Naturally

Disclaimer - I do not own anything; just writing for my own amusement.

Summary - Sometimes things just flow. A day-in-the-life fic...of sorts.

A/N - Thought I'd take it back a notch and just try for a less comical, more narrative fic. This might be a disaster…


It starts with a quiet cough. Not enough to jarr anyone, but enough to bring her out of dreamland and begin the process of waking up. He doesn't yell, at least not usually, but has started to just tap his foot lightly against the floor in a steady rhythm. Slowly, she wakes up, stretches, and looks to him. From his chair, moved closer to her bed for maximum tapping volume, he nods and stands; the day begins.

After she's clothed, sometimes in outfits he selects, she heads to the washroom where he's leaning against the doorway. It's not impatience; he uses the time to share deep thoughts he's had while she slept, to catch her up on the things she's missed out on by partaking in the human need of sleep. She listens while she brushes her teeth and hair, commenting when appropriate.

They move down stairs, breakfast is an important part of both of their days. Most of the time, he cooks while she clears the table or feeds Clyde. On rushed days, they eat cereal standing by the sink. On others, they spend the morning going over cases and news at the table over fresh tea, eggs, and toast.

Mid-morning, if not spent out solving crime, is typically spent apart. She, upstairs reading one of the many books he's selected for her, and he downstairs pouring over old files with new eyes. Sometimes a question will bring them together, sometimes a disagreement will drive them back apart. Always, though, they come back together soon after.

As the day progresses, their time is divided amongst the many activities deemed important for Consulting Detectives to be experts in, per Sherlock's ideology. Chess and other strategic games, to keep the mind sharp and to aid in reading others; lock-picking contests, for practical as well as purely entertainment purposes; reading, there were never enough hours in the day; and self defense. It wasn't always Sherlock teaching Joan, she had taken over the instructor role in enlightening him about the world of herbal medicine.

In between one-stick duels and lessons in herb usage, there are moments of quiet. When two people share a space and, essentially, a life, there develops an unspoken language; a look, a posture shift, an eyebrow raise. While an outsider might see these actions and think nothing of them, to the two of them, they can mean anything from needing space to a need for closer examination of a key piece of evidence. This language, this dance, is unique to the two of them and continues to grow in complexity and depth with every passing day.

The day winds down with dinner. As with breakfast, Sherlock mostly takes on the duty of cooking, though he has begun to tutor Watson in the ways of the whisk on occasion. Where they dine is not really set: sometimes they sit together at the table, others they eat apart in their rooms, and sometimes they both lounge in the living room with their plates. Once the dishes are done, Watson washes and Sherlock dries as he insists on things being put away just so, they once again go their separate ways.

Often, Sherlock spends his evenings watching seven newscasts on seven stations trying to predict which details of the stories will be changed on which networks. Watson reads or schedules meetings with potential clients. As the day winds down and night cloaks the Brownstone, things grow quiet. They usually meet up in the kitchen for a cup of tea and a quiet conversation before bed and then they say their goodnights.

As she settles into bed, she hears the gentle notes of a violin as he plays softly into the darkness. She drifts off to sleep knowing that tomorrow will be an almost perfect replica of today and for that, she's thankful.

-fin