Dinner was awkward, to say the least.

Phoebe refused to speak to Sherlock. She had thought that she had gotten over him completely, but now she wasn't so sure.

She definitely didn't have feelings for him, but it still hurt her just to look at him. She never thought she would be one to hold a grudge, but here she was, still pissed at Sherlock for screwing her and then leaving, making her think they were friends for the first half of her life when really he didn't think so, and for being so disingenuous about his apology.

She stared at her barely touched food and sighed softly.

"Phoebe, are you going to eat?" John asked gently.

"Yes... sorry..." Phoebe started to eat a bit more.

Sherlock just kept eating, not having a care in the world about what was happening on the opposite side of the table.

After dinner, John offered to help clean up while Mycroft spoke with his brother.

"So, um, what was Sherlock like when you guys were younger?" John asked curiously as he washed the dishes and Phoebe cleaned the counters.

"He..." She sighed softly as she thought about Sherlock. "He was extremely slow in the social arena, but he picked up on everything. If your smile was fake, he knew. If you cheated on your homework, he knew. If you were lying about anything, he knew. He was really smart, but he never really paid attention to the fundamental basics. He believed that the sun rotates around the earth. He probably still does."

"He does. I put it on the blog not too long ago," John said with a chuckle.

"I met him when he came to my school in year five. We were partnered up in our science class and I always had trouble making friends and keeping them so I was excited when he didn't seem to mind having me around. He always impressed me with his deductions. I always wanted him to do me, but he never would," Phoebe said with a frown.

"He couldn't," John said.

"What?" Phoebe's eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"He can't deduce you. He said it himself. He told me that it was always frustrating so he got to know you because he couldn't figure you out. He said that he still can't deduce you," John explained, looking at Phoebe.

"But he can read everyone," Phoebe said as she looked at him, meeting his gaze.

"Everyone but you," Sherlock said from behind her.

"So you only got to know me because I was hard for you to read?" Phoebe frowned, feeling her heart clench.

"Basically. Even now. I can't read you," Sherlock said as he examined her.

"I'm not sure why. She's very easy to read. By the way she is clenching her fist, she is angry. Her pupils dilated and her eyes narrowed as soon as you spoke. When you were talking to her, her eyes kept darting around the room which shows that she is looking for a way to get away from here. Her back slouched a bit during dinner and she kept looking at her food, but not touching it. How do you not notice this on her, but you would notice it with John in a split second?" Mycroft had a playful look in his eyes as he looked at his little brother.

"I don't know," Sherlock grumbled.

"You're distracted, brother mine," Mycroft said with a grin before he hugged Phoebe. "Dinner was lovely, Phee. Thank you very much. I look forward to it again sometime." He kissed her cheek and then left her flat.

"Distracted? What does he mean?" John asked Sherlock who studied Phoebe, but he kept looking back at her face, not focusing on anything but her face.

"I don't know what he means," Sherlock lied before turning around. "Come on, John! Let's go! Thank you for the food, Phoebe! I will see you later!"

Phoebe watched Sherlock leave and was confused, but she just turned to continue cleaning.

"Thank you for allowing us to have dinner with you," John said politely before walking towards the door. "Goodnight, Phoebe."

"Goodnight, John," she said before he left.

She finished cleaning and went to her room. She stripped out of her clothes and put on an oversized shirt before going out to watch some television in the living room.

🔎

Sherlock was lying on the sofa, pouting like a child.

"She distracts you, Sherlock. Be honest with yourself." Mycroft stood in front of the fireplace.

John walked in and frowned. "What's going on here?"

"I'm trying to-"

"It's none of your business," Sherlock cut off his brother. "She doesn't distract me. You're wrong."

"Phoebe distracts you?" John asked with a frown.

"Yes," Mycroft said, a grin spreading across his face.

"No!" Sherlock shouted before shooting up off the couch. "I'm going to bed."

He went to his room and slammed the door.

"What do you mean he is distracted by Phoebe?" John asked Mycroft curiously.

"Isn't it obvious? If a person is not important to him, he forgets them quickly. Takes up space in his mind. But if a person is special to him, he remembers. He hasn't seen Phoebe in years, but he still remembers her. He keeps a locket with her picture on him in his jacket pocket and there is a picture of her on his mantel. Sherlock may be like me, but he still has some feelings deep inside his heart. He doesn't know what it is because he doesn't want to know," Mycroft explained.

"So Sherlock likes Phoebe," John said as he looked over at the mantel to see a picture of a brunette girl all dolled up with Sherlock by her side. It was definitely Phoebe. He had noticed the photo before, but had been ignored when asking who it was.

"More or less. He won't admit it though. He thinks that sentiment is a weakness. He was never be able to help it. He thinks she is beautiful, but he will never admit it." Mycroft smirked and fixed his coat.

"You're crazy. Sherlock Holmes is not capable of having that emotion," John said with a light laugh.

"That's what he thinks too. But then explain why he's down in Phoebe's flat," Mycroft said with a grin before walking towards the door.

"What? But he's in his ro-"

"Goodnight, Dr. Watson." Mycroft left the flat and John went to check Sherlock's room, but the window was open.

🔎

Phoebe was half asleep on her sofa, the tv still going. She felt herself relaxing more and she hummed before realizing someone was touching her hair.

She shot up and swung at the person that was touching her without permission out of pure instinct.

"What was that for?!" Sherlock held his cheek and Phoebe glared.

"You don't just break into a girl's flat and play with her hair when she is trying to sleep!" Phoebe shouted before seeing that he was starting to bruise.

"I didn't think you would be asleep, but you were so I figured I could stay anyways," Sherlock said as he looked at Phoebe.

"I'm not sorry for punching you," she said as she went to her kitchen. She came back with an ice pack.

"I guess I deserved to be punched," Sherlock mumbled as he let her put the ice pack on his cheek.

"Yes, you did deserve it. I wish I could've punched you sooner," Phoebe said jokingly, although she wasn't really joking.

"Sherlock?" John burst in. "Sherlock! What are you doing here? You were going to bed!"

"I needed to think and Phoebe's back so I thought I would play with her hair. It helps me think like composing does. I used to do it all the time when we were kids," Sherlock said as he looked over at John.

"You don't just come into her flat! That's rude!" John scolded and Phoebe sighed.

"It's fine. I'm sure I'll be getting these surprise visits quite a bit," Phoebe grumbled, a frown crossing her lips.

"I am so sorry about this, Phoebe," John said.

"Can I keep playing with your hair?" Sherlock asked Phoebe.

"Absolutely not!" Phoebe and John said at the same time.

"But why?" Sherlock whined.

"Because it's my hair and I don't want you to touch it. I will punch you again. I still want you out of my flat," Phoebe said and Sherlock huffed.

"You need a longer nightshirt," Sherlock said and Phoebe slapped him.

"Normally I don't have a man looking at me! My eyes are up here, William!"

"Do not call me William," Sherlock growled as he stood up.

"Be lucky that's all I'm calling you," Phoebe growled right back and John coughed.

"So um, Sherlock, let's go," John said as the two stared each other down.

"Yes, I think it's best you be on your way." Phoebe crossed her arms with a glare.

Sherlock huffed before going up to his and John's flat. He went to his room and curled up in his bed.

He could picture the night of their senior prom.

Lying in bed with her as she slept, petting her soft, long brown hair. Her head on his chest. It was relaxing and made him feel an unfamiliar sensation.

He didn't understand it and he wanted to, but he also didn't feel he needed to understand.

What he did want to know is, why her? Out of all the girls he has ever met, only she had given him this strange feeling. Why her specifically?

Why Phoeboletta Rose Hunt?