Sherlock turned his head slowly and stared at her with piercing eyes. Aida was blushing again; her glasses were quickly tucked away and her sweaty palms hidden in her coat pockets.

- You're studying Criminology?
- Yes. I'm...did I said something wrong?

He stood up and gathered his things under his right arm.

- On the contrary. Let me walk with you, I know exactly where it is.

Sherlock's idea of walking with someone was him leading the way with an excited and worried Aida trotting after him, until they found themselves right under the department; the future consulting detective stayed silent the entire time so Aida was about to thank him and walk away, slightly offended, when Sherlock grabbed her wrist and made her turn towards him with a push. Aida gaped at him but didn't wince.

- Why Criminology?
- Well. My father is a detective. He is passionate about his job, some would say too much, but he isn't…creepy or anything like that. He just enjoys the process. Anyway, I grew up with serial killers' stories and crime scene investigation. I think it was destiny.

She smiled and looked up at him.

- There's no such thing. You either take control of your life or you lay in bed waiting for things to happen until one of those is death.
- And I took control. What about you?

Sherlock loosened his grip on her wrist and took a step back.

- I'm more of a chemistry enthusiast.
- So you're studying chemistry?
- Not yet.

Aida's face scrunched in confusion and then smiled again, this time meeting a small smirk on his face.

- Well, I'm late. Nice to meet you again, Sherlock.
- Yes, of course.

Sherlock looked around him and then – with his hand still in his coat pocket - pointed left, leaving without saying a word. Aida was probably the first person to fall for Sherlock's strange charm and brusque behavior; after all, he was an eighteen year old boy, tall and gangly, a loner with too much time on his hands, never accustomed to the idea of someone being interested in him or what he was.
He didn't expect people to grasp the concept of a mind palace, or understand that useless data were discarded without a second thought, no matter how important those information were to other people. He never had met someone whose opinions mattered to him, someone to share his world with, someone willing to overlook his rudeness in favor of a shared appetite for knowledge, so how was he supposed to know how to recognize selfless and genuine interest?
Granted, Aida was fascinated by his brain and intellect as well as his physical appearance – unruly dark curls framed his perfectly harmonious features, plump lips and straight nose, light green eyes that eventually changed color to a crystal-clear light blue, ceramic-like skin and small waist, long legs and fingers that he absent-mindedly cracked every ten minutes, all this surrounded by an aura of confidence and pride that everybody loved to hate – but most of all, she was mesmerized by the sheer curiosity of his, something that could match hers.

For days after their last encounter, Aida was completely taken with the thought of running into him again, and Sherlock was…well, Sherlock, so he couldn't care less about whats-her-name, until he decided to book a private guide to take him through the Peggy Guggenheim Collection.
Sherlock was sitting on the steps in front of the entrance, when someone behind him cleared his throat.

- Do we always have to meet like this?

He turned around and frowned.

- Criminology?
- Yes – she giggled – that's me. Criminology.

Sherlock stood up and wiped his trousers.

- What are you doing here?
- What are you doing here. I'm working. I'm waiting for someone who booked a private tour.
- Uhm… that would be me. – he sneered and stared at his feet, almost embarrassed.

Aida tried to control her voice but a sudden high-pitched tone revealed way too much excitement.

- Excellent! – she clapped her hands together, smiling.

Even if he was just eighteen, Sherlock was already uncomfortable admitting he wasn't an expert at something, and art was that something; not that he wasn't interested, he had an unexpected soft spot for impressionism, something that clashed with his sharp and prickly personality, but other than that he wasn't what you would call and expert or even an art lover. She linked her right arm with his left and Sherlock look at her, startled, causing Aida to burst into laughter.

- Relax. I'm not going to kill you!

They walked arm in arm for a while, Aida pointing at details and Sherlock leaning too close to the paintings, much to her amusement: the rectilinear and curvilinear patterns of Picasso and the fluid shapes of Dalì witnessed what she would have called a date, and what Sherlock would dismissed as an art lecture with inappropriate touching. She gave his arm a little tug and they stopped to stand in front of a painting.

- This is Duchamp, Sad Young Man on a Train.
- Sounds…dull.
- Yes, it does, especially right after Dalì. But it's not. Duchamp wanted to convey two types of movement: that of the train and that of the lurching subject itself, smoking. Two parallel movements corresponding to each other. Jeunne homme triste dans un train. Did you hear the-
- …alliteration?
- Exactly. Like…Hoffman and Holmes.

She let his arm go and crossed hers, smiling at him, who was grimacing at the comparison.

- It's a figure of speech that Duchamp wanted to use to emphasize the parallel movements with the same constrained direction: the train on its rail and the young man walking down the corridor.
- But I see nothing in the painting that suggests sadness or any particular emotional state for that matter. Was he triste because it goes well with train?
- Why did you have to ruin everything with logic and rationalization?
- Because we live in the real world and not inside a painter's mind?

She shook her head and clasped her hands behind her back before she resumed walking; this time Sherlock followed.

Time passed slowly for Sherlock and too fast for Aida and when the tour came to an end it was already time for both of them to go home; they (she) decided to take the waterbus back to the center of the City, where they (he) would part their ways. Sherlock hoped to shake her presence off by standing alone on the deck, between freezing wind and random splashes of cold water, but she didn't take the hint and followed him outside.

