Thirty-Six Questions to Fall in Love

Why Do We Love?

Sherlock was getting impatient. He'd woken up earlier than John had this morning, which startled even Mrs. Hudson. If he would have been paying attention to the time the previous night, he would have known that he only got about an hour and a half of sleep. But time was stupid, he decided. Took up too much space in the mind. So he didn't keep track.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" John demanded for the third time, arms on his hips. "I'm speaking to you, Sherlock!"

Sherlock was walking on repeat from the desk to the door. Back and forth, from one side of the room to the other, he paced, getting faster after each stride. He did what he always did when he had a case and needed to enter his mind palace. But why would he do that now? They had nothing to solve.

Suddenly Sherlock stopped and looked at John. His eyes drooping from lack of sleep, the veins in them red and tired. And his hair even worse, frayed and completely tangled from Sherlock tugging at it all night. "It's invalid, John..." Sherlock mumbled, a deep rage buried inside his chest waiting for something to set it off. "Our whole study... a complete and utter waste of time!" as Sherlock reached the desk he stopped walking. He looked at the papers in utter disgust and threw them to the floor.

"SHERLOCK!" John stepped in front of Sherlock who was headed into the kitchen to get a match. He was going to set their whole experiment aflame. "TALK TO ME!"

"Why do we love, John?" Sherlock asked like a child asking why the sky is blue. Except Sherlock had never asked that as a child. He probably asked something else like "Why do people believe in such a trivial thing as a god?" or "Why is it considered bad manners to tell the truth?" Because Sherlock Holmes had always known why the sky was blue. Something about water molecules, and reflection...

"I-I don't-" John tried to think. "To have someone who-"

"WRONG!" Sherlock exclaimed. "I've researched a great deal of philosophers who have developed theories on why we love... Plato, Aristotle, Schopenhauer, Beauvoir... Even Buddha or Bertrand Russell."

"And?"

"It's I don't have a conclusion." Sherlock sighed, defeated.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I wish I knew." John put his hand on his shoulder, slowly easing into it to see if Sherlock was okay with his hand there. He didn't move away. "But you can't find the meaning of life in a matter of hours."

"Forty-two," Sherlock replied.

"Forty-two what?" John asked.

"The answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything." Sherlock replied as if he was reading it from a book.

"Well... Maybe-"

"What's the point of the experiment if we don't even have a purpose?"

"Love is... when you put someone else's needs before your own." John told him, satisfied that this was a good answer.

"John, you can't just quote Frozen and pretend you've solved everything."

"Oh... I knew I'd heard that somewhere..." John replied. They sat there silently trying to find a way to assure themselves that this experiment was worth the effort. They gazed out the window onto the crowded streets of London.

"Reproduction, chemical influx, and an escape from our empty lives. That's what I've learned about why we love," Sherlock finally said after a while of staring out. He wasn't speaking to anybody in specific. He wasn't even looking at John when he said this. "I'm not satisfied with this result. What's the point of scientifically replicating love if it is hardly even useful?"

"Sherlock... We're not... actually going to fall in love." John looked at Sherlock, turning his body to look straight at him.

But still, Sherlock unflinching replied, "Of course not, John. Don't be ridiculous."

"Listen, Sherlock. Love is hardly useless," John assured him, "Alright... Care for some tea?"

Sherlock didn't respond. His eyes were wild, wide open even though they ached so badly to be shut. His nostrils flared, and John raised a brow at him.

"You alright?"

Sherlock shook his head rapidly. "I already told you, John. I'm not satisfied! I'm frustrated and I'm bored." He took an article that he had pinned to the wall in his right hand, moping down at it and crunching it into a ball, throwing it across the room and watching it hit the fireplace with a soft pat.

John, wanting to get his flatmate back in control but also wanting to avoid any altercations, decided it was best not to touch him and sit him down but rather to cup his hands around his own mouth and repeat his question again, except this time much louder.

"SHERLOCK HOLMES, WOULD YOU CARE FOR SOME TEA?"

"And that brings up a whole other thing!" Sherlock Holmes explained, not seeming to process the question but instead go on a rant about a completely different meaning of it. "Why would I care for a cup of tea? It doesn't care back. Hypothetically, why would one thing care for another even though there was no chance of anyone caring back? Care is unconditional. Love is mostly unconditional. And that has nothing to do with sexual reproduction and keeping a species alive. It's because we like the warmth, John. People like the feeling of caring. And that makes absolutely no sense. They just don't want to face the fact that... we're alone. Love is just a distraction to make us feel less alone."

John just poured him a cup of tea just in case he really did want it after he came out of his dreamlike state.