It's been over a week since Sherlock and I had an actual conversation. One of us will ask a question or greet the other while getting a hum or a grunt back in response. It is not the most ideal form of communication but it works to an extent. However, if Sherlock is in a pissy mood, I might get a rude remark from him. It's shocking considering the lack of conversation and eye contact.
"Sherlock, can you move your science project?" I ask. This shit has been sitting on the counter for days, maybe even a week now. It has taken up any available spots for me to prepare food. I'd rather not make a sandwich next to thawed and frozen eyeballs. "Mrs. Hudson needs to use the table to help me."
"Move it yourself," he growls, not looking up from his five year old newspaper.
"Excuse me?" I raise an eyebrow at his attitude. I haven't done a single thing to get any more asshole remarks.
"I said-" he starts but I cut him off, not letting to say anything more stupid.
"I know what you said," I huff as he goes back to typing away on his laptop. "Jackass," I mumble under my breath.
"I heard that," he snaps as if it bothered me.
"That was the point, you twat." Without any hesitation, I knock his glassware and test tubes into the basin of the sink, letting them clash and clink together. "Sorry for his attitude, Hudson. I'd say it was my fault, but I think we both know it's not."
"Oh dear, It's alright. I hope you don't mind me using your counter," she trails off, not wanting to be a bother.
"Anything for you." I smile while noticing a sleek, black car parked on the curb outside the window.
Mycroft.
"I have to go, Mrs. Hudson. I'll be back later," I spit out fast as I rush to grab my coat. I look up at Sherlock. He doesn't even notice my presence. I sigh before dismissing his attitude, "Good-bye, you daft- nevermind." I cut myself off before running out the door of 221B. I run out onto the sidewalk and up to Mycroft's car. I open the door before sliding in.
"Nice seeing you, Ms. Baines," Mycroft greets.
"Hello, Mr. Holmes. How are you? Great I would assume," I smile. I buckle myself in the seat, ready to go wherever.
"Yes, as always," He rolls his eyes using a sarcastic tend to reply.
"Where are we off to? Speedy's down the street?" I question even though I already knew that.
***
"I've noticed Sherlock's attitude hasn't been the greatest," Mycroft roughly says as he sips his tasteful tea. His suit looks a bit too fancy for my liking, but I shrug it off as non-important.
"Yes, so have I. I don't know why, though," I state. I take a drink of my scorching tea. It burns my mouth and throat, causing me to grimace in pain. In reaction I drop the cup on my plate, spilling the rest of the burning liquid on my lap. Mycroft rolls his eyes at my foolishness but completely ignores my pain.
"Have you said anything? Has he said anything leading to a possible reason?" Mycroft asks as if he seems genuinely concerned. What a bunch of bullshit he is.
"Well, yes, but I don't-" I start but am soon cut off. I grab a towelette and wipe my trousers off... I'm already starting to sound British.
"What was it?" He asks.
"Nothing," I mumble. I almost pulled that lie on him, but of course, he wouldn't fall for my fibs.
"Don't lie. That will get you nowhere," He states. I roll my eyes. If I could, I'd roll them into the back of my head.
"Alright then, yes of course something was said. This is Sherlock Holmes for God's sake. He's your younger brother, you should know... 'Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side, and I'm the losing side. You're my weakness', he said."
"Hmmm, interesting," Mycroft looks off into the distance thinking.
"What is that supposed to mean?" I ask, confused.
"I'm- I'm not quite sure... I think Sherlock has grown feelings for you," Mycroft says, informing me. Scoffing, I laugh to myself at his inaccurate assumption.
"No, he hasn't. Why would he? What makes you say that?" I ask, "Have you ever met your brother? He doesn't have 'feelings'."
"That's what you think," Mycroft says. "He's not heartless, he does have emotions. He knows what love is."
"What are you saying- No, he doesn't love me. He couldn't because I'm not lovable," I trail off. "Is this all you had wanted to say?" I ask. He doesn't respond right away. "Great. Then I'm leaving. Thank you for your time, Mycroft."
***
He doesn't love me.
I think to myself, making sure that thought gets through my thick skull. I stumble in the door of 221B.
He doesn't love me.
I glance at Sherlock. His sleepy body slumped on the couch. I look at my watch.
11:32 P.M.
I look back up at his sleeping form. His perfect curls fall over his face. His cheekbones are still as sharp as a knife. His resting face almost seems so... Innocent. He threw his coat on the floor, making it all crumpled. He wouldn't throw his coat on the floor though...
Out of anger.
I shake my head, not caring. I walk away, finding some pajama pants to change into because of my damp trousers.
He doesn't love me.
After I'm finished I walk back into the living room. I look around for a blanket. After moments of searching, I give up. I grab Sherlock's coat before heading to the couch. I fall back into the furniture. I curl my body into a ball before I place Sherlock's coat over my body. I look back at his handsome features.
Do I love him?