Sundays
Prompt: Words
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.
Sundays were always quiet in 221B Baker Street.
It was the only day of the week where Sherlock Holmes truly accepted the domesticity of being in a relationship and living with his girlfriend. Not only was he domestic on Sundays, but to outsiders, he was boring too.
Early Sunday mornings always started the same; regardless if Sherlock slept or not. He would rise out of bed or off the sofa at dawn, make coffee and eat toast, and then begin sorting and washing his laundry.
Laundry was something Sherlock did methodically. He took care of his clothing, indexed everything—his socks, the ties he never wore, his shirts, pants, trousers, jackets, suits, costumes (or disguises)—and it was always neatly put away in his bedroom by the early afternoon. He always used the same detergents, same bleach, same fabric softener, and he always folded and indexed his clothes in the same fashion, and after his clothes were folded and put away, he would iron his shirts and trousers before hanging them up.
The repetitive aspects of doing his laundry allowed Sherlock to calm his overstimulated brain and decompress his Mind Palace. If he was working on a case, the distraction was always welcomed and afterwards he could think more clearly. The rhythmic sounds of the washer going through its cycles, the dryer warming the room, and his hands moving repeatedly had the same soothing effect that playing the violin did, but was more acceptable to do early in the morning.
It took two weeks of cohabitation before Sherlock shyly asked if he could do Molly's laundry. It was with trepidation that she agreed, worried that he was going to experiment on her clothing. She was surprised when the following Sunday, Sherlock untangled himself from their embrace, slipped on his pajamas, and trotted out of the bedroom.
That was the first time Molly observed Sherlock's ritualistic Sunday mornings. She didn't question him, but rather took the opportunity to learn more about her boyfriend of two years.
…before long, Molly's socks, scarves, shirts, pants, pajamas, trousers, jumpers, and dresses were folded, ironed, indexed and neatly put away by the early afternoon.
It was only after the last of the towels and flannels were put away that their Sunday schedule would deviate. If Sherlock wasn't working a case (which wasn't that often—maybe once every few weeks or months) Molly would drag him to the bedroom where they would spend the rest of the day in bed. If Sherlock was working a case, Molly would kiss him and leave him to do what he did best. She would play with Toby, catch up with her friends, make lunch, and tidy up the flat. If the case was solved before the end of the day, Sherlock would return to the flat and drag Molly to the bedroom; he did, after all, have excess adrenaline and energy to burn. Sometimes they took Mrs. Hudson out for dinner. Sometimes John and Mary invited them over to their flat. And one Sunday, they even had dinner with Mycroft and Mummy; Sherlock NEVER wanted to experience that again.
But one thing that remained the same every Sunday was the lack of conversation in 221B Baker Street. Maybe ten words passed between the two of them. Sometimes they whispered, "Good morning," to each other if they were both awake at dawn or Molly would offer tea before Sherlock began ironing his clothes.
The silence was companionable, soothing, and both occupants of the flat embraced the ease it was to read each other without so much as having to say a word.
Fin.
BB/N: Thank you for reading! :)