Secret one: This is What You Do?
It was a cold day in December. Sherlock and I had just wrapped up another case that had dragged us all around London, so this was the silence after the storm. I found myself in my armchair next to a cup of Earl Grey, the fire roaring, writing up the case on my blog.
The great detective was on the couch ajacent me, sighing his seemingly favorite word- bored. I was doing my best to ignore him. But after the sixth time I said, " Why don't you do something then?" Nothing happened of course. He ignored me just as much as I ignored him. But then suddenly, he popped up, and ran to his room. Most people would have looked up, but I kept my eyes on the screan: I was used to his " dashing about", and I thought nothing of it.
A few days later, I came home from the hospital with groceries in my hands. " No, don't bother to help, I can mange!" I shouted up the stairs to the sitting room, where I knew Sherlock would be, sulking as usual.
I walked in to the room, bags in hand, and found him on my computer-again. I was going to yell at him to GET HIS OWN BLOODY LAPTOP FROM HIS ROOM- but I never got the chance. He just walked past me to his room before I said anything, his blue dressing gown billowing behind him. This was weird. He usually never got up during his periods of meloncholia. I assumed then, that something had to be wrong.
I put the groceries on the table, making sure I didn't knock over the beakers and test-tubes that littered it. I was going to have to talk to him about that later. I checked my laptop for any traces of what he had been doing. But he was a self proclamed scociopath: he didn't leave traces.
Sherlock was hiding something-from me? Why? My insecurity got the best of me- I'll admit. Wow, I sound like a girl. But everyone has their bad days.
I walked to his room and opened the door, not bothering to knock. I saw him typing, on his own laptop, slouched against the head of his bed. It was a short-lived scean. He saw me as soon as I saw him, if not sooner. He shut the computer with a scowl. He shoved passed me. I stood there for a second, confused. What was wrong? I knew he wouldn't tell me, stubborn man that he is, so I was going to find out myself.
It took a while, but the chance came. It was another rainy day. I came home from work, wet. I set up my coat, then walked to the kitchen to make tea. But before I got in, I noticed Sherlock typing, in my armchair. I looked over his shoulder, to see what he was writing. I held back a laugh for a second- but then, I confess, I failed pretty epicly.
" A Practical Handbook on Bee Culture?" I chuckled.
" Shut up!" he snapped, and closed the computer. He then proceeded to flop on the couch, facing away from me.
" Sherlock- what's wrong?"
" Nothing. Go make some tea or something, I've got to go to my mind palace." he said, putting his hands together like a steeple. Iron constitution. But there was something wrong. I could always tell. I was his friend, this is what I was to do!
" Sherlock," I said, putting a hand on his bony shoulder. He turned around . Two could play. I was in the Brittish Army. I had a constitution of my own.
" Sherlock Holmes!" I pulled his shoulder towards me. He would have snapped back in his place, but I kept my grip. He sat up.
" What!" he said. I tried to stay calm. " Sherlock. What's wrong? Tell me."
He ran his hands through his black curls.
" Fine. Everyone made fun of me because of my love of bees. Kids at school, Mycroft, father: they all thought it was wossy. I can tell by your left eye you agree so laugh if you want: I couldn't care less. Happy?" He shot all of this out in a two seconds. I could see for a second, a sad shadow pass over his face. But only a short second. It was gone as soon as it came, and the machine took its place.
Oh. I never- I knew he was bullied but- over this?
" Hm. No, I'm just glad you've taken up a hobbie that doesn't involve the wall taking a beating," I said walking back to the kitchen. Most people would have given their friend a talk. I wanted to. I wanted to tell him he didn't have to keep anything from me; I wanted to tell him that Mycroft was a fat git, and wasn't to be taken to seriously; I wanted to tell him it was okay, I would never laugh at him: because I was his friend. And most people would have apreiciated that. But he wasn't most people.
So instead, as I made tea, to the best of my ability, I guessed at his favaorite song. And I wistled it: " The Flight of the Bumblebee". And within two minuets, the steady sound of typing blened in with the rhythm of rain.