Nᴏᴛ Gᴀʏ {Tᴇᴇɴ/Jᴏʜɴʟᴏᴄᴋ}

№ 22

"It was obviously an affair," Sherlock said nonchalantly, flicking his finger against the edge of the table. "Because she was clearly unhappy with her marriage. Have you seen the live interviews?"

We had been discussing this for the past ten days, since the moment we had learnt that it happened.

"Hopefully you don't go out saying this in public," I replied, resting my jaw on my palm, my elbow pushing against the hard wooden tabletop. "People are still shaken up, you know."

"So the real question is: what was he not providing her as a husband? Sex? It's usually sex that makes people seek new partners-"

"I think you should shut up, actually," I said. "Diana was, and still is, worthy of our respect, especially now-"

"She's dead now."

"-so we don't have to discuss her sex life," I said. "It's disrespectful."

"I wonder how quickly Charles will remarry."

"Shut. Up." I said. "Christ. Have some empathy."

He crossed his arms, huffing a disappointed breath out through his mouth like a stubborn child. He wasn't one for empathy. I suppose that was something I'd best get used to.

10th September, 1997

So I'll admit it: I have a crush on Sherlock Holmes.

He has a cute giggle, and he only likes sandwiches if they're cut horizontally, and he has an intense amount of adoration towards small or young things, such as tiny buttons and kittens. Sometimes when he smiles, his mouth makes a v shape and his eyes light up a little more and he continues eye contact a bit longer.

He called his mum the other day on the telephone, and he leant back against the wall and put his free hand in his pocket, and, though it was covered by a stoic expression, I knew he felt like smiling. And he told her he loved her. And she hung up first.

It's the little things that he does that make me like him even more. Since the snow hasn't quite melted, he's been playing Christmas songs on his violin, even though he doesn't even celebrate the holiday. I think the snow will be gone by tomorrow, and thank God for that. I wouldn't want to be bored of Christmas music in three and a half months when it actually happens.

Classes have started. He hasn't told me directly, but I think he's majoring in some sort of physics-related thing. I don't know. He doesn't answer boring questions like that.

There was a knife sticking into the table.

There used to be letters that were impaled between the knife and the wood, but I had taken them out to read them. The knife seemed to be a bit stuck, and both of us were afraid to pull it out in case the momentum was too much and it would end up hurting someone. We also agreed that we wouldn't stab knives into tables anymore, although that was mostly my decision.

"So," I said, sitting across from Sherlock and staring at the exposed and sharpened blade of the knife. "Are you going to take Molly skating, then?" I motioned to one of the letters that had been stabbed, the return address correlating with Molly's room.

Sherlock sort of frowned down at it, furrowing his brow and weaving his fingers together. "I haven't got much of a choice."