It was night in London, and there were a lot of clouds, choking the dreary city. Sherlock looked out the window with his apathetic stare. He dared the world to throw whatever they had at him. He was so terrifically bored.
"Holmes, come over here. You have to sign these checks." Anne said, balancing bank accounts at the kitchen table. It took a bit of effort to clear a bit of space from the plethora of beakers and bottles. "As much as I could simply copy your signature, I feel like obeying the law." When he didn't move, she threw the pen at his head. "Need I cordially invite you?"
The pen hit the brooding detective with surprising accuracy. "If only you could shoot as sharply as you throw." He commented with the tiredness of an old man as he shuffled over to the table to half-ass his name onto the checks. "There." He said with venom. He was mad at the world, and right now that included Anne too.
"Thank you, Holmes. You may now return to your pouting, moaning and sulking." Anne said with a fairylike voice. She was tempted to throw a wadded up piece of paper at him, but thought better of it. He was still her employer, and she should have some respect. Some. Anne got up to get a drink but paused before opening the door. "What am I going to find in here if I open it?" she asked with apprehension not entirely disguised. It wasn't that she was unaccustomed to Holmes' morgue findings being stored in the place where food and only should be; just the smell was something she didn't want to have clinging to her for hours.
Holmes contemplated telling her the contents of the refrigerator. But something told him that yes, she deserved a warning. "Preserved head. And a foot covered in mold."
Anne blinked and figured out just why the airtight lining on the appliance was so necessary. "Decomposition studies never cease, do they?"
"Not as long as people keep dying. Which they aren't doing enough of." He resumed his stance at the glass pane. He looked paler than a ghost, eyes more piercing than swords.
"Well, if your immorality serves one purpose, at least it keeps you out of the muck of emotions. We need at least one heartless bastard fighting for us. Or we just get stuck with humanity." Anne darkly stated. "So thank you, Mister Sherlock Holmes, for fulfilling that requirement."
"Oh, get off your high horse." Sherlock snapped. "The world isn't comprised of your storybook heroes. In here, those who are pure and innocent get killed. And it's my job to stop it."
"It is always funny, what the purpose of a man's life is contradictory to that which supports it." Anne sighed. Looking up, Holmes was sitting in the windowsill, as pensive as the rain which was falling. "I guess we will simply have to bear with the fact that we are in the hands of Sherlock Holmes, the world's most sociopathic, insufferable, aggravating, despicable genius who the rest of us, have to bear with because we can't survive without."
"The rest of us'? Give me a break. You feel the drive to solve the puzzle, and you know that's what it boils down to. Work is what we have to do, there is no choice. So you devote your life to it, because anything else just gets in the way. It has to be about the work, Anne. There is no alternative. And the only reason you're mad at me is because you know it, and you feel your connections to the rest of the world are threadbare. You might as well cut them; you can't be both a detective as I am and a person as they are. The polar opposites cannot coexist on one playing field."
Anne blinked, then set the pen down and sat at the other windowsill. "So that's it then. I am no longer a part of the world…"
"If you think about it, you never were. We never were. No one built for this line of work was ever really part of it all, were they?"
Anne heaved a sigh. "You know, I think you might have set records for pomposity, cynicism and demotivationalism all in one speech. Very impressive, Holmes."
The man smiled the faintest amount. He was proud of his apprentice. She had finally realized the war that was going on, and now she was fully ready to become a consulting detective. "You can call me Sherlock." And with one sentence, he finally gave her the true badge of honor and infamy that came with working for the permanent resident of 221B.