Watson hadn't seen Holmes in a week. He'd been too busy with his fiancé, Mary, to even bother to stop in, even when he heard something crash or clatter. In less than three weeks, Watson would be moving out into his new home with Mary. Hurrying and bustling, he went about packing and gathering up his things, deciding on which to leave and which to keep. When he finally had a break, he went to Sherlock's door. Watson felt very weary and upset, even a little regretful, for leaving Holmes after having such a harsh conversation. He knew he had hurt Holmes, and, in doing so, had hurt a little of himself. He knocked on the door, announcing his presence, and pushed it open, letting it shut behind him.

The entire room was dark, aside from a few candles lit here and there. Watson took off his hat and placed it on one of the chairs, peering around for his eccentric companion.

"Holmes?" he asked aloud, taking a few steps forward.

"Watson?"

Sherlock emerged from one of the corners, his face shrouded by the shadows and lack of sleep, from what little Watson could see. Watson shook his head and made his way to one of the window.

"Not this again, Holmes," Watson said, grabbing at one of the curtains.

"No, Watson, be careful!"

Watson pulled aside the curtains hard. Sherlock cried out, followed by another feminine cry. Sherlock, hands held up in front of his face, tripped over a pile of books and landed with a thud on the floor, kicking up a small cloud of dust. Watson shook his head.

"Where is Miss Heathrow?" he asked, noting that her room door was open.

"I told you to address me as Jane," a voice said from a place near the same corner Holmes had stepped away from. Hands in front of her face in an attempt to block out the excess amount of morning light, Jane blinked rapidly and went over to Sherlock.

"Surely Holmes did not submit you to this kind of torture," Watson exclaimed, noticing, too, that there was no light in Jane's room. "Holmes, I cannot - "

"Oh, quiet," Jane snapped, eyes flashing for a brief moment as she helped Holmes to his feet. "I am accustomed to this. It is a good way to think and collect one's thoughts."

"Thank you," Sherlock murmured, finally on his feet again. He looked at Watson with a peculiar expression. "What made you finally show up?" he asked, his eyes unable to meet Watson's.

"I've been busy for the past week - "

"With Mary, yes." The scorn and slight anger in Sherlock's voice was evident, though he tried to mask it. "I thought you had...abandoned me after our little argument."

Lips settling into a thin, firm line, Watson retorted, "Perhaps, perhaps not."

Jane shifted away from both Holmes and Watson uneasily, running a hand through her unruly, lazily kempt hair. Her eyes were wide, as though permanently propped open to ward off sleep. Again, she wore an un-tucked shirt and rolled up pants, her suspenders twisted oddly on her shoulders. Standing next to Holmes, Watson noticed immediately the striking similarities between the two. Though Sherlock's gaze was clouded with hurt and anger, he had the same wide-eyed gaze as Jane, as well as the wild hair. Watson's brow furrowed in puzzlement. The two almost looked as one. It was a frightening aspect.

"Have you slept at all?" Watson asked, not exactly to whom he was referring to.

"No," Jane and Sherlock answered in unison. Sherlock ran a hand over his face and rubbed his eyes, still wincing from the bright light.

"No!" Watson turned to Jane. "Why not?"

"I suffer from insomnia," Jane stated, scratching her jaw as though it had stubble, "especially when I know I am close to some revelation in regards to my studies."

Watson's gaze darted between Jane and Holmes. Jane plopped herself down onto one of the larger, couch-like chairs and kicked her legs up onto the seat, stretched out lazily before her. Sherlock, still avoiding Watson's gaze, picked up his violin from the corner of the room and made his way to the darkest corner possible, right near Jane. Jane made room for him. When Holmes sat down, she propped her feet up onto his leg, her eyes closed. Holmes, surprised, glanced down at her still-bandaged feet, his eyes traveling up her bare leg until her pants kept him from seeing another above her knee. Moistening his lips, heart fluttering lightly, he plucked away at his violin, focusing on some imaginary point in space between worlds, brow creasing.

