Sherlock does not belong to me. Unfortunately.
On with the story.
Truly exceptional.
What was it, that drew me to that man?` What could possibly attract any sane person to that creature, while all the signs screamed - "danger", "insane", "piss off"?
Well, I guess, I am not sane after all, and PTSD has nothing to do with it.
What was it about him? Now, when I try to remember my first impression of Sherlock Holmes, I remember only seeing a young
sickly looking young man with an unruly mop of black hair. Dressed smartly, but a bit dramatically. His cold, calculating and restless gaze that nailed you to the spot. He managed to read half of my life's story with one single look. But I only saw high cheekbones- a mark of aristocratic breeding.
In a minute he proposed sharing a flat, with a tone, that could no be objected.
-"The name is Sherlock Holmes. And the Number is 221b Backer Street".
I should have refused. Before Afghanistan, I would have never even considered sharing an apartment with a total stranger, let alone with the one, who managed to read me so spontaneously. But my life was so dull and miserable, that I decided to take a chance on that weird, but intriguing Mr. Holmes. But now, when I think about it, I understand, that I had been besotted right that very moment. And the choice of entwining my life so intimately with Sherlock was never mine. It was meant to be.
Like it has happened before, in some other universe.
He took me on that crazy ride of a case. I observed him from the front line, and I have been the only one, who has been granted such an honor. I watched him, how his face lit up, when Lestrade asked for his help. Sherlock was like a child, who was given his favorite toy. - "Four serial suicides!" Something so terrible should have saddened a normal person. But not him.
I have never praised anybody so much in my entire life, the way such words as "extraordinary" and "amazing" showered him that day. And truth to be told, never have I encountered such a brilliant man before. His brain was like a superpower. And Sherlock himself with his flashy movements, dark coat, and eccentric behaviour reminded me of some comic book hero, which had stepped from the page - otherworldly into our modern day London.
I went after him, when he was taken by the cabbie, and was barely in time to stop him from swallowing that pill. He said, that he would not have taken it, that he was buying me time. At that very moment, I was nearly convinced. But now, when I think about it.. I have saved his life. He would have proven, that he had been right, even, if his life was at stake. That bloody idiot.
"Bored... bored.. bored".It has been boredom and that infinite desire to act, think and solve, that drove him.
I followed him on his ridiculous adventures, like a lovesick puppy. I swallowed my pride, earning raised eyebrows from everybody who knew Sherlock. "How can you put up with that nutcase?" And how could I not? How could they not?
Right was Mycroft-life with Sherlock was a battlefield- interesting, glorious, exciting, if you have one gulp of that hurricane of a man- you would always feel thirst and emptiness.
Living with Sherlock under the same roof is no less stimulating, than running with him all around London. Violin at 3 in the morning, explosions in the kitchen, dead body parts in the fridge, gunshots and strange calls at night. Him, acting like a teenager with his mood swings, treating everybody like idiots, not caring about anybody or anything, but the case.
And now I think.. I would not have missed it for the world. Even if sometimes I come so close to the point of exploding, to that boiling point, when I need to run and cool my head off, and leave that insufferable man once and for all. I always come back. Like a junkie, I accused Holmes of being. I need that dose, like a person dieing. An intoxicating dose of life with Sherlock, you ask for again and
Soon that unhealthy fascination grew into a constant desire to be with him all the time, to just admire that man. His elegant but sharp movements, that I think could only be given by the upper-class breeding. His eyes, that Pierce you, make you immobile, order, plead, manipulate and ensnare. The way his usually stoic face changes, when he smiles or laughs. That laugh. The most amazing sound ever. And when you are the one who amuses him, makes him happy, you feel like a person blessed.
Later I started craving not only for this laugh, but for his voice, silky and commandeering. The way he softly murmurs the solution of a difficult problem, eyes fixed on you, or something else- it does not matter- he does not see you. Like he is trapped in some other place, no one can reach. Well, sometimes I can, or maybe Lestrade.
We are lucky to be able to glimpse the genius doing his job. But only I am fortunate, blessed enough to care for him, to guide him, if he has lost his way.
Lucky to be the one, who sees him behind his mask. To see a human inside, only if through a tiny crack. To realize- he cares, and needs you, and fears to lose you.
That makes you feel... truly exceptional.
Everything else will come with time.
The new day has come. Did he fall asleep, crouched on that sofa, or streched his limbs on the chair? Was he solving another impossible problem?
Or, perhaps, maybe... he was thinking about me?
With Sherlock Holmes, you never know.
Hi guys, this is my first Sherlock fic. I have fallen madly in love with that tv show, and had this impossible urge to spill my emotions on the paper. Don't judge me too harshly- I am no writer, just a poor hormone-driven girl.
I am not sure if this is a oneshot, or a multihapter.
Anyway, read and review) That would make my day.