Coffee, Boredom and Sundays
I sit in my squat, well-worn chair with my feet propped up on the coffee table, laptop warming hole in my corduroys. Sherlock lies on his back on the couch on the back wall, knees popped and hands pressed together under his chin in a praying position. His breathing isn't even, so he isn't asleep. Of course, that could be assumed. Sherlock never sleeps anyway. His ratty blue bathroom falls open to reveal his pale chest, in stark contrast to the dark purple bruises forming on his stomach. Of course he wouldn't tell me where they came from, damn bastard, going off on whatever it was on the days I'm home with Mary at home, getting hurt. I tell Mrs. Hudson to watch him, make sure he doesn't end up in anymore drug dens, but the women can only do so much. I suppose she isn't his nanny, but still, I worry. At least she gets him to eat and shower from time to time or the man would starve to death or choke on his own repulsive stench. I exhale in a loud, Humph. Sherlock's pale, blue-green eyes fly open.
"You're agitated about something," Sherlock sighs with annoyance, almost as if he's annoyed I even brought enough attention to myself for him to notice, "I can tell…"
"I know you can tell Sherlock," I say, slightly irked, "I never said I doubted that you could figure me out. But please, I don't feel like being analyze like some sort of experiment now." Sherlock makes a low, irritated noise in the back of his throat as he eases himself back on the couch again. I roll my eyes. I wasn't lying through my teeth when I called him a drama queen. I re-position my legs and scroll down my blog, glancing at comments, nothing interesting, and nothing new. Just the same case files with the same, "You're brilliant" or "Father My Children Sherlock Holmes" comments or something else equally ridiculous that just causes Sherlock to roll his eyes to the point they might just fall right out of his head when I read them aloud. I begin to read some of our newer emails aloud; Sherlock continues to fidget, attempting to make himself comfortable again.
"Mr. Holmes," I say clearing my throat slightly, "My maid has gone missing and my husband says he hasn't seen her since Sunday night when she le-"
"Dull," He sighs now sitting upright and facing me as he begins standing up pacing, "She left on her own accord. She got pregnant with the women's husband child and she's left due to embarrassment." He walks over to peer over my shoulder at my glowing computer screen.
"Okay," I say, trying to hide my irritation, "This bloke says he's got a shape shifting snake."
"He's lying," He exclaims in a deeply vexed, as he straightened himself out, "Also the 'bloke' is a woman. A bit of a con too." He exhales and collapses in his normal seat across from me and haphazardly rumbles his hair causing his already mess curls to become an unmanageable tangle of dark tendrils.
I begin to read the next email, something about a possible affair, from out of nowhere there is a sudden burst of sound from elsewhere in the flat, sort of explosive clattering, like horse hooves on cobblestones. Sherlock's eyes fly up, glancing around the flat, already processing who or what it might be. Mrs. Hudson's voice wafts up to our flat,
"Boys" She calls, "You have a client." She barely finishes her sentence and suddenly the door flies open and a blur of movement races into the room.
I can't help but think to myself, "This Sunday might not be so boring after all."