What If?
Falling Away With You
I wandered around 221C, picking up cushions and the blanket off the floor from where the cat had run around impatiently this morning. The ginger monster was now hiding underneath the kitchen table after Sherlock had shouted at him. It glared at me from the shadow between the chairs, protesting that his only ally had given him a telling off. I smiled, laughing gently to myself as I filled the kettle.
Ugh, I was nervous. Today I'd planned to go to get photos done, and I just looked in the mirror as I walked to the bathroom earlier and felt ugly. My hair stuck up in random places, skin pale and sickly, dark shadows under my eyes and I looked like a stick insect in Sherlock's purple shirt and my old pajama shorts. This was a stupid idea. No point, who'd hire a pale ginger with more freckles than a chicken egg as a model? I stared at the kitchen counter in defeat, sighing miserably as I wondered why on earth I'd ever considered it.
"What's wrong?" Sherlock muttered from the sofa. He didn't even have to look at me to know I was in a bad mood. I glanced over at him, curled up in a bed sheet as he watched telly and read case notes with out a care.
"Nothing, I just..." I replied, staring into the sink.
"Don't lie." He cut in, he hated it when I fibbed about my feelings because he could tell that I was lying, and he knew the logical conclusion most of the time, but would rather that I told him the truth. I didn't want him to know about this, to him any other job aside being his assistant was a waste of time and I wouldn't learn anything. He'd let it be eventually, if anything came of it and I got a few small modelling jobs. He usually bent over backwards through hell and high water to make me happy nowadays. In return I did the same for him and we existed quite happily. Existing. Just existing was enough to make me happy and that made me feel a little sad. Also humble and thankful for what I had. But sad nonetheless. We'd existed together for about two months now. Which in strange contrast to the sadness made me stupidly happy most of the time.
"Just not feeling well. Tired." I said, grabbing bacon out of the fridge and chucking it in a frying pan. The sizzling sound was calming, almost. I was that hungry I had no time for bread, and just took a fork and speared the two rashers of bacon once they were done and wolfed them. Models are allowed to eat bacon in moderation, all right?
"Sleep, then." he suggested, and I wandered over to the couch, curling up next to him and hooking my arm around his. Case notes littered the floor as I sat down. "John won't be happy, he spent an hour putting those into order yesterday afternoon." he smiled, as I whispered,
"Don't care." before smiling back angelically and leaving a gentle kiss on his cheek. "And any way, aren't you supposed to be somewhere this afternoon? I'm sure you said yesterday..." I frowned, staring at the tv trying to work out what rubbish he was watching. Jeremy Kyle. For an intelligent person he had some very strange habits regarding television.
"Yes, Lestrade wanted me to look at a flat, they can't find anything." he said, sighing a little. Usually "looking" at something was code for "nearly getting killed". I didn't like the threat of immediate and serious danger. I'd have enough of that. It put me on edge, he knew I didn't like it. But that was his job, and it would be hypocritical for me to stand in the way of that. Getting shot was apparently the least of his worries.
The remaining notes hit the floor with a gentle thud as he gave up, frustrated. He often hit a wall for an hour or two, his brain overloaded. He liked to talk about it. It made no sense to me at all, most of the things he said when he needed to clear his mind. Explain it all simply to some one to get a new perspective on it. Wait for him, and he would solve it eventually.
"Do you want to talk?" I said quietly, glancing up at him.
"Yes." he mumbled, and curled his legs up onto the sofa, lying there with me as he thought for a few minutes. Then he started explaining the case. Victims. Suspects. All the little details. I just zoned out, I didn't understand any of it really and my head hurt trying to think about it. Listening to his voice was nice, just talking, a lilting hum that sometimes put me to sleep. I usually used this as an excuse for a good cuddle when he was being a grump. Cuddle or no talking. Those were the rules.
My face squashed against his shoulder, I'd quite clearly fallen asleep when he shot off the sofa, scrambling for his clothes in my room. I fell off the couch, nearly hitting my head on the coffee table as I landed face first on the carpet. I glared in his general direction, crawling back up onto the sofa. Arse. He rushed back out of my room, now fully clothed and grabbing his coat. He caught my annoyed stare and then noticed the gentle red mark across my cheek from where the floor had jumped out at me. He muttered an apology, and tried to kiss me goodbye.