- So why the sudden interest in art?
- An interest in art can't be sudden.

Sherlock tried to shield himself from the wind by turning his coat collar up, still not looking at her and instead focusing his gaze on the flickering lights of the Laguna.

- Who's your favorite then?
- Monet.
- Seriously?

He snapped his head towards her with a stern look.

- Why? Should I ask permission to enjoy impressionism?
- No, no, it's just…weird for someone like you. I thought you'd be more of a… German expressionism kind of guy.
- …right.

Sherlock dropped the discussion, even though the words "someone like you" still resounded in his head.

- Can't blame you, though. Impressionist had a…ravishing way of looking at the world. Reality seen through sensations. The subjects are real but the representations of them are so subjective and personal. Good choice.

Aida smiled and sensed that Sherlock was uncomfortable so she turned and started to walk away from him.

- …my grandmother liked French impressionist. My grandparents lived in a huge mansion and she had a room entirely dedicated to Monet's painting of lotus flowers and water lilies. She was obsessed. In a good way, I guess.

Sherlock took a seat and crossed his legs, while Aida noticed the cigarette in his hand for the first time; he brought it to his slightly parted lips, his cheeks hollowing as he drew in one long, deep drag and then he slowly blew out a stream of smoke. She followed his fluids movements, finding the scene extremely endearing and strangely lewd; the young woman sat next to him, licking her lips a couple of time before answering.

- So you ended up sharing the same passion?
- More or less. The entire house smelled like lotus, she smelled like lotus, her clothes smelled like lotus. So one time I asked and I was suddenly thrown in a vortex of pastel colours, rapid and small brush strokes, deception of light and en plein air, déjeuner sur l'herbe and Grenouillère.

She smiled at the mocking emphasis Sherlock used while speaking French and her eyes flicked back at his mouth, while he toyed with the cigarette in his hand.

- …the thing I love most about Italy is the fact that people don't judge you if you smoke. What's wrong with it? If I'm not blowing smoke in your face then why look at me like I'm committing genocide? I'm not bothering you because you get pissed every night at the pub with your mates, it's your choice, you do whatever you want with your body and your liver, why can't I with my lungs? Right?

He turned and caught her still gazing at his lips so she blushed and looked away, mumbling something and fidgeting with her ring. Sherlock smirked and stared so Aida could feel his eyes burning her skin: she looked back and in a second her lips tentatively brushed his. The future consulting detective closed his eyes and kissed back but remained still, almost indifferent, even when she slid her tongue across his lower lip and tangled her hand in his curls.
Sherlock then tilted his head to the side and deepened the kiss while she answered with a moan, until he placed a hand on her shoulder, pushing her away; with red cheeks and ragged breathing, Aida stared at him, surprised and confused.

- Why? – she whimpered.
- It was enough.
- …enough what?
- The experiment.
- The ex-…the what?

She stood up and looked around her, shifting on her feet.

- I just wanted to understand the mechanics of the kissing process.
-"The kissing process"? What are you talking about?
- What part of it don't you understand?
- The part where you kissed back!
- Yes, as I said, I wanted to experiment but unfortunately it couldn't be one-sided for a successful outcome.
- Unfor…unfortunately?
- Oh, yes, I'm sorry. Not a big fan.

Aida's eyes narrowed at him while her nostrils widened with rage at the sight of Sherlock coolness and nonchalance.

- Are you fucking kidding me?
- No. Also, I'd like a feedback if you don't mind. Although the moaning should be enough.

She groaned and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes and then against her temples.

- You bastard! I feel so humiliated, so…Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you? What kind of freak would do that? Gosh! What is your problem?
- The problem?
- Oh, you don't see the problem in what you just did? You stick your tongue in someone else's throat as an experiment and you can't see why this is bothering me?

Piazza San Marco was getting closer and closer so Sherlock stood up and made his way toward the exit, while a few people gathered outside as well; Aida came to stand right next to him and grabbed the lapels of his coat, clenching her jaw.

- You liked it so I don't see the problem. You enjoyed it.
- Emotional investment, Sherlock. – she whispered between her teeth.
- You don't even know me, Aida.
- You selfish asshole. You're dead inside and you're gonna pay for this. Years of solitude and misery, that's what will happen to you. People will despise you, you'll be alone and miserable.
- Yes, you said that.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and wriggled his way out of her strong grip; Aida grabbed his wrist and pulled him down to her, their faces just inches apart.

- You will pay for this.
- All this rage for a kiss? Or it's the fact that an eighteen year old boy humiliated you with a damn good kiss at his first try? A bit excessive, don't you think? We just met. Have some dignity.

Sherlock was getting restless so the wicked side of him took over; she bit her lower lip and twisted his wrist, causing him to stifle a cry of pain.

- We're done.
- Impossible. We didn't even begin, there's nothing to end here.

Aida shoved him against the banister and took a few step back, never breaking eye-contact; she grinned and for the first time since their first meeting Sherlock saw something malicious in her eyes.

- We'll see.

Well, that escalated quickly. I desperately need feedbacks. The moaning isn't enough (badum-tsssh!). And, you know, the usual: forgive me for any mistakes or grammar atrocities here and there.