Jen continued staring at the ceiling fiddling with her thumbs. She should have been sleeping or trying, but she had too much on her mind, mainly Sherlock Holmes. He had been silently observing her since she had gotten back from the restaurant giving her only a clue to what had gone on when she was out; she wasn't even sure if he knew that she knew he was watching her. She worried what Peter had said to cause his quiet as Peter was dangerous and had the unique ability of convincing anyone of anything he so desired. Though convincing Sherlock of anything without concrete evidence was exceedingly difficult, which just worried her even more. What evidence had Peter given the detective.

"What did he say to you?" she asked as she stood to throw out any trash from dinner as well as shoving any food in the fridge away from the leg. She had to keep herself busy as her mind wheeled from having her brother around even if that meant doing the despicable, tedious task of household chores.

"Hm?" Sherlock asked her snapping out of his thoughts about Peter and Jen. He was trying to piece an impossible web together; he could do this if he had the time and resources. What was Peter trying to do? What was he trying to convince him of? He had a motive, and perhaps a side motive of his was to rid Jen of Sherlock Holmes, but he had a bigger motive, one that was out of reach thus far. Sherlock needed to know what it was.

"What did Peter say to you?" she repeated her question seeking to know what the man's mind was on.

"He just told me he wanted to ruin me," he said casually as if saying 'today is Monday.' Perhaps it was so simple; he had death threats practically daily from various enemies, and Peter was no different. No one had succeeded yet; the closest was Moriarty, and even then, it seemed he wasn't as close as Jen thought.

"Oh," she said with a frown. It didn't surprise her, but it still upset her. Her brother needed to control himself, but she was no fool. Peter had a desire to cause havoc, and nothing would change that especially when he had the temptation of a mind like Holmes's to play with. That thought alone was enough to make her nauseous convinced that him being out was largely due to her influence at the hearing.

"He told me if it came down to it, your loyalty would go to him, and you'd be okay with shooting me if I got in the way," he informed her. She paused thinking that concept over. If she had to choose between the two of them, who would she pick? Well, blood against water, it was an easy choice, wasn't it? At least, it seemed like an easy choice.

"Wouldn't miss the chance to shoot you," she muttered half joking, but there was a part of her that really wouldn't mind shooting him, perhaps not killing him, but injuring him? Oh, she could enjoy that. The flat fell silent again as Sherlock seemed to consider whether she was kidding or not. He decided to push that aside as he focused on a question he didn't want to ask as the psychopath upstairs was the one to advise him to ask it. To ask was playing right into his game.

"What happened the year you were sixteen?" Sherlock asked her deciding to play Peter's game confident in his ability to win no matter what the game plan was. "After you killed Connor, where did you go?" She paused as she cleaned the dishes that had been building in the sink. Her mind searched for that answer but knew that she would find none.

"What do you mean where did I go?" she asked trying to find an easy way out. "I went home."

"No, you didn't," he told her. She should have known an easy answer would not do for Sherlock. "No one knew where you were for another year. What happened?" She paused with a frown. What was she supposed to tell him? She grasped for the memories, but they slid like putty through her hands. What was she going to tell him when she didn't have anything to tell? The truth, she supposed.

"I don't know," she said as she stacked more dishes into the dishwasher trying to avoid looking at him.

"Don't lie, Ginny," Sherlock told her sounding bored with the idea. "It doesn't suit you."

"No, I mean, I don't know… I don't remember," she told him with a sigh. "Most of that year… is black. I remember killing Connor, but I don't even remember leaving the school. I was back home a year later." It should have bothered her that she had these moments of darkness, and yet, she was grateful for them as they had blanked out most of the horrors she had witnessed. Ignorance was bliss, and she was the perfect example of that.

"Blackouts? Do you have those often?" he asked her. His face was passive even as he scrambled to find answers to these blackouts. Was there ever a time she had blackouts recently? If so, when? She never showed signs before, or had she and he hadn't caught them?

"Um… yeah," she replied attempting to recall the moments of her life that she had rather large blank patches in her memory, "but uh… that year was the worst, and then um… while I worked with Shadow, and uh… they occur on and off."

