Chapter 3: The Exception
Sherlock Holmes' POV
"Congratulations. You've earned your place of one of four."
With glittering orbs, the young woman filled with delight; the sensation of 'good news' too immense to suppress. The purity of this woman's ordinary, unadorned arousal is a sight seldom witnessed—or as I suspect. The shy creature often represses her natural intuition, and behaves accordingly—to that of society's wishes. She is a being confined—a prisoner, bound wholly by her fears. Yet, and on the contrary, as I settle my gaze at the present young woman, my former assessment of her dilutes itself in the very (quieting) pleasure she elicits.
What a beautiful thing she was, gushing over this simple report I had given her. She's trying—against her natural temperament—to bed her excitement. She's trying to calm herself. What with the pressing of her lower lip between her teeth, inadequately trying to suppress her glee, and the coloring of her cheeks, I couldn't help but make the obvious deduction she's—unfortunately to my annoyance—overjoyed to be accepted into my company.
My head rotated slightly to the side, quickly recapturing my previous thoughts. What a beautiful thing she was? I mentally repeated, my feature screwing-up in confusion. I did not spend another moment of my time wasting with this thought. I quickly dismiss the theory behind it, concluding the lateness of the hour was the result of such non-sense thinking.
"Alright, off with you. I haven't another moment to spare."
"But we haven't discussed the times of my lessons yet," she said, then flushed at her sudden bold outburst, retailing against mine. "I mean, I may need a flexible schedule … due to my work. I work the day shifts, so will night lessons be alright?"
I scowled, such triviality! Night lessons!? The seclusion that night offered me was indisputable. I would not waste such precious time on some … some girl!? … Yet, the bet I made with John flashed in my mind. Blasted idiot. Blasted girl! When would I awake from this nightmare?
"I don't often, actually never, make exceptions. Not for anyone, but—"
"John?"
I narrowed my eyes at her. "Are you trying to imply something, Ms. Whitmore?"
"Well," she flushed again, sucking her lower lip between her teeth again. "Aren't you two … uh, partners?"
What was this nonsense, I thought with a fierce potency. My tolerance was quickly deteriorating. "Yes, what is your point?"
However before she could reply John decided this was opportune moment to interrupt and returned from his bedroom.
"Um, hello again," he said behind Ms. Whitmore. She twirled around, blushing. "So what's going on here? Has Sherlock finished his monotonous monologue yet?"
I droned and rolled my eyes. John was attempting to flirt, and no one, especially not I, wanted to be a witness. However, the young woman smiled and politely directed her attention to John, of whom began engaging my mentee. I didn't like that.
I cleared my throat and stepped between their bodies. "As I was saying, Ms. Whitmore. Know, I am so very unwillingly to make this exception, and accordingly, if you come to disappoint me even once, there will be consequences. Understood?"
She appeared apprehensive, even confused as I continued to leer down at her. She glanced to John, of who offered her a small smile. She managed to timidly reply:
"Um, yes, I understand."
"Good," I said; "Now off you come go; quickly. John's left brow is raising and you know what that means. We will discuss the terms of our future engagements in our first lesson. Now, off you silly thing; you're rowling the dog. "
John squealed. "Oye, I'm not a dog!"
Ms. Whitmore was blushing, and profusely if I added, as she nervously evaded our company, but not before saying 'good evening.' When the door was at last shut, I slumped down into the sofa, cherishing the way my muscles released and ached. My eyes were closed for no more than the briefest moments before John began poking and prodding my arm.
"Did she ask about me?" he said.
I sighed, although did not open my eyes, and replied carelessly, "She may have mentioned your name?"
"And?"
"And what?"
"What did she say?"
"About what?"
"Sherlock," John breathed out, his temper beginning to show. "Come on, just tell me what she said."
John's interest in my future mentee was wholly disconcerting. She was my mind to mold, my body to shape, my mentee to instruct! I couldn't risk John spoiling such a unsoiled talent. Within the few moments of silence after she left, I began to analyze the young woman's lack of experience and worldly knowledge as—as John's referred to it—a 'blessing in disguise.' I could teach her things beyond the limitations of music, beyond her purview, and beyond her wildest imaginations. She would become my ultimate challenge. She would be mine to conquer!
"Sherlock?"
John's voice materialized my surroundings and reintroduced reality into my sights. He was still standing there, hovering about wondering about Ms. Whitmore. Usually, when I would escape to my Mind Palace, he would often have the sense to leave me be, yet it seemed, Ms. Whitmore was obviously a more potent desire.
I mentally sighed. "I simply told her we were partners."
John's face whitened.
"In what context?" he quickly asked. His voice had risen an octave, and his feet began to dance.
"I simply stated that you were an exception. And for some unknown reason, she asked if you and I were partners. I replied yes."
"Oh Sherlock, now you're done it. Again! … Great. She's thinks I'm gay. Gay for you. Gay for Sherlock."
"Why would she think that?" I asked, however only seconds later I came to realize the distinct difference between detective partners and simply, partners.
"Gay for Sherlock?" he repeated incredulously, his mouth huffing and his hips puffing. "Gay for Sherlock?"
I sighed again. "Good night, John. Your anxiety is entirely ridiculous. Besides, you're not her type."
John tsked at me. "And what? You are?"
Our conversation terminated when John slipped his coat on and quickly evaded the flat. I sighed again; I didn't understand John's dependence on women and love. I've never depended on either, and look how happy I was. … Or could I objectively argue that I was indeed happy? This thought struck my interest and I returned to the sofa chair to further examine this question.
Was I? Or I was just content? If indeed, I was just content, what would I need to obtain to reach happiness? This question intrigued me well through the night, and long after John returned exhausted from the next morning.
Was she my exception?
Author's Notes:
I just want to add that I am so thankful for everyone's reviews! I'm so giddy people are showing an interest for the story. Thanks!