Holmes has once again succeeded in killing my dog (my eyes drag down to the lump of fat I call Gladstone running circles around my legs) killed and brought back alive again that is. Eye twitching with aggravation, I recall the words which he had spoken. "What a great opportunity" He'd cried, when I'd finally announced my dog was collapsed, stumped legs, folds of fat and all out cold with not a hint of pulse being emitted. Holmes face was a light with excitement as if he'd been oblivious to the cause of my poor dog's outcome. I wasn't shocked; I believe the word 'bewildered' would have been more appropriate for this situation. Bewildered, that he'd once again selfishly sent my dog to the heavens only to retrieve him back yet again using one of his many latest inventions. Luckily for Sherlock, they'd all, so far, performed as anticipated; otherwise he would soon be finding my fingers wringing his neck even if my tormented dog would finally be released from the torture which he'd had put upon him on this world.
I reach a hand down to stroke behind one of the ears of Gladstone, who had now in fatigue, fallen fast asleep across my feet, snorting and grumbling his dreams. I attempt to move my feet into a more comfortable position and even up his heavy weight over both feet, only to get a dash of pain rushing up my injured leg. Stifling the whimper of pain I continued to pet Gladstone, the old leg had been playing up all day. I roll my eyes in irritation and wonder if Sherlock was watching and calculating my actions. With my back bent so I could stroke my dog's ear and my head bowed down looking to him, I decided this would be the best opportunity to sneak a view at the fellow resident of 221B sat across from me. Raising my blue eyes, I took what I saw in. His usual attire, scraggy dark hair and bruised cheekbone; the first couple of buttons on his crisp white shirt were released from their holds and his red silk scarf was hanging looser than customary instead of being tucked into the top of his shirt. He flipped a page on the newspaper he was holding up by the grubby, manly, stubby fingers. His face in its usual mysterious calm mask as his eyes carefully searched for a case he could pick up. Only God would know what he was thinking, whether he had seen or not.
"Is there something bothering you mother hen?" The man's eyes never left the paper before him but a smirk was pulling at his lips. I first froze in amazement at how without even lifting his view to me he had still somehow managed to feel my situation. I then lay back comfortably in my chair whilst I raised my eyebrows in amusement.
"Mother hen?" I quipped questioningly humour lacing my words. "That's a new one." I drummed my fingers across the armchair nervously as Sherlock gave a deep sigh from behind the contents of the ink ridden paper.
"Please don't try to avoid my question John." He said as he finally closed the newspaper and worthlessly chucked it to the floor, finally coming in eye contact with me "You've known me long enough now, to know I'm far from stupid."
"Clearly, however I do believe that's not for you say but for…"
"We're going off topic again John." He interrupted with clear aggravation; leaning forward in his armchair to stare right back into my eyes. "Now, are you going to tell me or am I just going to have to tell you."...
To Be Continued...