Chapter 1: The Domestic Life

"Elfie! Is that you? Please get up here!"

'What's he done now?' I think, locking the door behind me and adjusting the grocery bags in my arms. One hour. I leave 221B Baker Street for one hour to get the shopping done and Mrs. Hudson is screaming for me. Can't that man of mine relax for just a short while? He is going to give our poor landlady a heart attack one of these days I just know it.

"Sherlock Holmes," I hear her shout, "You know that I don't mind your experiments, but-Oi, put that back! A mop is not a substitute for a…"

CRASH!

"Oh, now look what you've done!" She scolds, "You just wait until your wife gets home, young man!"

With a content smile and a sigh, I head upstairs toward Mrs. Hudson's frantic yells. I'm not use to being called that, yet: his wife. Sometimes, I have to pinch myself and fiddle with the small silver band and amethyst ring on my finger just to make sure that I'm not living in a fantasy. I always imagined that, when I'd settle down, I'd spend the rest of life happily working at the museum, not giving a toss for the world passing me by and leading a simple lifestyle. However, what I settled down with is, of course, far from a simple life.

I settled down with Sherlock Holmes.

To most people, settling down means that all dangers and craziness of the past are put aside for more sensible things, such as children and a comfortable home life. For us, that is not the case. I would never ask Sherlock to stop being who he is. Why would I? I signed up to come along on his crazy life the day I became his girlfriend. When you're with Sherlock, you take in everything: the all nighters, the experiments, the frantic mood swings. Life is hectic and a non-stop roller coaster. True, I'd prefer a moment of dullness every once and awhile to catch my breath, but that's a lost luxury when living with the world's only consulting detective.

There is never a dull moment and don't ever expect there to be.

When I make it up to our door, I find Mrs. Hudson, quivering in the archway like a scared puppy: "Mrs. Hudson, you alright?" I ask

"Oh, Elfie, thank Heaven." She cries, turning to face me and taking my hand into hers, "I just don't know what's gotten into him. He's acting like, well, like a mad man!"

"Where's John?"

"I thought he was in, but apparently not. Oh, you've got to talk with Sherlock. He's going to destroy this place in a matter of seconds."

"Mrs. Hudson, I'm sure he just needs a more challenging case." I assure her, "You know how he gets when he's bored."

Suddenly, there's a loud yelp and a loud BAM! I immediately drop the bag of groceries and rush into the living room. There, sprawled out on his back beside the over turned coffee table, dressed in his black slacks and that too tight purple shirt, is my darling husband. There is a black blindfold over his eyes and he's holding a mop in one hand.

"Sherlock," I say, quickly kneeling beside him, "you okay?" He just groans in reply and attempts to stand, only to fall back again. I gently cradle his head in my lap and remove the blindfold. After a couple blinks, Sherlock locks his gaze on my face and smiles.

"Hello." He says, "Where have you been? I've been calling for you for ages."

"I went to the store an hour ago," I chuckle, running my fingers through his curls to check if he's bumped his head, "Sherlock, what the hell happened?"

"Experiment." He retorts, gazing up at me with those sea foam eyes, innocently, "I was testing if a person could in fact get around with a stick as their sole instrument of sight."

"What?"

"Like a blind person, Elfie. Think!" he says, rolling his eyes in slight annoyance, "It's obvious."

"Oh," I say, unphased by his insult, "and were you expecting to go blind?"

"Don't be daft," he scoffs, "Of course, I'm not planning to…Wait, was that sarcasm?"

I roll my eyes and lean down to kiss him on the forehead. He can be so naïve sometimes. To my surprise, but not my displeasure, Sherlock lifts himself up on his elbows and turns his head just in time for my lips to land on his. I close my eyes and give in fully to my love for this man: My man. My Sherlock.

After exchanging a few quick kisses, Sherlock leaps up onto his feet. "Mrs. Hudson!" he calls out, tossing our poor, dumb founded, land lady the mop, "it has occurred to me that it is impossible to move around this flat if blind. Quiet a safety hazard, but fortunately it's helped me solve this case. Thanks very much."