"Have you seen someone about it?" he asked standing and approaching the counter she stood in front of. She shook her head. "Why?" She shrugged. Oh, she knew why they were there. They were repressive memories; they were things she chose not to know. Somewhere in her subconscious laid her most grotesque, most horrific memories, and there they would remain as far as she was concerned. She didn't need to carry anymore horrors around with her.

"I worry what they'll tell me," she told him, and really, it was only a half lie. "I mean… the blackouts have gotten better, so I think I'll be okay."

"Go see a doctor about it," Sherlock ordered her leaning over her in a rather imposing manner. When he wanted to be, Sherlock Holmes could be just as manipulative as her brother, but at least his manipulation skills were generally for the common good.

"Why?" she asked turning to him. It was really unfair how much taller he was than her. It made her feel slightly intimidated when he loomed over her like he currently was. She straightened her back to erect herself to full height; it didn't really do much.

"Blackouts could be caused by a number of ailments," he informed her ready to tick them off his fingers. "Tumors, narcolepsy, epilepsy, some forms of cancer, heart attack, central nervous system diseases, irregular heartbeat, stroke, multiple sclerosis-"

"Sherlock, I'm fine," she told him cutting him off not wanting to go into this with him. She had more important things to deal with and so did he such as the psychopath sleeping upstairs.

"You aren't a medical doctor; you don't know that," he replied, and she searched his face trying to understand why he was insisting she go see someone about a problem she's had since she was fifteen. She found nothing as he seemed to be doing quite a good job at keeping his face passive.

"Why does it matter?" she asked. He paused and looked down to her trying to search for an answer that didn't seem sentimental; he failed.

"I imagine life would become all the more unbearable if you were to succumb," he mused trying to reply coldly and failing as Jen seemed to catch the sincerity and warmth he attempted to push down. She looked at him surprised with this confession and slightly confused.

"You managed fine after you faked your death," she said harshly turning away from him to finish the dishes. She was still mad about that? He didn't understand the effect it had on her; he didn't understand how she could still be mad. He was alive and kicking, and she seemed to rather have him dead and six feet under. What sort of logic was that? It didn't make any sense to him. Surly, they were over this.

"I didn't want to, Ginny," he told her still struggling to find the logic in her behavior, "but I would rather hurt you than kill you." Jen stared at him through wide eyes trying to understand him and why he didn't understand. Perhaps the initial play out of his plan didn't hurt him, but coming back and realizing his friends were angry, were upset, were disappointed stung him. How could he not understand that that was going to hurt those closest to him? They loved him, and he essentially died. God, how was this man even human? How could she have loved him, and why did the prospect of that love fading as the days went by leave her feeling emptier than she has been?

"How sad for you to have to feel pain," she snapped at him not ready to cave into any of his little attempts to get her sympathy. She wanted him to hurt; she wanted him to feel what she felt even if it was impossible. "You know what I feel? You know what I have felt since your supposed suicide?"

"Sadness I imagine," he said thoughtfully and carelessly. He didn't seem to care if she was sad, and , even if he did, she couldn't see it angering her more. She wanted to watch him shatter under the guilt; she just wanted him to understand. What do you say to a machine for them to understand heartbreak?

"No, nothing," she snapped throwing her dish in the sink likely shattering it. She faced him clearly angry. "People confuse depression for sadness. They say just cheer up, Jen. Be happy, but depression isn't sadness. Depression is nothing; depression is sitting there not wanting to do anything. It's sitting at the bottom of the deepest well and seeing the light knowing if you just tried you could get out but not bothering to because there is no point. Every time someone told me to be happy I wanted to shoot them in their God damn head. Telling a depressed person to be happy is like someone saying my dog is dead and being replied with its okay, we'll find it. So if you feel unhappy, ashamed, pain, then consider yourself lucky, because you have more than I do. You took that from me, and I hate you for it." Her words hit like a knife. She had been angry before, and perhaps she had even told him she hated him before, but it wasn't like this. None of it was like this; she said it so precisely and so harshly that he realized what he lost by deceiving her.

"I'm sorry, Ginny," he uttered to her meaning his apology more than he had any other time he had apologized. He watched as tears slowly started trickling down her face putting another sharpened knife in him.

