Sherlock is still in his chair, thinking. His eyes are closed; this a particularly difficult problem to solve. He's going to need reinforcements.

Unfortunately, Mycroft comes to mind first. He paces the room slowly in front of Sherlock, a smug look on his face. "Well, brother mine..." he stops "... did you ever think this day would come?"

"I don't know if it has yet," Sherlock replies.

"Then why are you asking me?"

"Because you're the one who told what love was."

"A dangerous disadvantage."

Sherlock sighs. This is dangerous — for the both of them. He wants her to go away so she doesn't get hurt but then he doesn't want her to go away at all because he would hardly be able to bear it. What was life like before Lily?

"Didn't you hate her when she first came here?" Mycroft asks.

"I didn't hate her, no. I was... irritated. But that was before I met her."

"Of all the people to fall in love with, Sherlock," Mycroft says. "I always expected you would; you were never strong enough to resist sentiment. But at the very least I expected it to be someone more..." He struggles for the word — or Sherlock does.

"Like us?" he finally asks, brow raising.

Mycroft nods. "Yes, I suppose."

"But I don't need someone like me."

He shrugs. "Perhaps you don't. Perhaps you do need her. In a way, this could be an advantage."

"How so?"

"If she helps you survive — thrive, even. If anyone can get you through a social interaction, it's her, isn't it? You never listened to John."

"He didn't bribe me with baked goods."

"What is it the goldfish say? 'The way to a man's heart is through his stomach?' I never thought that was true."

"Perhaps the sweet tooth you so often succumb to is genetic."

Mycroft shakes his head. "That would've been an excellent jab at me if I were real."

"I'll call you later and tell you about it."

"Oh, please do." He sighs, walks towards the door. "It sounds to me, Sherlock, like you've made up your mind about love. I don't think I taught you well enough." He leaves, and Sherlock is alone again.

He's more... open to the idea of love, sure. But what does it feel like? And is that what he feels for Lily?

Irene Adler walks in the door, wearing his coat. She stands in front of him. "Hello, Sherlock. Why am I here, exactly?"

"I'm thinking through something," he says. She looks just the same as she did when she was really here — of course she does. People rarely change within his mind palace.

"I know," she replies. "I just wanted to ask. That's something I would do, isn't it?"

Sherlock sighs. It is. It was. "I was attracted to you." It's not a question; he knows that much.

Her brow raises. "Were you?"

He frowns. "I assumed so. I thought about you rather often. But you were in love."

"Was I?"

He rolls his eyes. "You're not being helpful."

"So sorry, Sherlock." She sits down on the arm of his chair. He shifts away. "Are you experiencing the signs?"

"Not at the moment, no."

"No racing pulse, no dilated pupils?"

"I didn't then, I'm not now. But what was I feeling?"

Irene shrugs, then gets up, heading for the door. "Let's go see her."

Sherlock chases after her, down the stairs. "Irene-"

She disappears through the door to 221C, forcing Sherlock to follow. They hurry down the stairs that creek, into a land of bright colors and knickknacks and a kitchen that always smells like cookies. Lily is at the counter, stirring. Flour is on her face, her apron. She smiles. "Hello, Sherlock."

The very room fills his senses, takes over his mind. He can breathe better in here. He can relax. "Lily."

"Oh, look at you," Irene says, sitting on the back of the couch. "What a softie."

Lily's brows furrow. "Who's that?"

"Irene Adler," Sherlock replies, finding it a little bit harder to breathe now.

Irene stands, walks over to Lily. "You know that, you're in here too. You're just a part of his mind, like I am."

But Sherlock shakes his head. The mind palace, it's perfectly crafted, compartmentalized. Irene Adler may have been able to run amuck around here, but Lily... Lily has not had that ability yet. Lily stays here. "No, she's... safe. She's safe from all of that."

"You're keeping her in here?" Irene asks, turning to him. "In this kitchen, away from everything? What a twenty first century man you are."

"She's just too normal," Sherlock argues. "She can't be mixed up with... you know."

"Me?"

"I am right here," Lily says. Anger is creeping into her expression. It's at once dazzling and worrying.

"You're the only good thing that's in here. Everything else is steeped in suffering and danger," Sherlock explains.

Her expression softens. "I want to see everything else."

"Lily, you can't. You know enough about me, but you can't... You would see so quickly that I am not worth being around. Not to you."

"If you're going to love her, you'll have to let her in," Irene insists.

"I don't even know if I love her!-" Sherlock shouts. He looks to Lily, who seems hurt "-You. I mean."

"Well? How do you feel?" she asks.

He sighs, rubs his temples. "At the moment, very anxious."

Lily walks over to him and reaches out, taking his hand. She pulls it away from his face, towards her. She pulls him towards her, locking his hand in her own, a tether, an anchor in the storm of his mind. "How about now?"

"My... My heart rate is up," he observes. "But I'm... different anxious. It's almost like butterflies. Is this what people mean when they say butterflies?"

"Your pupils are dilated," Irene points out.

"But what does that mean?"

Lily smiles softly. "What do you think of when you think about me?"

"Fairies," he says instantly.

Irene scoffs. "What an odd start."

"Cookies. Cakes. Brownies. Sugar. Flowers. Gardens. Sunshine. Warmth. Being human."

Irene dusts her hands, walking toward the door. "I think that answers that."

"But I don't know what love is supposed to feel like," Sherlock says.

"What does it feel like to you?" Lily asks.