"I don't understand you, dear, I really don't." she replies, shaking her head as she heads back to her flat. Sherlock then turns to me and takes my hands into his.

"Now, let me do this properly," he whispers, pulling me up to my feet and into a tight embrace. Before I can utter a single word, Sherlock dips me down and plants a deep passionate kiss on my lips. I close my eyes and slowly wrap my arms around his neck, allowing my body to become dead weight in his arms.

"That was unexpected," I say, after our lips part, "thank you."

"Of course," he replies, kissing my cheek, "its what husbands do with their wives isn't it?" I let out a small giggle and we kiss again. God, I love this man.

"Where's John?" I ask, after a few (more like five) more minutes of kissing.

"Upstairs, asleep," Sherlock says, pulling me upward, "Late night at the clinic apparently. Have you got your phone on you?"

"Yes, why?"

"Text Lestrade. Tell him that the old lady tripped and fell, hitting her head on the coffee table on her way down. No attack from behind, just an accident. He'll know what it means."

"Poor lady." I grumble, pulling out my cell.

A case. It's always a case with him and I'm happily along for the ride. I've lost count on the number of cases I've gotten to be apart of since meeting Sherlock and John, but I've never forgotten how much they've changed me. The blog John writes about the cases is merely entertainment for it's readers, but to me it's a short series of memoirs: The memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, as it were.

"Have you done it?" the consulting detective protests, hovering over my shoulder: his heavy breathing, beating down on my neck.

"Wait, hang on." I reply, "I just took my phone out."

"Let me do it. Too slow." Sherlock snatches up my phone and walks off to the kitchen.

'What shall the title of this one be?' I think as I watch him pace the linoleum floor, 'An Elderly Accident? The Blind Fall? Or maybe just The Fall?'

Chuckling to myself, I shake my head and retrieve the groceries I left at the door. I pause for a moment, though, and take in the clutter around the room. Papers are strewn about and a mannequin is hanging by the neck in the kitchen archway. Seriously, I'm gone for an hour and he's turned the entire living room into ground zero. I just sigh heavily and shake my head. Sherlock's mess is just part of home for me. Upon arriving at Baker Street, yes, the clutter of papers and scientific materials all thrown about did startle me, but now, I'm immune to it: Part of the package of being his wife.

I pick up my bag or groceries and walk into the kitchen, being careful not to nudge the mannequin; it's probably another experiment. Sherlock is now typing furiously at his laptop: eyes glued to the screen, face unmoving and stern, fingers moving at lighting speed, so serious and so lost in his work.

Ah, deep in the mind palace now. He won't be talking for a while then.

Removing the groceries from the bag, I begin to wonder, as I often do, how fast he solved this case. He and John had received the call yesterday and only viewed the body at the morgue. The old woman had died from blunt force trauma to the head, John determined that, but there was no evidence showing she had fallen. Well, no evidence but to Sherlock, who saw everything. He amazes me that way; He can tell you your life story after one afternoon chat and then tell you what you had for breakfast just to show off. He's arrogant, but brilliant.

"Where's my phone?" I ask placing my last item in the fridge; thankfully it's cleared of experimental body parts…for now.

No response. He's still typing.

"Alrighty. Shall I go find it then?"

Nothing. He does this; I don't take it personal. I spot my phone in his pant pocket and roll my eyes. He's taken my phone before, thinking it's his. It's annoying. Carefully, I reach into his pocket and grab it; He doesn't even notice.

"Right, shall I clean up your mess then or is it all apart of the experiment?" I ask, but I know that it's in vain. I roll my eyes and reenter the living room.

As I straighten up the coffee table, I notice a black folder stuffed between the cushions of the couch. Curious, I pull it out and open it. The contents make me smile and warm my heart. It's our wedding album, or at least the makings of it. There is a flier from the Cross-Keys Inn, one of our hotel room keys, a pressed yellow rose from my bouquet and other items from that weekend. What really makes me happy to see is a picture of us, taken just moments after we said 'I do.'

