General Disclaimer

Couldn't help myself, I seem to be falling back into a severe H/L phase. Ah, well, I also needed a break from trying to write a Watson fic...it's hard to write from the POV of someone so *nice*.

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You don't ask how I want my tea. You haven't since the day we met. Milk, no sugar. Sometimes I wonder if you really needed to ask at all. You seem to know everything before it even considers existence. Well, almost everything. But, supposedly, you can never see what's right under your nose. Though to be fair, I'm not right under your nose. If I were... never mind.

The tea burns my hands through the insulated cup. Not that I'm complaining, I just about froze coming here in the rain. Watson told me I should take better care of myself. You didn't even look at me.

And I wonder, am I that insubstantial? What do I need to do to make you notice me, my *dear* Mr. Holmes? I've exhausted all of my ideas. Death, disease, insanity, kindness, loyalty? Love.

It's like I'm the middle child in a family of seven. The middle child with plain features, braces and straight B's.

First there was... who was there? You never tell anyone about yourself, but you know anything about everyone else. Your father, mother, aunt, a beautiful woman? A beautiful man, perhaps? Maybe you yourself have always come first. That's the way it seems now. No, I'm not bitter.

Second, Watson. Third, The Woman. Fourth, me. I understand how I'm nothing compared to her. Don't worry. It was the first thing I realised. That and I love you. Fifth, sixth, seventh, Wiggins, Deidre and Tennyson. Or maybe they're fourth, fifth and sixth and I'm kidding myself?

But then there are times I flatter myself that I might be the first and foremost on your mind. When I'm attacked, buried, drowned, controlled, sometimes I think I see the flickerings of care.

Or maybe I'm mistaking the love of victory for the love of a lover. Maybe you really are simply thinking about how now they've overdone it and you've got them. Got them right you want them. Right where you've got me, you ass.

Do you do this intentionally to keep me under your thumb or do I do this to myself, hoping one day you'll lift your thumb and see me there? Sometimes I wonder.

If only I could hate you for the arrogant snob you really are. But you've just dropped a towel on my shoulders and given me a plate of cookies I love; and you hate. If only I could actually be the strong, independent woman I like to pretend I am.

No harm in dreaming, though, I suppose.

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Ta daa! yes, yes I know it's concentrated sap. (Hee, hee, maple syrup! ... never mind.) However, if I were Lestrade I'd certainly get fed up from time to time with him.

THE END