privacy of her bedroom, and stripped herself of the damp clothing that clung to her skin. She didn't bother with a shower-she pretty much already had one. She put on warm pajamas, hoping the cloth wouldn't feel uncomfortable against her not-so-dry skin.

All the while, she tried to rid herself of the feelings she had towards Sherlock Holmes. She tried to force herself to only view him as an acquaintance.

The only problem with that is the fact that telling yourself not to like someone... It's not exactly possible if you don't have a reason.

Scotland Yard

"Hey, Sherlock! What're you doing 'ere?" Lestrade called, making the dark-haired man turn his way. "You're still under suspension!"

"I'm not here for a case. I'm not here to injure Anderson again, either." Sherlock hollered, walking over to the Detective Inspector. "And, before you say anything, I know he's still in the hospital."

"Well then why are you here?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock sighed, looking at the ground, embarrassed.

"I'm here to talk to Isabel." He murmured. His voice was so quiet Lestrade, who was about 2-4 feet away from him, could barely hear. He composed his expression, forcing himself to appear emotionless. He looked back up at Lestrade, who now seemed perplexed.

"I'm sorry? What did you say?" He asked. Sherlock's eyes widened as if caught the question caught him by surprise.

"I need to talk to Isabel. Now, is she here or not?" He barked. Lestrade looked down and to the side, scratching the nape of his neck. "She's not here, is she?"

"No, sorry, mate. She's on leave for a while. She didn't tell ya?" Lestrade asked, clearly confused.

"Why would she be on leave? She's obviously not pregnant or physically harmed." Sherlock asked.

"She's... Emotionally unstable, right now, I guess you could say. She's been having breakdowns and anxiety attacks quite often. I told her to stay home 'til she was better."

"I have to go." Sherlock said, and he walked out, leaving to go to his flat.

Baker Street

Sherlock knocked on Isabel's door, calling her name. He opened the door after waiting a few minutes, finding out it was unlocked. Hanging his coat up, he looked around the flat, and found her in her bedroom, sleeping peacefully.

Laying on her side on the bed, her ginger spice hair was framing her face. Her lips were slightly parted, forming the smallest of smiles-she must have been having a wonderful, happy dream. She was cuddling a pillow, her arms clutching it as if her world would fall apart if she let go.

Lonely. Silently suffering. Dreaming of a lover, possibly her father. Missing someone to a great extent. He deduced. He then had another thought. He cocked his head to the side, wondering if he saw a different part of her, just from seeing the scene in front of him just for a moment. Is she... In love?

She silently stirred, and he started to back away slowly. When he saw she hadn't awaken, he stepped forward again. He sat on the edge of her bed, brushing the hair away from her face lightly. Her skin felt soft and warm against his. Her smile seemed to grow slightly.

"Sherlock..." She mumbled sleepily. Her eyes fluttered open. "Why are you here?"

At that, Sherlock stood up, starting to walk away. She sat up, and quickly ran over to him. "Where are you going?" She asked, looking at him. He looked down at her blankly.

"I wanted to ask you something but when I went to Scotland Yard, Lestrade had told me that you were on leave. Why?"

"What did you want to ask me?" She inquired, obviously trying to avoid his question.

"Answer mine first."

"Why?"

"Don't ask stupid questions. Now tell me, why are you on leave!" He shouted, making her flinch due to their close proximity.

"I don't have to tell you." She replied. She walked into the kitchen and poured a glass of lemonade. Sherlock followed her, leaning against the counter.

"Oh well, Lestrade already told me."

"Exactly." There was silence for what seemed like hours.

"Who were you dreaming about?" Sherlock asked suddenly. She jumped, remembering that he was there. She looked at him, surprised.

"I'm sorry?"

"Who were you dreaming about?" He repeated. She looked towards the ground, gripping her upper arm with her hand.

"No one." She stated. Sherlock walked towards her, leaving a foot of space.