Sherlock doesn't even look like himself in this photo. For one, he's smiling, which never happens. Ever. Unless, he's being polite which is a rarity in itself. His arms are wrapped around me and our foreheads are nuzzled together. My heart skips a beat as I remember that day and how very happy it made me to become 'Mrs. Sherlock Holmes'.

God, I'll never forget that day.

Sherlock had worn his black suit and I had bought a simple, flowing white dress; the whole thing was planed so quickly that I didn't have time to buy a gown, but I didn't care. The attendance was small-just my mother, Mycroft, John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson-and the ceremony was held in a private chapel. Afterwards, Sherlock and I had the entire week to our selves. We rarely just have private time together, where a case or my job doesn't get in the way, so it was nice to just be with him. It was…romantic to say the least. Lets just say, our evenings were never dull.

Everything was perfect and it was the best time of my life. That's a cliché thing to say, but it is the truth. Nothing will ever compete with becoming Mrs. Sherlock Holmes.
"That was suppose to be a surprise," the unexpected sound of Sherlock's voice startles me and I quickly turn around on my heel to see him leaning in the archway of the kitchen.

"Oh hello. I thought you wouldn't be speaking for at least an hour," I say, "Nice to see you." Sherlock chuckles and stuffs his hands in his pockets.

"Mrs. Hudson thought it would be a pleasant gift or something for you." He goes on, "I don't see the point really. We were there, why does there need to be a binder about it?"

"Sherlock, don't pretend your heartless," I tease, "This was your idea, wasn't it?"

"How can you tell?"

"Because you took this picture away from John after he snapped it." I say, holding up the photo, "You said that he'd loose it and then who knows who could have gotten a hold of it." Sherlock blushes and walks over to me.

"You've caught me in a rare act of kindness," he whispers, setting his hands on my waist, "Well done, Mrs. Holmes. You're deduction skills are getting better."

I giggle, set the binder down on the couch, and wrap my arms around his neck: "Why thank you, Mr. Holmes." I say, tangling my fingers in his curls, "I have to be honest though, I never took you for the sentimental type."

"Not sentimental." He retorts, "Just…nice."

"Never took you for that either."

Sherlock chuckles in his deep baritone way that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and gently kisses me on the cheek. He then takes me by the hands and sits me down on the couch beside him. I curl up as close to him as possible and rest my head on his shoulder. He's taking a break from the mind palace so I'm going to take advantage of it.

"Mrs. Hudson showed me hers once; her wedding album," he says, picking up the binder and examining its contents, "She told me that even though her husband was less than perfect, it was a reminder of how in love they were."

"That's really sweet," I say, "nice of her to share it with you too."

"Yes, she said that the only reason she put one together was to one day show her children." He goes on, but then becomes very serious, "Do want those?" he asks, looking at me, "Children, I mean."

"Um, at some point, yes." I reply, getting a bit nervous, "Do you?"

Sherlock sucks on his lower lip and looks down at the floor: "I don't think I'm father material." He says, "You on the other hand would be an excellent mother."

"Thank you," I say, a bit confused. Children have never been a topic of conversation between us before. I always assumed that Sherlock didn't like kids, so I never brought it up. I don't want children that badly, but being a mom would be nice; I definitely would be more caring and supportive then my own mother was, that's for certain.

"Sherlock," I say, making sure he understands where I stand on this topic, "we don't have to have kids right now. That can be further down the line. When we're both ready…that is if you even want to have kids." Sherlock nods as he stares off into the distance for a moment, deep in his thoughts. He then snaps his head back to me and kisses the top of my head.

"Now, stop that," he says, getting up and heading back to the kitchen, "I have work to do and you're distracting me." Confused, I just shake my head and follow him, deciding that a cup of tea would make me feel less uncomfortable about the whole children topic. God, I'm turning more and more British by the second.

