Sherlocked

Rose

Later that night, when John was safely tucked away in bed, knocked out with painkillers and chamomile, I clicked on the television, turning the sound down to a dull murmur on a night game show. Sherlock was sitting at one end of the couch, his laptop on his lap as he tapped away at the keys, presumably updating his website on The Science of Deduction.

I put a pillow I took from my room at the other end of the couch, plopping down unceremoniously, forcing Sherlock to lift his laptop as I swung my legs up and into his lap.

“Was that necessary?” Sherlock asked. He didn’t sound half as annoyed as I expected him to.

“Well, due to our interesting living arrangements, this is sort of my bed now. You’re more than welcome to stay if you want. I’m just winding down a bit for the night in the hopes that I might actually get some sleep tonight.”

Sherlock nodded, still clearly consumed by his project on the computer.

“I think John likes me,” I announced. I remembered feeling relieved when we got on well.

Sherlock looked up from the computer, eyebrows furrowing. “I think John likes most women in general.”

I was surprised by his response, as it wasn’t at all the sort of “like” I was referring to.

“It’s interesting that you jump to that conclusion. It’s not at all what I meant. I was trying to say that I think we’re going to get along well. He’s very protective of you, I can tell. He was watching me all day like a hawk. I think he’s worried I’ll do something to hurt you.”

“Whatever do you mean?” he said, his tone flat, sounding as if he were completely disinterested in the topic but deciding to humor me all the same.

“I think he’s under the impression we have feelings for each other. He doesn’t want you to get hurt. That’s all.” I felt suddenly embarrassed that I had even brought this up in the first place.

“Why would he think we have feelings for each other?” He continued using the same tone, although it was wavering. He seemed just as nervous as I was to talk about such a subject.

“Well, I cook all your meals. I’m a woman, and I live under the same roof as you, you took me out to one of your investigations, we’re rarely apart, and neither of us is otherwise…attached. It’s not a very big leap for him to make,” I explained.

“John is a very emotional person. Did it ever occur to you that maybe I’m just using you because you’re a good cook, a clean flat mate, and a semi-competent detective?” This time he closed his laptop, placing it on the coffee table before turning to face me. He stared at me with clear blue eyes, and I almost felt angry as I responded.

“Not even a little bit, Sherlock. You’re not like that. You may not always understand people, but you’re not cruel. You are a good man, and I have never doubted our friendship. If I thought that I was being taken advantage of, I would have left a long time ago. You like truths; I know it. Unless it’s pertinent to an investigation, I know you won’t lie, and I know you won’t withhold the truth just to spare my feelings. I hate liars, and you’re not one of them. I am very loyal to those whom I trust. I trust you. So I’m sticking around. Because like it or not, I know you like having me around. I’m just glad that John seems to approve.”

After my little speech I settled in, pulling a blanket over me, and falling asleep with my legs in Sherlock’s lap.

_________________________________________________________________________________

Sherlock

She sees me in such a rosy light, I thought the cliché thought to myself, now made a pun by her name.

It was definitely a good way to put it, however. Despite her lack of good male role models in her life, she clung to the idea that I was a great man, despite my incapability to feel the way she felt. I would never be able to look at the world like her. She was an artist, a girl in love with the beauty in the world, a beauty that I rarely recognized.

But as I watched her sleep, I knew she was quite possibly the most beautiful woman I had ever met. She carried herself with a confidence that rivaled my own. She was sure of herself without needing to make others uncomfortable about it, something I had recently realized I did quite often.

She didn’t wear much makeup, but she didn’t need it. Her fair complexion offered enough glow without artificial help. The light dusting of freckles across her cheeks combined with her relaxed, sleeping features made her look younger, less concerned. She was always concerned.

“Sherlock,” she mumbled, smiling.

“Yes?” I answered quietly, but she curled deeper under the covers and I realized she was actually still asleep.

I felt a tightness in my chest. Was she dreaming about me?

I carefully lifted her legs, rising from the couch before placing them back down again and making sure she was covered by the duvet she brought to the couch with her.

And when I walked past her to go to bed, I brushed a strand of hair from her face. It had grown quickly since she moved into the flat. She was breathing deeply now so I had no fear of waking her.

When I turned I saw that John was standing in the hallway watching me. I knew that he had seen everything, and I felt as if I had been caught committing a terrible crime.

Instead I cleared my throat before saying quietly, “Goodnight, John.”

I shut my bedroom door behind me, brushing my teeth in the small bathroom before changing into pajamas and laying in bed. But I did not sleep for a very long time.