"Tell me." He demanded. When she didn't answer, he walked closer to her, gripping her wrists softly. She didn't look up nor flinch. He slid his hands up her arms slowly, her skin replacing his warmth with goose bumps. His hand removed hers from her arm.

"You were having a dream about someone you love, possibly miss. Who were you dreaming about? Your father? One of your friends? Your mum? Who?" He said, making her look slightly scared by the fact that he knew she was dreaming about someone she loved.

"Someone you know. It's obviously not my brother, though. Nor is it the army doctor." She said, looking into his eyes.

Pupils dilating, biting lower lip, making constant eye contact. No, it wasn't... Sherlock thought.

"I'm not going to guess. Because I already know who it is. I just to see if you'll tell me." Her head turned towards the living room, her eyes slightly looking towards the floor. He leaned towards her ear. "Because I know it was me, Isabel." He murmured. She turned her head back towards him slowly.

"Now that we have that settled, tell me who you think about late at night." She whispered, making Sherlock freeze in place. His head hadn't moved from where it had been when he whispered in her ear. He place his hands firmly on the back of her neck, placing his thumbs of either side of her face, making her stay in place.

"I think about the person who made me suspended from my case. And it wasn't Anderson."

The statement made her think. It wasn't Lestrade, and he just said it wasn't Anderson. As much as she hated to admit it, she hoped that he was talking about her.

"Well, then. I'd do something right now if I knew you'd react in the way I hope you would." She said, raising her arms and propping herself up on the counter. He looked at her incredulously.

"And what would that be?"

"Mm... I think you know." She winked. "Think, Detective."

"I never told you if I thought about you in a good way or not. So don't try to be... Seductive."

"Jesus, Sherlock, I wasn't." She claimed.

"You weren't what?"

"Trying to be seductive!" She said, exasperated.

"I know." He tried to hide his smirk.

"Whatever. What way do you... think of me as?"

"Not bad."

"So good?" She asked hopefully.

"No."

"Well then how the hell do you see me?" She asked incredulously.

"Figure it out."

"I could say a lot of things right now." She said.

"Most of them help you, mostly." He countered.

"And you." She promised.

"And what would you say that could possibly help me in a way that isn't useful?" He asked.

"Hmm... It's more of a question." Sherlock sighed.

"What is it?"

Isabel gasped. Sherlock looked at her, confused.

"Sherlock, of all people, you should be able to decipher body language quite easily." She hinted. He studied her for a moment. When she wrapped her arm around his neck, again, he shook his head.

"No."

"Why?"

"I do not wish to... 'help you forget' your troubles."

"What the hell are you talking about?" She asked.

"I thought.."

"God, save my soul." She muttered. "No, Sherlock. I don't... I'm not... Jesus, I don't want to go all the way with you. I meant..." She trailed off.

"Meant what, Isabel?" He demanded. She shook her head, smiling.

"I'll show you."

"Oh." He said, realizing what she meant.

She crashed her lips against his, threading her hands through his hair. His hands slipped from her neck, and moved to his own. Isabel smiled against his lips, taking his hands and moving them to her waist. He stayed hesitant, still in shock at what was happening. After a while, he slipped his hands to the small of her back, stepping forward so he was against the counter. Isabel's hands moved to his neck, pulling him closer.

After what felt like forever for the both of them, Isabel slowly pulled away, not wanting to stop butting knowing that there was a limit. She rested her head on his shoulder, nuzzling her forehead against his neck. Sherlock didn't move.

He was still in shock.

A/N: Okay, so, to be honest, I'm not a huge fan of this chapter. This took me from Saturday night to now (Jan. 20th, 2014) to FINALLY finish it. I know it's not that long, but that's because I kept having writer's block. Whenever I got a good amount of writing done, Something would happen and, obviously, most of it wasn't saved so it was deleted.

Again.

Please let me know if you liked it, or what you didn't like.

Favorite/follow please. Thanks Darlings!