"Is it really so hard to love me?" she asked him through tears. She wasn't exactly stable; she had yet to address everything she had been feeling since his revival. As much as he hated to see her this way, he knew this was perhaps a sign of her working through her depression. "You told me you would stay; you promised, and you left, and I was just stupid enough to believe you. I thought you cared about me even just little."

"I had no choice," he assured her. "Believe me I wanted to stay, but there was no other way." She kept crying, but it wasn't in anger with him anymore; it was a sort of confusion and anger she felt for herself. "Stop it. Stop crying; it doesn't suit you. It sort of… distorts your face," he told her causing her to nearly laugh, but it was caught in a sob causing her to choke on her laugh.

"I don't know if… I don't know if I can trust you anymore," she told him quickly wiping the tears away and trying to keep a hold of her pride while she still could. "I just don't, and I'm sorry, but… I can't change that."

"I know, and I'm not asking for that. It would be unrealistic," he replied recognizing that this would take more time despite finding it to be illogical and just plain, well, stupid. "I'm asking you to stop being hindered by the things I did. It's not fair to you, and it has really become inconvenient to my routine as well." She paused to consider what he was asking. He was essentially asking her to move on, and let go of the past between them. She could do that, couldn't she? She thought she already had until he came back in her life and shattered that illusion.

"I think… I can try," she told him finally drying off her hands wanting to go to bed. She was exhausted from all this conversation, and all the emotions she was experiencing.

"Will you forgive me?" he asked her. She paused to look at him square in the eyes; her eyes darted back and forth trying to see something that was invisible to the naked eye. She wanted regret and guilt, and she saw nothing of the sort.

"No," she replied simply. "I'm sorry but no." He nodded slowly having no choice but to accept this decision. He could not force her to forgive him as much as he wanted to. "I'm going to um… couch," she gesture making her way toward the sitting room, but Sherlock wrapped his arm around her small arm. Thankfully, she was starting to gain a little of her weight back already. He rolled his eyes at his yet to be spoken offer. Sentiment was really starting to get the better of him.

"Take my room," he told her.

"Oh no, I couldn't," she shook her head looking up at him.

"This is what people do isn't it?" he asked her not looking her in the eyes. He was looking anywhere but; he felt completely awkward not used to doing such humanizing acts. "Do nice things to make up for the wrongs?"

"I suppose," she replied seeing the logic in this.

"Then take my bed," he told her, but it sounded more like a rough order. "If you fall asleep on the couch, I will be forced to be in the humiliating situation of carrying you there when you doze off."

"Okay," she said in a small voice before turning around to his room. She paused for a moment; she wanted one more crack at him. She wanted him to feel the heartbreak she felt; oh, it was cruel, but... he had been cruel first: an eye for an eye. Would he even feel it? "Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"Thank you," she started off still deciding what she wanted to say if she wanted to say it. "Despite being unable to accept your words of apology… they do not on deaf ears. I hear you loud and clear, but I need you to understand. I really meant everything I said when you died. I loved you, and I wasn't running on emotion when I wrote that damn article, and I didn't mean I loved you like a brother. You were only one of two men who I've ever loved to that extent, and I had to kill the first one… I thought that your death was my fault. People around me who I love just seem to die; I felt cursed and worthless."

"But I'm not dead," he reminded her still trying to find her train of thought. She wasn't a stupid woman; there had to be a reason for all this hate and anger toward him.

"No, but," she paused considering her words; she wanted to make an impact on him, but it wasn't working, "what I felt is. I moved on; I don't love you anymore, and I never will… not again… not like that," she told him, and the silence became heavy as the full impact of her words shattered and buried deep into him tearing him apart as if it was shards of glass tearing across his every fiber. Dear lord, why did this hurt so bad? Why was he in so much pain? He had suffered no external wound, and yet, it hurt like one, and it didn't dull as she left the room to continue on to his room thinking she had failed in her attempts to show him what she felt when in fact she did not. He stumbled into the sitting room feeling like he was suffocating and every part of his hurt. He quickly checked for external wounds and signs of poison, heart attack, stroke, anything. He needed to see a doctor now.

"Your temperature is fine," John sighed looking at the thermometer rather tired as he had been awoken at three in the morning by Sherlock banging on the door shouting about being hurt. He had likely awoken his neighbors as well.