As I prep the kettle and water, I watch Sherlock work at his microscope. I love to watch him when he's in his element. He has such grace and naturalism when it comes to solving crimes. It definitely is the thing he was put on this earth to do. Sometimes, I'll admit, he worries me. He gets to involved in some cases and it scares me. He'll do anything just to solve a case and sometimes that means danger. Yes, I know that this is what he does for a living and I wouldn't change that. I just wish he would consider the risks before putting his life on the line. He doesn't need to only care for himself anymore; he has me, his wife, to care for. It would be beyond devastating if he left me. I don't know what I'd do.

Lost in my thoughts and not paying attention to a single thing I'm doing, I pour hot water from the kettle and miss my cup completely. The water singes my hand and I quickly yell out in pain. "Shit!" I yell, plopping the kettle down and kissing my burnt hand. "Damn it!" The next thing I know, two large hands are holding my injured one. My eyes lock with his glass like ones; so beautiful and so mesmerizing.

"You alright?" Sherlock asks, gently rubbing the burn. His touch is surprisingly soft and tender.

"Um, uh, y-yeah." I mumble, feeling slightly embarrassed, "Just, uh, wasn't thinking straight. It's not bad, just a little burn. Nothing cold water and a wash cloth won't fix." As I speak, Sherlock has already placed a damp washcloth over my burn. I look at him and he starts to chuckle. "What?" I ask, a bit offended, "What's so funny?"

"Nothing." he replies, "Just noting the fact that you've lived in London for nearly the whole of your adult life and you still can't make a decent cuppa without burning yourself. Not your fault though, your just American."

Ah, that's the Sherlock I know and I love.

I'm about to give him a sassy reply when the look on his face changes from relaxed, if you can call it that, to his thinking face. It's when he looks like his mind has left this planet and traveled to some universe of a case.

"Sher-"

"Yes, of course, American!" he whispers. Suddenly, he whisks to his laptop and busily types the words coming out of his mouth:

"The man who was hit with the cab at the airport was preoccupied with his mobile phone. He was flying in from Paris because he had business there, not because he was French, no, his hair was to tint for that: Definitely American, due to the enormous amount of dye in his hair and his pristine dental work. Now, preoccupied with his phone, he didn't bother to look where he was going and stepped out into on coming traffic. The cab hit him, he fell to the ground, breaking his skull and the cabbie drove off in fear of being caught and blamed for the man's death. The man wasn't a target, just an idiot. This is the one for the blog, Elfie my darling, not the old woman."

Sherlock proudly shuts the laptop down and closes the lid. I just stare at him in awe. He never ceases to amaze me, this man.

"So, you just solved two cases in one afternoon." I say, adjusting my washcloth.

"Yes," he replies, standing up and preparing to exit, "two easy ones. Not much of a challenge."

"Yes, but-Never mind." I don't try to figure out his logic; I'm just along for the ride. "Um, I'm off to take a shower. You can have my tea."

"Don't want it." Sherlock mutters, picking up his violin. He begins to play a classical tune. Mozart perhaps? I shrug and go towards the bathroom. Suddenly, he jolts in front of me, still playing and looks down at my hand. "Try not to run hot water on it." He says, between strokes of his bow.

"Yes, thank you, but I am a grown woman." I retort, "I can take care of myself."

"Clearly," he remarks with a click of his tongue; he does that when he's trying to be cool. He walks back over to his spot by the window and plays even louder.

"You'll wake John." I say, over the music.

"That's the plan." He replies. I laugh and stare at him for a few moments. He looks so handsome and my stomach is full of butterflies. He catches my eye and stops playing. "Problem?" he asks and I just shake my head.

"Nothing, just…I love you, Sherlock Holmes." I say with a smile.

Sherlock smiles back and returns to his music: "I love you too, Elfie Holmes."

Hello!

So here is the first chapter to my sequel. It's just a set up but I wanted to get it out there. For those who have not read my prequel, this is a Reichenbach story. I plan on sticking to the episode's story line and have a pretty good idea for how Elfie will take part in it all.

But I won't tell now…Spoilers ;)

I hope to get chapter 2 up by next week at some point.

I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.

Much love and many thanks.