"No, no. I'll get my revenge later, Holmes." I said quickly, my hand covering his mouth and pushing him away with no mercy. "What ever may happen to your purple shirt while it's in the wash is nothing to do with me."
Ugh, I was nervous. Today I'd planned to go to get photos done, and I just looked in the mirror as I walked to the bathroom earlier and felt ugly. My hair stuck up in random places, skin pale and sickly, dark shadows under my eyes and I looked like a stick insect in Sherlock's purple shirt and my old pajama shorts. This was a stupid idea. No point, who'd hire a pale ginger with more freckles than a chicken egg as a model? I stared at the kitchen counter in defeat, sighing miserably as I wondered why on earth I'd ever considered it.
"What's wrong?" Sherlock muttered from the sofa. He didn't even have to look at me to know I was in a bad mood. I glanced over at him, curled up in a bed sheet as he watched telly and read case notes with out a care.
"Nothing, I just..." I replied, staring into the sink.
"Don't lie." He cut in, he hated it when I fibbed about my feelings because he could tell that I was lying, and he knew the logical conclusion most of the time, but would rather that I told him the truth. I didn't want him to know about this, to him any other job aside being his assistant was a waste of time and I wouldn't learn anything. He'd let it be eventually, if anything came of it and I got a few small modelling jobs. He usually bent over backwards through hell and high water to make me happy nowadays. In return I did the same for him and we existed quite happily. Existing. Just existing was enough to make me happy and that made me feel a little sad. Also humble and thankful for what I had. But sad nonetheless. We'd existed together for about two months now. Which in strange contrast to the sadness made me stupidly happy most of the time.
"Just not feeling well. Tired." I said, grabbing bacon out of the fridge and chucking it in a frying pan. The sizzling sound was calming, almost. I was that hungry I had no time for bread, and just took a fork and speared the two rashers of bacon once they were done and wolfed them. Models are allowed to eat bacon in moderation, all right?
"Sleep, then." he suggested, and I wandered over to the couch, curling up next to him and hooking my arm around his. Case notes littered the floor as I sat down. "John won't be happy, he spent an hour putting those into order yesterday afternoon." he smiled, as I whispered,
"Don't care." before smiling back angelically and leaving a gentle kiss on his cheek. "And any way, aren't you supposed to be somewhere this afternoon? I'm sure you said yesterday..." I frowned, staring at the tv trying to work out what rubbish he was watching. Jeremy Kyle. For an intelligent person he had some very strange habits regarding television.
"Yes, Lestrade wanted me to look at a flat, they can't find anything." he said, sighing a little. Usually "looking" at something was code for "nearly getting killed". I didn't like the threat of immediate and serious danger. I'd have enough of that. It put me on edge, he knew I didn't like it. But that was his job, and it would be hypocritical for me to stand in the way of that. Getting shot was apparently the least of his worries.
The remaining notes hit the floor with a gentle thud as he gave up, frustrated. He often hit a wall for an hour or two, his brain overloaded. He liked to talk about it. It made no sense to me at all, most of the things he said when he needed to clear his mind. Explain it all simply to some one to get a new perspective on it. Wait for him, and he would solve it eventually.
"Do you want to talk?" I said quietly, glancing up at him.
"Yes." he mumbled, and curled his legs up onto the sofa, lying there with me as he thought for a few minutes. Then he started explaining the case. Victims. Suspects. All the little details. I just zoned out, I didn't understand any of it really and my head hurt trying to think about it. Listening to his voice was nice, just talking, a lilting hum that sometimes put me to sleep. I usually used this as an excuse for a good cuddle when he was being a grump. Cuddle or no talking. Those were the rules.
My face squashed against his shoulder, I'd quite clearly fallen asleep when he shot off the sofa, scrambling for his clothes in my room. I fell off the couch, nearly hitting my head on the coffee table as I landed face first on the carpet. I glared in his general direction, crawling back up onto the sofa. Arse. He rushed back out of my room, now fully clothed and grabbing his coat. He caught my annoyed stare and then noticed the gentle red mark across my cheek from where the floor had jumped out at me. He muttered an apology, and tried to kiss me goodbye.
"No, no. I'll get my revenge later, Holmes." I said quickly, my hand covering his mouth and pushing him away with no mercy. "What ever may happen to your purple shirt while it's in the wash is nothing to do with me."