"My work, John, is going nowhere," says Sherlock Holmes, throwing down a newspaper and cracking his knuckles. I know where this is headed.

He and I have been living together four days, and while he makes for an interesting roommate, he is also intolerable. I wince as he reaches for his antique violin and begins pull the bow across the strings.

"Not this again!" I exclaim, plugging my ears with my fingers. "I can't tolerate it!" I freeze as he begins playing Bach —my favorite classical piece: his violin sonata.

"How did you—"

"I just knew." He smirks.

He's been doing this all week, the interrupting thing. It's not as annoying as it was at first. Or, at least, it's not enough to make me reconsider this arrangement. It's a beautiful apartment, with a nice enough park on the other side. He even lets me borrow his car whenever I need it, to get groceries or anything I need. Even to look for a job.

"I'm going out."

"But I'm not finished!" he protests, giving me a slightly…pleading look as he rips it out on his violin. "Besides," he says as he stops his bow mid-piece. "I was wondering if you'd like to go to dinner."

"Are you asking me out?" I wonder, confused. He looks nonplussed. "On a date?"

It dawns on him, and he looks very annoyed. "No. I'm just bored."

It occurs to me that I haven't seen him consume anything but coffee since we moved in together. "How long has it been since you ate?"

He shrugs, which is a feat with the violin on his shoulder. "Five days, six days, maybe. Let's see, what day is it?"

He's hopeless. "Wednesday."

"Sorry, five days."

I roll my eyes. "Have any place in mind?"

"Yes, a small place in Central Berkeley."

"That's across the bridge!" I exclaim, not sure if I'm willing to brave evening traffic just to go to a restaurant. Particularly with Sherlock Holmes, god help me!

He runs a hand through his hair. Again. Why I am so particularly fixated on this gesture is beyond me. It's probably just because it pisses me off so much. "It's worth it, believe me."

"It had better be." I roll my eyes. "So, should be take your car?"

"There's a park I'd like to go to first."

He's messing with me, right? Of course he's messing with me. It's a foggy day, the sun just setting. It's bound to be freezing outside. Who in their right mind would want to go for a walk right now? Wait, who am I kidding? This is Sherlock Holmes; my new roommate, and he does whatever the hell he wants! I clench my hand, then look down at it.

Finally, I find the guts to vocalize my objections, not just for myself, but for his well-being. "No. You haven't eaten in five days. This place first, then we can go traipsing around a park."

"Big words." He smirks.

"Shut up! I am this close to—" I stop before he can interrupt me, then start again. "We're getting you something to eat. Now."

I know by now that Sherlock knows exactly where he's going anywhere in San Francisco, and for the most part anywhere else that's got BART. I, however, don't have a GPS in my head, so I take this opportunity to grab Sherlock's coat and extract his iPhone before handing it over to him. My Droid's GPS has been malfunctioning for months, since before Harry even gave it to me.

"So. This place. What's it called?" I say as if I'm wondering, when really I just want to put in directions.

"The Thai Café," he tells me, cradling his head. He probably has a headache. Not that uncommon after a five-day fast. I chuckle. There are probably dozens, if not hundreds, of restaurants called the Thai Café around here. When I put the name in, four pop up in our immediate vicinity. I extend the radius to include Berkeley, and six more show up. Only one of them, however, promises "enough spice to make you beg for mercy". Definitely Sherlock's style, I decide, and grab his keys from the coffee table.

We approach the Bay Bridge in utter silence, so once we pull onto it, I'm taken aback when I hear a deep voice come from my right. I wouldn't believe it was he making conversation if he wasn't the only other person in the car.

"How much did you get to know this city during college?"

I'm shocked. He doesn't usually make conversation, unless it's about himself. I stutter for a moment. "Not well," I finally say. "I didn't ever venture far from St. Mary's. Studies, you know. So absorbing. How about you?"

"Me, I went to Stanford," he admits. "But I've made it a hobby of mine to have the whole city mapped out in my head."

"I've noticed," I tell him.

"You've noticed." He snorts. "That makes one thing."

I roll my eyes for approximately the two hundred thousandth time in the past four days. I don't reply. "You complain about work," I eventually muster. "But I still don't know what you do."

"Haven't you noticed?" he wonders, as if struck by my stupidity.

"No, I haven't."

Guess, I think. He's going to tell me to guess. "Guess," he challenges me.

"PI," I guess.

"Maybe." He smirks.

"That's not an answer! You know all these things about me, but I know nothing about you except that you're an insufferable asshole and 'maybe' that you're a PI. Answers, Sherlock. Please." I hate reducing myself to begging, but I figure it's the only way that I can extract some answers from what I have already acknowledged as that brilliant, irritating mind of his.

"I'm a consulting detective," he says, and I am surprised that he acquiesced. Still, that doesn't clarify anything. So, mercifully (because I don't want to ask and feel like an idiot) he says. "When the police have an issue or need to make a consultation, they come to me and tell me what the problem is. So I listen, and I tell them. Or I come to a crime scene and take a look myself, which is always preferable. The eyes of the regulars never see much."

"So, you are a PI. Does anyone besides the police ever come to you?"

"Oh, yeah, lots. Not often enough, though."

I grin. "I gathered that. You seem bored a lot."

He pauses, stares out the window at the bay, and then at the approaching lights of Emeryville. "That," he says, "is an astute observation."

And so it happens that Sherlock Holmes and I laugh together for the first time. It is the kind of laughter that could constitute reckless driving. I'm not sure why I find it so funny, what he just said, but for some reason it is completely hilarious. It may be the first time we share a good chuckle, but it is by no means the last.