"I'm so sorry."

"Thank you," he murmurs.

When Bella is just stepping onto her driveway, Sherlock appears long enough to say, "Goodnight, fair Juliet."

"Are you going to call me Juliet forever?" she inquires. "Because we have conversed through a window a couple of times and you recited Shakespeare at me while drunk on the vampire equivalent of stress hormones?"

"Does it annoy you? I think it's hilarious," he says cheerfully.

"Everyone calls me Bella except Charlie, and he calls me Bells," says Bella. "No one has ever given me a nickname of my own before. I don't suppose I'd describe myself as annoyed."

"How would you describe yourself?"

"Nonplussed? Amused? Ever so slightly charmed, because, you know, the Bard?"

"Then I see no reason to stop."

"Okay," Bella laughs. "If I think of anyplace for you to hole up during the day, I will let you know, but I'm afraid I have no immediate ideas," she adds.

"I appreciate the thought, in any case."

"If you burn to a crisp due to homelessness, who will call me Juliet and lurk around while I patrol?"

"Ah, a pragmatist. I'm charmed."

"Always a pragmatist," agrees Bella. She yawns. "I need to get at least five hundred words of utter bullshit to cohere into the approximate shape of an English paper before I crash. See you tomorrow, Sherlock."

"Goodnight," he says, smiling, and departs.