Watson made a slow circumference of the room, noticing that the piles of papers had grown larger, that the experiments Holmes worked on had grown in size. He saw a few of Jane's notebooks scattered about the place, sketches of odd symbols and splashes of color popping out from the pages. Jane's bed was still made-up, her small satchel tossed into one corner of the room.

"Have you eaten anything?" Watson asked, not exactly sure who he was addressing again.

"Not much," Jane answered, eyes still closed. Sherlock blinked indifferently.

Making another circumference around the room, Watson blurted abruptly, "By Jove, Holmes, have you changed at all?"

Sherlock stopped playing the violin, and he fixed Watson with his wide-eyed glare. "Once."

Watson took a step back, still always staggered by Sherlock's hygiene, and gestured to Jane. "And she?"

"Once," Jane supplied, opening her eyes in a manner close to Sherlock's. Upon seeing Watson's appalled and disgusted look, she said, "What? We haven't been doing anything that would require a change of clothes."

Mouth gaping, Watson cried, "You two disgust me!"

"How could you say that to lady!" Had not Jane's feet been propped up on Sherlock's legs, he would have leapt to his feet in protest.

"A lady?" Watson scoffed. "She is no lady!"

"And you think Mary is?" Holmes's brow creased deeply.

Watson, damn near close to fuming, pressed his lips together firmly and nodded his head curtly, his eyebrows knitting together tightly in a scowl. Jane passed a hand over her face and sighed, drawing both Sherlock's and Watson's attention. Without looking at either of them, she opened her mouth to speak, her voice sounding nearly three times her age.

"If I had known I would cause so much trouble," she stated quietly, "I would not have accepted the offer of a place of residence."

"You have nothing to do with this," Watson assured, fixing his gaze hard on Sherlock. "This is merely a dispute between Holmes and I."

"And I," Jane pointed out, her eyes fluttering close, "am only aggravating the situation."

"No, no, you are not." Sherlock placed a tentative hand on Jane's shin. She opened her eyes and looked at him. "I assure you."

Jane offered Sherlock a weak smile and turned her gaze to Watson. She inhaled deeply, staring intently at his face. It made Watson's skin crawl. Only Sherlock had ever made him feel so exposed, and, yet, here was another who produced a similar effect.

"You two need to talk this through," Jane suggested, her eyes never leaving Watson's face. "Dr. Watson, you are...frustrated by Sherlock's inability to accept your soon-to-be marriage with Mary. What are you afraid of? When one marries, one becomes a part of the family. If Mary cannot come to like Sherlock, who is like a brother to you, how can you marry her? Truly? There is no real difficult decision to be made here. You need only to find common ground between yourself, Mary, and Sherlock." She inhaled deeply again, nostrils flaring ever so slightly. "Sherlock is afraid he shall lose you, Dr. Watson. And how could you abandon him, when he has no one else he can trust wholeheartedly? Such things must be taken into consideration before any final decisions and commitments can be made."

As she lapsed back into silence, the room felt oppressive by the gravity of her words. Sherlock fidgeted with his violin, his fingers sliding on the violin strings. Watson was astounded by the girl's perception, a perception very much attuned like Holmes's. He looked at Holmes, trying to read the man. Sherlock, sensing his gaze, met Watson's gaze. He exhaled heavily and nodded his head.

"She is right," he said.

Watson swallowed thickly and glanced at Jane, who had closed her eyes. She reached out and took Sherlock's violin from his hand, bow along with it. She plucked out a few melodies and eventually settled into a melancholy piece, as though reflecting the mood that had drifted into the room. Sherlock stared at her for the longest time, enjoying the way she handled his violin. Earlier, he had seen her for the first time on the piano, had heard the beautiful music she had elicited from the ivory keys. Just as he seemed to slip into a trance when playing his violin, she, too, did the same, her fingers flying over the keys like sinewy, sensual spider legs. Sherlock felt his heart palpitate momentarily.

