What If?
Unnatural Selection
I stumbled into the flat, my bag hanging off my tired arm as I kicked my shoes off and threw them on the rack. Sinking down into the chair, I ignored Sherlock's activities in the kitchen because it would be likely I'd clean up the mess from his latest "experiment". I couldn't deal with that today. I dosed there quietly, not even taking off my jacket.
It had been two months.
Today I'd started a job at Speedy's cleaning tables and doing odd jobs. It didn't pay much but it helped John and Sherlock with the rent. I knew I couldn't stay at 221B for ever, but while I was still there I'd pay my way. I'd gone looking for a flat of my own with John, but all of the places around here were too expensive for me to afford on my own, so I was relegated back to the sofa in the poky flat. As I sat there I promised I'd start saving so that I could, in the event of me staying here even longer, get somewhere to live by myself.
The house that those poor dead souls had lived in was now boarded up, no sign of The Doctor. Two or three times a week, I'd visited the street. But as weeks became a month, I slowly gave up. I hadn't been there in nearly a fortnight. The house itself gave me the creeps, so I stayed away from it, sitting on the other side of the street and just staring.
I felt as if this was giving up. Searching for a permanent residence, getting a job. But I felt a strange sense of happiness when I sat here, late at night, pinching one of Sherlock's books to read and falling asleep on the couch talking to John. He told me about things, about cases and Sherlock and the little things he did that made us both wonder what on earth went on in his head. We were in the similar position of being the simpleton next to the genius. We could make fun of them over breakfast and point out their faults. I found both Holmes and Watson endearing, but preferred the latter's company as he was more understanding rather than analytical.
"Amelia..." Sherlock called from the kitchen, a sense of questioning in his voice. I wondered what he'd clogged the sink with this time.
"Sherlock." I answered, blinking sleep away from my eyes.
"Would you be able to help me later?" he called, still not leaving the kitchen. I frowned faintly, peering in his direction out of the corner of my eye. Sherlock only asked for help when it came to cleaning up or getting an idiot's perspective.
"What with?"
He didn't answer for a moment, silence from the kitchen as I finally threw off the black jacket I wore, using it as a pillow as I curled up on the sofa. He was thinking. Then silence broke.
"I want to ask you about the parallels."
Silence again. A loud bang, something splattering over the floor.
"And also cleaning the kitchen, but that was an after thought."
~
As I sat eating toast with Sherlock in the now clean kitchen, John came home. He looked mildly surprised as we talked seemingly as friends. All an act to ensure John didn't get mad at either of us for the large scorch marks now out of sight under the moved table. The floor boards blackened, we couldn't do much about it. Be nice to each other, it'll freak him out to the point he won't notice until we're safely not accountable via an excuse from Sherlock.
"Hey..." he frowned, wandering in, staring with absolute confusion. I looked up at him, smiling. As did Sherlock. He seemed to stare suspiciously for a moment longer, and then sat down at the table next to me, grabbing an empty cup from the sink and pouring himself some tea. Sherlock wandered off out of the kitchen, his smile nearly breaking into laughter. It wasn't often he'd been able to hide wrecking the flat from John, but he found great enjoyment in getting away with it.
I stared down at my cup of tea. Being honest, you were never with out a cup of tea in 221B, it was a habit now. I looked at my own reflection on the surface of the liquid, steam rising and swirling. I was brought back out of my little day dream by John muttering something.
"Hm?"
"I was just wondering..." he coughed, "If you'd like to go out tonight. With, well, me."
I paused in surprise, my mouth set in a little "o" shape as I thought about it. I then remembered my promise to Sherlock.
"I told Sherlock I'd help him to tonight, actually. Sorry."
And with that, I unintentionally totally rejected John Watson. He never asked me out again.
It had been two months.
Today I'd started a job at Speedy's cleaning tables and doing odd jobs. It didn't pay much but it helped John and Sherlock with the rent. I knew I couldn't stay at 221B for ever, but while I was still there I'd pay my way. I'd gone looking for a flat of my own with John, but all of the places around here were too expensive for me to afford on my own, so I was relegated back to the sofa in the poky flat. As I sat there I promised I'd start saving so that I could, in the event of me staying here even longer, get somewhere to live by myself.
The house that those poor dead souls had lived in was now boarded up, no sign of The Doctor. Two or three times a week, I'd visited the street. But as weeks became a month, I slowly gave up. I hadn't been there in nearly a fortnight. The house itself gave me the creeps, so I stayed away from it, sitting on the other side of the street and just staring.
I felt as if this was giving up. Searching for a permanent residence, getting a job. But I felt a strange sense of happiness when I sat here, late at night, pinching one of Sherlock's books to read and falling asleep on the couch talking to John. He told me about things, about cases and Sherlock and the little things he did that made us both wonder what on earth went on in his head. We were in the similar position of being the simpleton next to the genius. We could make fun of them over breakfast and point out their faults. I found both Holmes and Watson endearing, but preferred the latter's company as he was more understanding rather than analytical.
"Amelia..." Sherlock called from the kitchen, a sense of questioning in his voice. I wondered what he'd clogged the sink with this time.
"Sherlock." I answered, blinking sleep away from my eyes.
"Would you be able to help me later?" he called, still not leaving the kitchen. I frowned faintly, peering in his direction out of the corner of my eye. Sherlock only asked for help when it came to cleaning up or getting an idiot's perspective.
"What with?"
He didn't answer for a moment, silence from the kitchen as I finally threw off the black jacket I wore, using it as a pillow as I curled up on the sofa. He was thinking. Then silence broke.
"I want to ask you about the parallels."
Silence again. A loud bang, something splattering over the floor.
"And also cleaning the kitchen, but that was an after thought."
~
As I sat eating toast with Sherlock in the now clean kitchen, John came home. He looked mildly surprised as we talked seemingly as friends. All an act to ensure John didn't get mad at either of us for the large scorch marks now out of sight under the moved table. The floor boards blackened, we couldn't do much about it. Be nice to each other, it'll freak him out to the point he won't notice until we're safely not accountable via an excuse from Sherlock.
"Hey..." he frowned, wandering in, staring with absolute confusion. I looked up at him, smiling. As did Sherlock. He seemed to stare suspiciously for a moment longer, and then sat down at the table next to me, grabbing an empty cup from the sink and pouring himself some tea. Sherlock wandered off out of the kitchen, his smile nearly breaking into laughter. It wasn't often he'd been able to hide wrecking the flat from John, but he found great enjoyment in getting away with it.
I stared down at my cup of tea. Being honest, you were never with out a cup of tea in 221B, it was a habit now. I looked at my own reflection on the surface of the liquid, steam rising and swirling. I was brought back out of my little day dream by John muttering something.
"Hm?"
"I was just wondering..." he coughed, "If you'd like to go out tonight. With, well, me."
I paused in surprise, my mouth set in a little "o" shape as I thought about it. I then remembered my promise to Sherlock.
"I told Sherlock I'd help him to tonight, actually. Sorry."
And with that, I unintentionally totally rejected John Watson. He never asked me out again.