"Not me. I think that's evident." Irene laughs.

Sherlock turns to her. "But you... there was something about you."

"What did you think of when you thought of me?" she asks.

Sherlock frowns. "The case I was working on, for one."

"No warm, fuzzy feelings?"

"I don't think so."

"And how you feel about me is different than how you feel about Lily."

"How I felt about you," he corrects.

She shakes her head. "I don't think you loved me, Sherlock."

"I couldn't tell the difference then."

"But you can now." She gestures to Lily, and Sherlock turns back to her — to her smile and her eyes so full of wonder and compassion and magic. Distantly, he hears the front door close. "Goodbye, Sherlock."

"What does love feel like to you, Sherlock?" Lily asks softly.

What else can he say? If this isn't love, then what could be? What could feel more magical than this? He smiles. "This. I suppose. This."

She smiles back.

"So now what do I do?" he asks.

"Apologize, for starters."

"But I didn't mean-"

"Sherlock, I know what you meant. I'm a figment of your imagination. She doesn't know that."

He sighs. "I know."

"And you need to tell her things." She nudges him. "Let her be a part of them."

"What if she gets hurt? What if she realizes I'm not worth her time?"

"She's not helpless. And that's  a chance you're going to have to take."

He opens his eyes, still in 221B. John isn't back yet, he doesn't think. At least, he can't hear him. He doesn't know how long it's been. Maybe Lily went out. She might not even be home.

But if she is, he needs to talk to her.

He might throw up, but he's going to do it. He's going to talk to her. Maybe then his nausea will go away. Love is bordering on torture right now, but for Lily, he supposes he can bear it.

He walks down the stairs, slowly, as if giving himself time to think, but he can't. Once he makes it to her front door, he still doesn't know what he's going to say or how. Still, he knocks.

He hears her feet on the stairs, the lock turning on the door. It opens. Her hair is a bit of a mess, and he can't tell if she's been crying or not. She looks surprised. "Sherlock."

What does he say? I love you. I need you. I don't deserve you even as a friend. Do you want to have tea? Will you go with me? Have you been crying? He blurts out, "I'm sorry."

She smiles softly. "I know, Sherlock. It's alright. I'm sorry, too."

"For what?"

"I was... very harsh. I let anger guide my actions. I didn't stop to think about what you probably meant."

"I meant that..." he struggles for the words "... Well, I meant that nothing in my life is normal. No one is. But you are the most normal person in my life. And I..." love "... That's something I've been needing for a long time. I didn't know it, until you came along. I just couldn't understand why someone so wonderfully normal would choose to... be around me."

"Because you're you," she says instantly. "I mean, you're incredibly smart and clever, and you're kind — in your own way — and you care. I know you don't realize it, but I can see it in almost everything you do. You don't have to say anything. Your actions speak for themselves."

His heart practically melts. "Thank you." I love you. "But I don't... Lily, I'm the one at fault here. I don't deserve such kind words."

"Sherlock-"

"I don't," he insists, nearly reaching out to grab her hand, to hold like she held his. But that was in his mind. His hands freeze at his side. "You are remarkable, Lily Marlow, just in a way I've never seen before. And I would be very honored if you would join me on my latest case... as soon as John gets back. I kind of need my blogger."

She smiles widely. "I'd be delighted. Just knock on my door."

"I will," he says. I love you, he doesn't say. The words don't come out of his mouth. He's crazy for even thinking them. What if she doesn't feel the same? That could make things very awkward.

This love thing is not as simple as he'd thought it would be.

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It wasn't just what he said. It was the fact that it was Sherlock that said it.

The thought that he thought her life was a waste — what she did in it, anyway. She knew he cared about her, and part of her thought he was trying to push her away to protect her, when she calmed down enough to think about it. Didn't make it hurt any less, though. And the hurt made her react, lash out. She doesn't get angry often, and she doesn't yell often. Not like that. She felt awful about it, but she also knew that he had hurt her, whether he knew it or meant to or not.

She knew she had to go, before she said something unkind. And so she went back to her flat and tried to calm down, but his words ran through her mind over and over.

"And while there are certain aspects of you that are above average, by all reason and logic, you should be normal. A goldfish, as my brother would say. You shouldn't want to be here, to be involved in all of this. There should be nothing incredibly remarkable about you at all."

The idea that something was wrong with her, that she was too 'normal' for him, it got to her. Then she realized what he'd said. "There should be nothing incredibly remarkable about you." Did he mean she was remarkable?

"Of course, you're very perceptive of other people's feelings and motives, and your appearance is what I would describe as... well, better than most."

Did he... insinuate that she was pretty? Or at least "better than most." What does that mean? When had Sherlock ever paid attention to how attractive somebody was? When he had he paid to how attractive she was? All the time, it's like he's looking right through her, right to her core, like he knows everything about her. He's probably deducing it all, too. And one of those times, did he notice something conventionally attractive about her? She never really had.

What he said next crowded out everything, in the moment. "And then, the above average intellect that you do have is largely wasted on five year olds-"

That was what hurt the most. That was what she thought about most. Maybe she should go and talk to him. Generally, she could figure out what he meant, but he had a poor choice of words.

About an hour after she left is when he knocked on her door. She could see it on his face, how apologetic he was. It was the first thing he said. And then he explained himself. What else could she do but forgive him? And he specifically asked her to come with them on the next case. Why wouldn't she go?

This one doesn't seem that bad.