She comes to his flat often enough to be known by the neighbors as that-pretty-young-girlfriend-of-Jake's, and his landlady knows her name; hell, she even has a key so she can come to his flat whenever she wants- some days, he comes home from work and she is sitting on is couch in her pajamas, watching a movie and eating popcorn. That's another thing. She knows where everything is in his house. Popcorn, band-aids, books, you name it, she'll find it. She know his house so well, stays there so often, that she has her own drawer of clothing in his cabinet; whenever she's too tired or lazy to go home, she picks a shirt and shorts and just stays over.

Everyone at his work knows her. Everyone. They see her whenever she stops by to declare that he's 'sick' (being a lazy ass and laying in bed) or 'detained' (detained means that he's actually sick – he feels that a cold shouldn't stop him from working; an opinion has left him bound to his bed by her and forbidden to move), so by now, when any of his co-workers see her approaching, they know he won't be at appearing at work that day.

His entire family (cousins, aunts and uncles and in-laws and grandparents, so many of which he cannot name) know her as the-girl-hasn't-got-the-balls-to-marry-and-he-better-act-up-fast-before-she-gets-taken-away. He can't bring himself to tell his family that he's not even dating her, let alone marrying her. That doesn't mean that the thought of marriage to her doesn't spike up something in him, babies with his hair and her eyes and white picket fences and her in a wedding dress, beautiful, floating to him down a aisle, the images flashing through his mind before he shoves the those traitorous thoughts away. She has been to the past fifteen of his family reunions, and each year his relatives check her slender fingers for a wedding band, 'subtly' looking for what, in their mind, will inevitability come to pass. Each year, to them, is another let down.

She knows everything about him; from ex-girlfriends to teachers, to schools and cars and bikes with broken bells, houses he once lived in and girls he almost married- she knows about every broken bone (six, to be exact) an scrape. every story he's bothered to tell her over the past five thousand, eight hundred and forty plus days he's know her is cataloged in her brain. Someday, as she remembers a fact about him he was positively sure he hadn't revealed to her yet, he is amazed about how much knowledge can be acquired in sixteen years. He isn't sure if it's because she's a girl or just a good listener, but she knows simple, tedious things about him that no one knows simply because they've never asked, like how he has his coffee (two creams and one sugar) and his favorite poem (the art of confession). He is half happy and half worried that she knows him so well.

He has told her his deepest secret- his OCD. She had found his medication on the counter the first night she had crashed at his house and had asked about them. He remembers replying steadily that yes, that was his medication and he would be okay if she left his house and never talked to him again. "You're an idiot," she had said, but by then he'd known her for long enough to see that what she had said meant much, much more; it meant, I don't care and that's fine and it's doesn't even matter, so why do you think it does, you big baby? And a single thought had raced though his brain round and round, like a mantra, a siren song of something - this is going to be my best friend for the rest of my fucking life.

She is his therapist and mother and sister, his grudging coach and teacher, his alarm clock and his loyal stead; she is his muse an the love of his life whom he never wants to have sex with- she is all this and that's all she'll ever be. It's enough and it's never enough and he'll take all he can have of her; she may know everything about him, but the knowledge he has acquired about her over the sixteen years he's known her has been learned as slowly and as painfully as pulling out an entire mouth of alligator teeth. It's not to say that he doesn't know anything about her- he knows quite a bit. but every once and a while he finds something new about her that he didn't know before, and it scratches an itch deep down in his core that say he should let her talk more. Their friendship is confusing as hell and he has no idea where it's going next – the only thing he knows is that it's going somewhere.

She is his Holmes and he is her Watson. She calls to him, saying 'Come, Watson, come; the game afoot,' and he does as he has always done – he follows her to her latest harebrained scheme, and in the end, if anything, he figures that he's left with some pretty damn good memories to tell to his grandchildren, if nothing else.