Prologue- Case Closed
I heard the front door open and close, with two sets of footsteps climbing up the stairs. "How did the case go?" I asked, not looking up from my book as the door of the flat opened.
"Too quickly," a deep bass voice replied. With a swish of a heavy black coat, my boyfriend swept past my languid form on the sofa, throwing his coat over the chair by the fire. As Sherlock Holmes strode into his bedroom, eager for his dressing gown, he continued, "Now I have nothing to stimulate my mind."
I looked at John, who had collapsed into the other armchair tiredly. "It was Lucas Mattern—the restaurant owner. He killed James Cartwright, his son-in-law, because James found out that Lucas was using his daughter's bank account as a gambling fund and went to confront him. Mattern, who has already been convicted of domestic abuse, flew off the handle and stabbed Cartwright," he explained.
"Well, from now on, I'm gambling with cheese curls," I said, setting my book down. "You alright, Sherlock?" I called at his shut door.
"Perfectly fine," he replied, opening the door. He peered at me inquisitively and said, "We would have gotten the case solved more quickly if you were there, but you didn't want to come. Why?"
"Look outside!" I exclaimed, gesturing to the night sky visible through our half-parted curtains. "It's pitch black, the dead of winter, and mushy from the snow we've been getting. All you needed was someone else to keep watch over the restaurant, anyway. Excuse me if I chose not to leave my warm, dry, comfortable flat if I didn't have to."
"Yeah, we got back awfully late," John said, catching sight of the oven clock. "Good lord, it's two in the morning. Why'd you stay up so late?"
"I wanted to hear all about the case!" I answered. I neglected to mention the fact that I haven't really been sleeping well for a while and hoped that a late night would tire me out—Sherlock would only worry. "I couldn't possibly go to sleep while my brave knights were off fighting the perils of society!" Okay, maybe reading Don Quixote for about five hours straight wasn't as good of an idea as it had sounded.
Sherlock's mouth twitched in the slightest of smiles, and John smirked in earnest as he suppressed a yawn. "Oh, it's too late- or early, I guess- for any grand retelling of tales of courage and chivalry," John said. "I'm heading up to bed. You?"
"Yeah, I'm heading down," I replied, closing the heavy book with a satisfying thud. I stood up and began making my way towards Sherlock, the thick tome swinging from my hand, which was cramped from supporting the book for so long. "Goodnight, sweetheart," I said, reaching up to give him a goodnight kiss. As usual, his lips moved only enough to slightly suck on my bottom one, which was as close to the rom-com stereotypical male lead as he got on a daily basis.
"Sweet dreams," he replied in a low voice meant only for me. I vehemently hoped that John had left the room by now. I smiled tiredly at Sherlock, turned around, and made my way back downstairs to flat 221A. Sometimes I forgot I was the owner, with the amount of time I spend with Sherlock and John anyway. I tossed my book onto my sofa, trudged into my bedroom, and went through the motions of getting ready for bed without making any real, conscious effort. As I crawled into bed in an overlarge t-shirt and baggy pajama bottoms, I hoped that Sherlock's bedtime wish for me would actually come true.