When we first started sharing our flat we did it out of order. First we solved a case and then I moved in. He was actually quite helpful in getting my boxes up the stairs. I don't remember if I wrote this, and I don't much care to go back and look, but when we had that first dinner he'd stated that he wouldn't eat and he "had a few more days." He hadn't eaten in days and I was surprised as his energy. Well, after a good night's rest and three servings of chinese he had even more. And then there was none. As soon as all my boxes were in, he was done. He laid down on the couch, he'd never even changed out of his pajamas, and slept. He slept all day.
I went to bed and he was still asleep. I figured the next morning he'd gotten up in the night but I could find no evidence of it. He was still asleep. He only woke when I put my face right in his to make sure he was breathing.
"John. You'll remember..." he started in a very delicate tone that I would not come to expect, "I do consider myself married to my work."
I rested back, facing him "You've been asleep since yesterday."
"That is par for the course." He sat up and stretched.
"You usually sleep all day?"
"Sometimes more than that." He sat up and stretched.
"You'll learn when to wake me." I wouldn't learn for a few more weeks that he meant 'Wake me when there is a case, not before.' He seemed to have little passion for much else. Cases came three times a week and then not for the rest of the month. It seemed crime wasn't steady. And it didn't pay.
Unlike myself, he never was short on money. I could scarcely imagine why he needed a flatmate. And as inconsiderate as he could be, as inhumanly cruel he could be, he was never greedy. If I found myself short, from day one he would hand over his card, no questions asked.
I had to ask first.
I sat down that day and rubbed my face.
"You need money?" he asked. We'd lived together two months at this point.
"I am three pound-fifty short."
"Put it on my card." He said. I'd expected that.
"Don't you just have three fifty? I feel really bad using your card every time I am short."
"Why?" He asked.
"Why?" I responded. It seemed natural to me that one would feel bad, putting fifty pounds of food and toiletries on someone else's card.
"Yes. It doesn't bother me" he paused "and it's my money. Why should it bother you if it doesn't bother me?"
"It's just..." As usual, I couldn't find a rational reason. It's surprisingly hard to talk about having just a feeling with no basis with Sherlock. It makes him want to analyze you until he tells you why you feel that way. "I guess it just does. If it really doesn't bother you, I will just use it for everything. I'll keep it."
"Fine" he said, staring me dead in the eye the smallest smile on his face. I couldn't tell if he was being funny or playful, but I took it as a challenge.
"Fine." I stood up. "That's just fine." I was getting angry. It was completely irrational. "Fine." I walked out the door. I can't know what he did while I was away. While I shopped, I enjoyed picturing him hunched over his computer, watching his bank account dwindle away.
I returned to the store I'd been short at. I put away everything and bought the better versions of the same stuff. Imported cheese, High quality cuts of meat. Everything was excessive. I got new clothes and purchased everything I could get a hold of. To top it off, I paid someone to help me carry it all with money I got from the teller machine. I carried the first of the stuff up the stairs and I triumphed. I had done it. This would make him angry. He would... God I pictured him being so angry. As angry as he made me on a regular basis.
I came into the living room where he was typing something. He glanced up passively as I entered with my bag.
"Oh wait!" I said eagerly "There's more" I went quickly down the steps and gathered the rest.
When I got back, he didn't even look up. "Do you need help with the rest?"
"That's all." I said, I remember placing my hands on my hips, my feet buried in a pile of new things. "That's" I looked at it all. It wasn't working "That's it."
"Please tell me you are getting the suits fitted properly at the very least. They had better not be in those suit bags you dropped."
"No. They are just suits."
He stood up and picked up the suit bag "Well, take them back and get them fitted. If you are getting a suit, you are getting one done right. I'll put the rest of this away." He never offered to put stuff away. He was just toying with me. "Go on. You still have the card."
I was completely stunned. I turned and walked out the door, back to the suit store. It took two hours to get the measurements and adjustments right and the suit would be done in three days. When I got home, Sherlock was sitting on the couch with my laptop this time. Everything was put away.
I stormed off to my room after that. I couldn't say or do anything. He'd won. He always won. Except when he didn't. He lost big the only time I saw him lose.