Jane transitioned into a happier song, one that began to dispel the sense of disappointment and depression from the air. Watson felt himself relaxing. His gaze settled on Sherlock's face. He watched Holmes with interest, following Holmes's gaze to Jane. Glancing back and forth between the two, Watson was suddenly overcome with the feeling that Sherlock was fighting against himself whenever he looked at Jane. Perplexed, he studied Holmes longer, hoping to understand whatever was going on in the infamous sleuth's mind. He realized that Sherlock still had his hand on Jane's leg. Staring at it, Watson noticed as Holmes's hand slowly relaxed against Jane's skin until he had comfortably placed his hand on her. He touched her in a way unlike Watson had ever seen him before.

Perhaps, Watson thought, gaze drawn back up to Sherlock's enrapt face, perhaps Miss Heathrow is a good thing for Holmes. Perhaps.

The last note of Jane's piece hung in the air, and Watson shifted away from the couch. Picking up his hat, he said quietly, "I shall be back later."

"Indeed," Sherlock muttered, taking the violin gently from Jane's hands. Watson nodded curtly, cast one more glance over his shoulder at the two, and hurried from the room.

Holmes wasn't sure when he had dozed off. He woke up bleary-eyed, feeling uncharacteristically warm. Looking down, he was startled to find Jane curled up against him, her head just under his chin. Sherlock stiffened, feeling something he had never felt before in his chest. He attempted to slip away from Jane, but he found himself rooted to the spot by Lord-knows-what. He shifted, and Jane moved with him, murmuring quietly in her sleep, her lips brushing his chin, whisper-soft. Sherlock inhaled sharply, shivering from the contact. Jane shifted against him again, her legs hooking over his awkwardly. Another shiver shot up and down his spine, not at all unpleasant. He had no clue as to what to do.

Gazing down at Jane's serene face, however, he did not feel the urge to get up from the couch. He found himself shifting closer to Jane, his arms wrapping around her in a comforting embrace. It felt oddly...right. Jane murmured again, her lips brushing Sherlock's cheek this time, feathery against his stubble. Plagued by another set of pleasant shivers, he found himself tightened his hold around her, holding her as close as possible. He propped his head upon hers. Her smell tickled his nose, a tantalizing scent to him. (She had, of course, taken the liberty of showering the day before.)

What am I doing? he thought, inhaling her scent again. What are you? Some schoolboy again?

"Sherlock."

A whisper that sent Holmes's heart pounding. Sherlock looked down at Jane, for it had been her that had spoken. A small smile touched the corner of her lips, and a soft, contented sigh slipped past her lips, though Holmes was positive she was deep in sleep. He wanted her to stay in his arms for an eternity, so that he could hold her forever and caress her.

Where are all these thoughts coming from? he wondered, propping his chin back up on Jane's head.

As he attempted to come up with an answer, his eyes fluttered close, and he slipped into oblivion.

Watson arrived an hour later, Mary accompanied on his arm. He opened the door to Sherlock's room, and he and his fiancé stepped inside. Watson stopped in his tracks. His eyes fell upon Holmes and Jane, sleeping and wrapped up in each other's arms. It all looked platonic, yes, but it was a startling sight nevertheless.

"Holmes?" Watson called. "Holmes?"

Holmes stirred and turned to look at Watson, not at all comprehending the look on Watson's face. In fact, he saw only blurred images, sleep still clinging onto him tightly. He went back to resting his head against Jane's, eyes fluttering close again.

"That is she?" Mary asked quietly, gesturing at Jane.

"Yes," Watson answered, eyebrows knit together slightly.

"She seems to have quite the impact on Holmes," Mary pointed out.

"Indeed." Watson cleared off a seat for Mary and sat next to her, his eyes never leaving Sherlock and Jane.

"Do you think that Holmes is developing feelings for her?"

Watson glanced at Holmes's face, which looked so peaceful and uncreased for once. "Yes, Mary," he answered. "I just don't think Holmes realizes it yet."