Report

"But I failed. I'm not really a machine. No matter what I tried, I couldn't erase your outline from my mind. It's strange. The method has worked very well in the past."

Sitangna took the thick stack of kraft paper he handed her. The words "Analysis Report" were written on it. She opened it to the first page and found an analysis of Sherlock's mental activity on the day of the clock tower rescue.

The report was detailed, covering everything from physiology and psychology to hormone level tests. It contained questions, his own answers, and reference material from online therapists he had found through Google.

He had once regarded emotions as dust and dismissed love as "collective stupidity brought on by chemicals." His bond with Watson rested on a pragmatic foundation of shared adventures and mutual respect.

But when it came to Sitangna, all he could do was admit in frustration that he was helpless.

Sherlock wrote in the report that, as the music reached him, he had distinctly felt a strange, sharp flutter beneath the third rib on the left side of his chest, in the place he called the "emotional redundancy zone."

It was as though an invisible needle of ice had pierced him, then melted into a burning confusion.

He refused to admit that his heart had stirred, so he kept drawing his blood and testing it, then drawing more and testing it again.

He had gone out in the middle of the night and stayed up until dawn at the hospital, using Molly's workspace. In the end, though, all the reports from blood tests taken during the same period were surprisingly consistent.

By the time he recovered, his hormone levels had fallen back to normal. The curve descending from high to low seemed to mock his stubbornness.

Why her?

Sherlock had written that question on a line of its own. Deep in his Mind Palace, a long-sealed, cobweb-covered corner had been forced open, revealing a tiny, hazy fragment he had almost completely forgotten.

One summer afternoon, when he was little, he had found an injured robin in the garden. As usual, he should have dissected it and studied its bone structure and flight musculature.

But he hadn't.

He had clumsily made a splint for it out of twigs and a handkerchief, hidden it in a hollow tree, and secretly brought it breadcrumbs and water every day, checking on its health. That secret happiness had lasted a long time.

Then one morning, he found the bird on the ground. Its stiff, cold body made him feel as though his chest had been clenched in a fist and his throat had clogged.

He had later attributed that useless pain to frustration over a failed experiment and resolved never to repeat such a "waste of resources."

Now that long-forgotten, clenched feeling had returned, but this time it was because of a living person-someone who could be hurt, who could disappear, who could make him experience that pain of a "failed experiment" again.

Sherlock's gaze involuntarily fell on Sitangna's fingers as she turned the pages of the report. Her hands were slender but strong, and because she had to type a great deal, her nails were clipped very short, clean and neat.

His attention was actually on the tiny, almost invisible scar on the side of her index finger. She had gotten it when strong acid accidentally splashed on her as she helped him handle it.

What had he done then? He had coldly pointed out that her handling technique was improper, mocked her for not having learned enough in chemistry lab, and told her to rinse it immediately. He hadn't given it another thought afterward.

It was just a small scar. He had plenty on his own hands.

But now that tiny scar was like a needle, pricking some part of him that had never been activated before.

"That's the feeling." Sherlock's remark came out of nowhere, leaving Sitangna baffled.

"What feeling? The feeling of falling in love with me?" Sitangna had already skimmed through the report, which included several test sheets.

How is this a report? It's Sherlock's emotional assessment: a side story about falling in love with Sitangna. She laughed at her own thought.

"The data may not be accurate, so I conducted rigorous self-observation over a period of time. Now, at the very least, I can be certain that I have a strong emotional attachment to you."

Sherlock leaned against the desk, staring at the girl before him without blinking. He had analyzed her thoroughly on the day they first met, but looking at her today, everything about her seemed different.

Her glossy black hair rested neatly behind her ears, her fleece pajamas carried a faint scent of soapberry, and her cheeks were rosy, her lips soft.

He could extract this information as usual, but he couldn't interpret any of it. All the keywords dissolved into a hazy mist, luring him into unknown territory.

"All right, I understand." Sitangna put the report back on the desk. "Because you were so resistant to this kind of emotion before, you didn't keep any samples or backups, so now you need concrete data to support it, right?"

"You came right out and told me about the emotional experiment you've been conducting, without even worrying that I'd get angry. What do you want me to do? Is there anything I can help you with?"

Following Sherlock's example, Sitangna sat on the edge of the desk. The solid-wood desk easily supported both their weights.

"It's simple. Follow my instructions when I need you to, so I can record my physiological and psychological reactions and distinguish the variables affecting them." Sherlock pulled another notebook from the desk. This was his actual record of emotional analysis.

The distinctly British-style leather notebook already contained three full pages of self-analysis. Of course, he wouldn't show it to anyone, not even Nana.

Sherlock's invitation sounded oddly thrilling, and Sitangna couldn't help laughing. "Physiological reactions? You have those?"

She seriously doubted whether someone like him, who had defected from his emotions and suppressed himself for years, such a complete novice, would even interfere with his own morning physiological reactions.

"I really don't know the first thing about feelings, but I'm a normal man." Sherlock enunciated each word. "You wouldn't want to try."

This damned mouth of mine! I'm so used to joking around with Candy that I spoke without thinking. It's far too early to be saying that!

Sitangna shoved him away. "It's late. I should go back to my room." Who knew what the group outside was gossiping about, wondering what they were doing in there for so long?

"Let me show you something fun." Sherlock motioned for her to be quiet, then quietly got up and walked to the door. He yanked it open, and a chorus of cries sounded from the floor.

"What a coincidence. Everyone came over to get some water." Emily was on top, and she had a firm grip on the doorframe, so she wasn't in too much of a sorry state.

"Hehe, good evening, Sherlock. Good evening, Nana. You're still up this late?" Janet scrambled to her feet and hurried to help Watson, who was groaning at the very bottom. He was pinned down and couldn't get up.

"Heh, quite lively. Having a late-night tea party outside my bedroom door, are you?" Sherlock sneered and beckoned Sitangna out.

"Go back to bed, Nana. I'll walk you upstairs."

Sitangna took a moment to compose herself before hurrying out of the room. On her way, she shot a glare at Emily, who was still grinning foolishly. Emily followed cheerfully behind her and Sherlock up the stairs.

"Good night. Sweet dreams." "Good night."

Before closing the door, Sitangna took advantage of Emily's distraction to rise on tiptoe and gently kiss Sherlock on the forehead. Whether he would have sweet dreams or not, the great detective probably wasn't going to get much sleep tonight.