Watching him is like watching an old clock, ticking away. Except with an old clock you can actually see the gears turning and working through all the small details that give one output: the time. His face is blank and most of his body is stiff. He sits in his favorite chair in the small flat, and I in mine. He stares ahead, his elbows perched on the arms on the chair, his finger tips tapping one another in silence. My legs are crossed and I know I should be focusing on the case but he is just so interesting to watch. When he's like this I take in the sight, for he is rarely idle for this long. It's fascinating. My lips twitch as I catch myself staring and I quickly push my gaze to the mantel in front of us. His music stand is out and towards the side of it, full of scribbled bits of a new composition he had been working on, but he had put his violin away by the time I arrived home. I exhale softly and glance at him again. He's on his feet and so I quickly scramble to mine.
"You've got it?"
He gives me a sideways glance, a small but evident upturn of his lips.
"Of course I've got it." He replies, deep voice echoing throughout the room. "I've always got it, John. I have always got it."
He pulls out his phone, fingers moving swiftly over the key pad, undoubtedly texting Lestrade. He slips the small device into his trousers pocket and walks silently to the door grabbing his coat. He slides it on over his pure white button up and looks to me, catching my eye. To this day, he still amazes me. He raises his eyebrows at me and I scurry behind him grabbing my own ratty coat. He tucks his scarf around his neck.
"Don't forget your gloves." He tells me, as I pull them out of my coat pocket.
"How could I ever?" I reply with a smile.
I look at his smile, smooth and charming. In a flash he's down the steps and I'm behind him. I catch Mrs. Hudson as we head out the door, letting her know we'll be gone a while, I think, if I know Sherlock. I roll my eyes at her with a smile and shut the door after me. By the time I'm on the street, Sherlock has hailed us a cab and is telling the driver some sort of address that I only hear half of. It seems to me he always reveals his greatest findings when we're in the back of a cab.
"On with it then." I challenge, glancing at him, and then the cabbie who, gratefully, seems very uninterested in the two of us. Only his fare seems to be on his mind as he's going about four kilometers slower than any other cabbie might be going. I let out a small but sharp exhale. I've done it again. Spending the last year with Sherlock has sharpened my reasoning skills, without a doubt. He's definitely had an influence on me. I like to think I've had one on him, but honestly who has ever influenced Sherlock? Except for... The Woman. I shudder quietly to myself as I remember the dark days that followed our discovery of Irene Adler.
I jump when his hand grabs my shoulder. My gaze jerks back to him, but his face is close to mine, examining me, searching my face to see if he can read the thoughts deep inside my head. When he can't, he lets his gloved finger trace down my cheek.
"Pupils dilated. Are you alright?" He asks gently.
"I-i.." I stutter, not sure how to respond. But before I can get any words out the cabbie butts in.
"Look, guys, if you want to have a go at one another at least wait until you're out of my cab, okay?" He glance in the rear view, furry eyebrows scrunched together in a look that represents confusion and apprehension.
"No, we're not a couple." Sherlock steals the words from my mouth. Even though I believe we should be. I think to myself. He's still staring at me, awaiting my answer. I finally nod, clearing my throat as I meet his gaze, the lights from the busy city of London flashing over our faces as we whiz past them. The cabbie seems to have gained some speed now.
"I'm just fine, Sherlock." I tell him. He sits back against his seat and starts his speech over from the beginning. I know he finds it tedious to repeat, but I find it tedious when he won't tell he of his massive deductive reasoning skills.
"Now, Martha Jutsing was a secretary for Mr. Kattlemen, who had a wife and two children. It was apparent to every one in all of London that they were having some kind of affair, even to his oldest daughter. Now she's only fourteen but she's old enough to shoot a gun, now isn't she? After pretending to be sick in front of her mother, she hid in her fathers car with one of his many handguns. When he arrived to work that morning and then left later that afternoon with a woman who was not her mother, she shot Martha. No emotions. She loved her mother and was mad with her father and the best to remedy to situation was to shoot the woman that was going to ruin their family. She did do it, John. I know she did, unfortunately."
The cab is very quiet for a moment and he looks back at me.
"Aren't you going to ask how I knew that?" He questions me, those eyes penetrating mine once again.
"Ahem, yes, alright then, tell me." I reply, squaring my shoulders against the old but still put together leather seats of our cab. It's getting a little warm in here, the cabbie having put on the heat. I glance at him, and then turn my head entirely.
"Nail polish." He says simply. I glance at him, a small purse of my lips and the question in my eyes begs his next answer.
"There was chippings of nail polish all in the back seat of the car. They were small but not too small. There were also small fragments in the folds of Martha's clothes where the daughter realized she had gone horribly wrong and held the wound tightly to try to stop the bleeding. Her father watched for a few seconds and then tried to help as well. But Martha died. She didn't make it and there is no way on earth a father would let his fourteen year old daughter go to jail. He twisted the facts so that if her body ever turned up he would get blamed instead of her." He pauses, glancing out the window as he can tell we're getting close to where ever we're headed.
"Every other detective in the universe would believe that it was him. But you deduce that it's the daughter because of flecks of nail polish?" I ask, looking at him.
"Pink nail polish." He confirms. His phone pings and he fishes it out of his pocket, an interesting sight since he's seated and buckled in. Once it's out he reads the message aloud.
"'Girl confessed, wore pink nails to the station. Top notch again. Lestrade.'"
I smile as the cab comes to a stop. My smart Sherlock. I open the door and slide out onto the cold street. At a first I'm unaware of my surroundings so when Sherlock finally joins my side after paying the fare I am very thankful. I feel more safe with him than I do carrying my gun on my hip.
"What are we doing?" I ask, seeing the short puffs of breath expel into the cold air around us.
"Dinner." He says gently, walking off down the street towards the busy city lights.
I shrug once again, following him without question. It is now that I realize I would follow this man to the ends of the earth if he asked me. If he didn't ask me, I would probably follow him anyways. I can feel the heat from this thought crawling up my cheeks and I'm hoping the nippy air will account for the new shades of red in my face. I swallow and catch up to him, matching his pace rather easily. Something feels different about this night. A night where anything can happen and I hope anything does.