"Then what is wrong with me?" he hissed. "I hurt all over especially in the abdomen and chest, and I had a very difficult time breathing in the flat. I feel fatigued like I've had the flu for months." It had dulled down, yet, and it still burned like a fresh wound.

"What brought it about?" Mary asked with a yawn sitting at the table with a cup of tea. She could have slept through Sherlock's visit, but something told her this would need her expertise as well as her fiance's.

"I don't know," Sherlock snapped not understanding why these people couldn't help or why he couldn't find details that may lead to what had caused the pain he was experiencing, "I was just talking to Ginny, and after we were done talking, she left to my room, and it just hit me."

"What were you talking about?" Mary frowned thinking her instinct to be right. Sherlock didn't think he could be impacted by words and emotions; he was so very wrong. He was still human.

"She was telling me that she moved on, and that she…," he felt the familiar difficulty with his breathing as his head swam, and it felt like someone punch him in the gut. "Some nonsense about never loving me again, then stalked off to her room. She was being emotional." John and Mary shared a look before Mary put a hand on his pitying him.

"You poor man, you really don't know," she mused.

"Know what!?"

"Sherlock," Mary whispered, "you're experiencing what Jen felt when she thought you were dead. That was likely the point."

"The point?" Sherlock frowned not comprehending what the hell she was talking about. Had Jen poisoned him in revenge? "What are you talking about!? John! What the hell is she saying?" John sighed and looked to Mary, who nodded as if to say 'well, tell him.' John nodded in return knowing it was really the only way to go about this problem.

"There's nothing physically wrong with you, Sherlock," John told him. "You're heartbroken." He gave a disbelieving scoff at the analysis. That was impossible; there was no way he, the Sherlock Holmes, was heartbroken especially not over Jen. It was a childish and stupid thought, and clearly John knew nothing about him if he thought this was the case.

"In order to be heartbroken, I would have had to love her," he replied shaking his hand from Mary, "and I didn't. Ginny's a friend, and that is it. Love is a disadvantage I will not fall for."

"It doesn't matter if it's a disadvantage," Mary chuckled slightly amused by his lack of understanding; he was one of the most brilliant men in the world, and yet, he didn't understand love nor anything related to it that wasn't' chemical or biological, "sometimes it just happens no matter how hard you fight against it."

"You really think you don't love her?" John asked not believing, after everything, what he was hearing. Surely by now he knew what was so obvious for everyone else to see. "Sherlock, nothing was more important to you than your reputation as a detective, but you threw that aside on a whim just at chance to find out why Moriarty wanted her, just at a chance to keep her safe."

"We… I have a debt I need to repay," he tried to argue, but John shook his head.

"No," John told him. "You know that debt has been erased ages ago. You did this because you wanted to protect her, and if that's not enough proof, I can pull up hundreds of examples. Near the end there, you two were a couple despite your denial. For the love of God, I found you two sleeping on the floor together more than once."

"Involuntary reaction during REM sleep," he defended.

"Alright, fine. The opera?"

"I owed her an opera. She missed it because of me," he answered quickly.

"Baskerville?" Mary offered having read and heard all about the two.

"I was drugged," he explained away.

"Mycrofts?"

"I was drunk," he informed him.

"Ah, ah, no, no not at first. You were trying to make her feel better. You weren't drunk; you weren't drugged; you were just concerned. You went out of your way to make her feel better." Sherlock searched for an excuse but could find none making him frustrated.

"Oh, this ridiculous!" Sherlock shouted standing not willing to admit what was obviously the truth even with the facts right in front of him. "I'm not in love with her! I can't be!"

"Why?" John challenged willing to push Sherlock into admission if he had to. It would be a difficult feat to convince him what he was feeling was heartbreak, but if they could, it was a huge step toward the right direction. "Jen's clever; she's smart; she's interesting and fun; she keeps you on your toes; she loves you, and that's a hell of an accomplishment; and she's a hell of a woman."

"Take it easy, John," Mary muttered just a little jealous.

"Sorry," he smiled at her before turning back to the conversation at hand. "Why is it impossible for you to see what everyone else knows? You're in love with her."

"I can't be!" he shouted pacing angry with the conclusion that was proving more and more right the more he filtered through his mind palace to find evidence that proved otherwise. It was in that moment he realized that he hadn't deleted a single piece of information about Jen even the most useless, obscure pieces of data like the fact that she hates the color orange or the fact that she thought that small talk was the instrument of the devil or the way she scrunched her nose when she found something particularly amusing.

