It had come as a shock at first, discovering the vast recesses of Sherlock's life, but now John Watson took it a day a time. Head today, quoting last month's obituary column off by heart tomorrow.
The first couple were deeply disconcerting to the point where John had actually had to go downstairs for some sweet tea and the sympathetic company of Mrs Hudson for an hour or two. First it was the apparent psychic abilities, {answers to questions John hadn't even begun to express suddenly pouring forth from between the detective's lips after 15 minutes of complete silence between the two} followed by the intimate knowledge of John's toiletry routine {'You need to change your moisturiser brand- this one just isn't working on your eczema'} to the complete ignorance of even the most basic English history facts {'What do you mean, who was Winston Churchill?'}
It hadn't been surprising either, a month later when the Blackberry that was permanently glued to Sherlock's person buzzed once and, with a slight grimace at the caller ID, Sherlock had began;
'Bonjour Maman, et comment allez-vous aujourd'hui?'
John had stared over the evening paper as Holmes continued the conversation in fluent French {'No Maman, j'ai pas parlé à grandmere Vernet'} idly flicking through a book on human anatomy as if nothing were out of the ordinary {'Vous ne pouvez pas répondre John, pas encore avant'} before switching to the newspaper swiped from Watson's grasp and then to plucking tunelessly at the violin in concentric circles of notes {'No Maman, j'ai été bon de Mycroft! Eh bien, il est allongé!'}
The call ended with a quiet but sincere goodbye from the detective and an almost sheepish expression as he hung up on his mother, wishing her goodnight before staring sightlessly out of the window. John shook himself and pulled himself out of his armchair with a soft grunt.
'Cup of tea?'