You are, as in all things, careful. So the few times when she holds you close, you do not melt into her warmth. When she dates other men, other women, you are sure to keep any jealousy under wraps.
And when she tells you you’re lonely, you don’t disagree. You also don’t tell her it’s because you are plagued by visions of her sleeping in your arms. You don’t tell her that your wild, untamed, brilliant mind that is so often focused on solving cases, too often drifts to showing you what she’d look like on your bed, splayed out in pleasure, or kneeling naked in the basement, or any other number of myriad ways you would like to make love to her.
When she tells you you’re lonely, you don’t tell her it’s her fault. You don’t tell her that for the past five years you’ve only been able to fuck women who don’t mind that you say her name when you come.
But she tells you you’re lonely. She tells you that you should do something about it. So you do. In your own way, of course. As always.
You call Eve. On your date, you’re straightforward. You tell her that you love Watson, and because she’s an extraordinary woman, she stays and listens. You tell Eve you’d like to try dating her, and if she has any complaints, to tell you, so that when it gets to the big event, you won’t be completely lost.
Moriarty had told you once that she never began a piece on the final canvas. “That’s the one way to ensure you’ll fuck it up,” she had said. It was only fitting that you were, indirectly, getting relationship advice from her now.
You have to be sure. You have to be ready. And, with Eve’s help, eventually, you will be.