Sherlocked

Rose

I awoke early the next morning. Sherlock woke me up when we arrived home, I sleepily stumbled my way into bed as soon as we walked through the front door.

It was almost six in the morning, and still dark outside. I crept around the flat in my pajamas, making tea for myself and eating peanut butter on toast before setting to prepare the easel in my room. I knew exactly what I wanted to paint today.

I set to work, outlining my work on the canvas before mixing my paint and gathering water in an old battered teacup that had been sitting at the back of the cupboard. By the time the sun had come up, I was ready. I threw open my curtains to let in the London morning, which lent the perfect amount of light to my canvas.

I would have painted in the living room, but I didn’t want to be a bother to Sherlock when he woke up, and I was also very self-conscious about people viewing my unfinished paintings, especially this painting.

I worked for hours, and when I finally looked up at the clock, I let out an audible screech before quickly cleaning my brushes and leaving the canvas uncovered, washing my hair in the sink before quickly drying it, slipping into my clothes and my Chucks before running out the front door, purple scarf thrown haphazardly around my neck and my coat unbuttoned. I was going to be late for work.

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Sherlock

Rose left in such a hurry in the afternoon that she didn’t even notice my presence on the couch just outside her bedroom. I admitted to myself that the sight of her in a panic was amusing to me in a way that John had never been. John was also a worrier, and a very good one at that, but Rose was more enjoyable to watch even though I wasn’t sure why.

She was expected home at any moment, but something drew me to her room. She had been holed up all day, and I had only just noticed it because I was preoccupied with my own thoughts.

But then I remembered that when she left the house, her hand reached out to grab her scarf (she accidentally took mine instead, as mine was just a shade or two darker and she was obviously in a hurry) and I spotted a splotch of paint on her pinky finger. This was enough to draw me into her room.

Her room was tidy, but not sterile in its cleanliness. Prints of paintings were on the wall, and a small bookshelf was so full with canonical English literature that she had started a pile on top of the shelf. Her bed was made, colorful floral sheets tucked in and pillows neatly arranged. Her pajamas lay on the floor by the closet.

Facing the window was an easel, and I walked around the backside of it until I was facing an unfinished painting that made me sit immediately on the windowsill to observe it. I could clearly detect my likeness in the painting, and my violin, the shining gold of my watch. Everything was heavily saturated in color, much like the painting of one of her obvious idols, Van Gogh, whose prints lined the walls of her small room.

“I don’t like people looking at my unfinished work,” I heard a voice say from the bedroom doorway. I looked up to see Rose walking through the door, dropping her messenger bag at the foot of her bed as she unwound my scarf from around her neck.

“I took your scarf by accident. Sorry,” she said, placing it in my hands. It was still warm. She walked around to my side, where she gazed at the painting with a critical eye, seeming to already spot something she wanted to fix.

“I hope you don’t mind. You looked a peace when you were playing the violin. I wanted to capture that,” she said, picking the paint off her fingers in a very self-conscious sort of way. Her hands kept moving, fingers interlocking and releasing only to entwine again. I was struck with the sudden desire to take on the gestures she always extended. The way she communicated with a single touch, I wanted to be able to do that. I wanted to reach out and still her hands, to show her she had nothing to be embarrassed about.

“What are you thinking so hard about?” she asked suddenly, her eyes intently searching my face for answers. I looked away from her piercing gaze just as my phone started to buzz in my pocket.

I recognized the number immediately as belonging to St. Bart’s hospital. I assumed it was Molly Hooper trying to find an excuse to bring me into the mortuary. John revealed to me after several outings to the hospital that she obviously fancied me. I hoped it wasn’t as I answered the phone.

“Yes?” I spoke.

“Mister Holmes this is Nancy. I’m a nurse at St. Bart’s and I have just received a request from one of my patients to call you before he goes into surgery. It’s Dr. John Watson, sir. He’s received an honorable discharge. He was shot in the leg, and he’s undergoing surgery in the next few minutes to remove the bullet and mend what we can. He asks that you please come after the surgery.”

I felt an unexplainable sick feeling in my stomach as I answered. “Yes, of course. I’ll be by shortly.”

I stood immediately, marching out of Rose’s room, wrapping the scarf around my neck and avoiding the fact that it smelled of her perfume, and gathered my coat. Rose followed after me, doing the same, only this time donning her own scarf.

I realized when I hailed a cab, which Rose was still standing beside me, even though I hadn’t spoken a word about what was happening. She followed me without knowing where I was taking her, all the while looking concerned.

And when we climbed into the cab, and I told the cabbie where we were headed, she took my hand in hers, squeezing tightly. She didn’t need to be told whom we were visiting. I had only one friend.

And as she put her other hand over the back on my hand that she already held, encasing it in her warmth, I thought that maybe I actually had two friends.