"Why?!" John demanded wanting to know why his best friend was so reluctant to admit to his one saving grace.

"Because my mind can't handle it!" he shouted unable to find any other words.

"What?" John asked confused. Sherlock finally calmed down and leaned into a one of the kitchen chairs breathing deeply as he tried to reel in his emotions. Was it true? Did he love Ginevra Lorraine, and he had been blind to that fact?

"If she dies for whatever reason, and I love her, I will never be able to use my mind again," he said able to live that moment in his mind so easily. He could see the disaster he would become. "My mind palace will crumble; my cognitive process will start to fail as if I'd become blind, and the idea of losing my job, the one thing that brings joy, would be taken away by love," he spat. He recalled when Enola died, and it stabbed him slightly. It had dulled down over the years, but deep in his mind palace there were rooms upon rooms left in ruin because of her death. He couldn't let anymore of the palace crumble under emotion. "It was nearly this way when I lost Enola."

"Doesn't matter if you accept it," Mary told him. "If she dies and you don't accept it, you'll still face the same consequences." He slowly looked up at her still breathing rather hard. He pushed off the chair and rubbed his eyes exhausted.

"So… what I do? How do I make this 'heartbreak' go away?" he asked in an almost mocking manner not quite ready to concede but ready to try anything to stop this psychosomatic pain.

"Nothing," Mary told him. "Sherlock, look at Jen. You broke her heart, and she still hasn't healed. What you're feeling is what she felt. But, if Jen loves you the way I think she does, she won't be able to help but fall in love again."

"She told me never again," he said letting guilt sink in. So, this is what caused her actions, this feeling? This is what caused her to act irrationally; it didn't seem irrational anymore, and he felt a heavy weight fall on his shoulders realizing what he had done.

"Well, she lied," Mary laughed causing him to glance at her with some sort of spark of hope. "She'll try to stray away, no doubt about that, but she'll fail."

"She's moved-on; she has… Mark," he hissed. Jealousy? Was this jealousy? Oh fucking hell, he realized, he was in love with her... No, no, no, he wasn't in love with her. This was jealousy, yes, but he was jealous that he took up Jen's time when he hadn't seen her for two years. That's all it was; this was backlash from being gone for so long.

"Mark is just convenient; she saw him a lot when she was visiting Lucy," Mary replied. "I like Mark, but… their relationship won't last especially not with you in the picture. Let the relationship run its course; give it time."

"And in the meantime?" he asked wanting the relationship run its course at his command.

"Just be Sherlock Holmes," John laughed. "She loves you. God only know why, but hell, she's perfect for you." John paused to consider that and then amended his statement. "Actually, I think she's a bit out of your league, but who am I to judge?"

"Right," he muttered slowly heading toward the door to go home. There was nothing he could do but dwell on these thoughts. God, it was going to agonizing.

"Sherlock," Mary called stopping him.

"Hm?"

"She hasn't moved on; she's just waiting for you," Mary smiled before he nodded and started toward the door before he paused realizing that no one could ever know he came to them because he supposedly had his heart broken.

"Don't mention this to anyone," he ordered them.

"Of course not," the couple chimed together before they watched him leave.

"That poor man," Mary sighed after hearing the door slam.

"You have no idea," John replied cleaning up the tea. "I had to spend over a year with the two looking at each other longingly behind each other's back as the sexual tension became so unbearable I needed air." Mary laughed.

"Well, at least, we know he's human now," Mary grinned.

"Barely," John muttered earning another laugh from his fiancé.

A/N: I'm still trying to decide if it was believable enough... hm. Well, anyway, a necessary bitchy move on Jen's part; hey, you can't go anywhere if Sherlock refuses to acknowledge that he potentially loves her.

You were all marvelously supportive of me bitching about my migraines. I was being needy in my time of agonizing pain, so thank you for humoring me.

Thanks to reviewers: knetterzak, Liberty Blake, zare. downey .okumura (for some reason it won't let me type out your username properly) , swanrage, hannahhobnob, and TragicBlossoms. See you Wednesday night. Review please!