Fixated

Shortly after Sherlock had left, I bounced around excitedly for about five minutes like a hyper schoolgirl with a petty crush. All memory of the fact I had genuinely been broken into the night before had flown out the window and all that mattered to me was that Sherlock hadn’t casted me away and had independently granted me the time of day to come around and invite me to dinner. Surely that should mean something? The high functioning sociopath with only two or three friends in the world, processes the word ‘love’ as a chemical imbalance, has barriers built higher than the great wall of China- asking me out to dinner? Or maybe I was just being blindingly stupid. Maybe this was all a big ruse, another one of his prolonged mind games. Dismissing the thought from my mind I began to sort myself out, feeling somewhat less groggy than I did earlier.

“Baker Street, 7:30pm. See you there – SH” was the text I received while desperately flailing around trying to get ready. ‘This one or that one’ I muttered to myself as I stood in front of the full length mirror in my bedroom, holding two dresses out in front of my small frame. Anyone would think they weren’t feeding me at 221B Baker Street. ‘Talking to yourself is the first sign of madness’ I mumbled to my reflection in the mirror. It held truth; I felt as if I was losing the plot. I should have just killed my curiosity and never have contacted Sherlock Holmes. Eventually I decided on the skintight black dress (not that I had many curves to show off) and began the long and arduous process of applying makeup.

By the time I had finished primping I looked like a new woman. I’d actually made an effort to look anything above average for the first time in years, I wanted to stand out; Sherlock was making me long to be more than just normal in so many ways. I’d tied my long brunette curls into a tight up do, spent far too long perfecting my smoky-eye look and even brought my cream heels out. I hadn’t worn any form of stilettos for a long, long time. I wasn’t entirely sure why I was making such an effort seeing as there was a slim chance he’d even appreciate it; oh sure he’d notice but it was typical Sherlock to pick holes at an attempt to look attractive.

‘Well this is it’ I thought as I psyched myself up to lift the knocker at 221B Baker Street; filled with all the same nerves as I’d experienced the first time I’d found myself outside that same front door. I shivered and cursed myself for not bringing a coat. 7:45pm on the dot, thought I’d be slightly fashionably late (public transport is terrible in London), this is it. I knocked twice and stood back bracing myself.
The black door swung open shorty after and I was greeted with a big hug and a smile by none other than Mrs. Hudson.

“Hello dear! Well isn’t this a lovely surprise? Come in, come in.” She fussed as she pulled me inside and guided me up the stairs. “Look who it is, John!” John looked up from his newspaper at me standing in the doorway, “Doesn’t Laura look lovely?” John’s mouth parted slightly.
“Yeah, I mean, wow. You look great. What’s the occasion?” John stammered and I looked back at him briefly with wide eyes.
“Uh…well...” I started, trying to kill time hoping Sherlock would burst through the door and make an elaborate excuse up and maybe then I wouldn’t have looked stupid by saying “Sherlock and I… are just going out tonight.” Both Mrs. Hudson and John simultaneously raised their eyebrows looking considerably shocked.
“Um, Laura.” John cleared his throat, “I haven’t seen Sherlock since last night. I’m not sure when he’ll be back. Did he say he’d meet you here?” My heart sank. No, I couldn’t be getting stood up. No no no. This is what I hated most about Sherlock; the sheer uncertainty while being around him. You didn’t know what he was thinking, feeling or doing at any time.
Mrs. Hudson broke the silence by announcing, “Well isn’t that nice. Sherly going on a date which such a pretty girl! Who would’ve thought it?” she grinned “I’m sure he’ll turn up soon.”
I forced a smile and sat down, trying extremely hard not to feel defeated.

Approximately half an hour and two cigarettes later; Sherlock turned up.
“Oh hello, you do love being flighty don’t you.” I greeted him sarcastically as he stood a little awkwardly at the doorframe.
“Sorry, lots of traffic.” He offhandedly replied, “Shall we?”
“You two have fun!” Mrs. Hudson waved, “Aw look at them, John.”
I said my goodbyes, grabbed my purse and stood up; trying to keep my balance while wearing my ridiculous stilettos. I should not have made so much effort for nothing, I felt so embarrassed. As soon as the door closed behind us, Sherlock told me to go down and wait outside for him as he’d forgotten something indoors. I did as I was told yet I was growing slightly impatient, after all he was already 45 minutes late.
It didn’t take him too long to step outside again; this time with a single red rose held out to me in his hand.
“Before you say anything.” He began as I took the rose, “It was predictable, I know.”
“No, I love it.”
“Sorry for being late. You look incredible.” He smiled and held out his arm.
“It’s okay, you’re forgiven.” I wrapped my arm through his willingly and he hailed a taxi. I don’t think there was ever anything harder than staying angry at Sherlock Holmes.