XXVI
Gallant
She folded her arms, brow knitted, her lips turned downwards in a frown.
"Hm," she said.
"What?" he snapped.
"Oh, nothing…" Her stance did not change, but her expression softened. She looked at him in a very odd manner, as if she was appraising him for some… feminine purpose. He should have been able to tell, but this was not – as he continually insisted – his area of expertise.
"I do believe I have fulfilled the societal demands for what we call 'an apology.'"
She laughed. "I'm surprised."
"Why?"
"I wasn't expecting an apology at all. That's quite novel of you."
Filial
He had always known someone like Sherlock Holmes was out there; he just hadn't been able to pin a name on him until now.
Even when he was just beginning to toy with the idea of forging a lifestyle out of the humanity's corrupt nature, he had always felt the presence of someone balancing out the equation. For every crime he established, every mystery he planned, there was another to decode it, breathing life into his art.
It was only natural that they would eventually be drawn together.
He liked to think he was the one who triggered the drawing.
Vexation
He had become accustomed to being attacked in his drawing room.
Somehow, the certain people managed to send him messages, ones that were usually literally pointed in some way.
He preferred not to talk about these encounters; they wouldn't lead to any worthwhile conversations. The visits did, however, usually leave visual marks – a scuff here, a scratch there, a smashed mirror. When John or Mrs Hudson inquired what happened, he had two excuses.
One: boredom.
Two: a severe case of vexation.
"Your moods make me 'vexed'," Mrs Hudson would say, before tramping off to add the damage to his bill.
Sublime
They offered him a blanket.
No applause, no words of appreciation, just some blanket to designate his "in shock" status. Every time he tried (politely) handing it back, they shoved it back around his shoulders.
He attempted to look "in shock" to satisfy them, but he quickly became bored and began speculating multiple methods to sieve money off his brother without Mycroft noticing.
It was a lengthy process. Mycroft was Mycroft – the only thing he was good for was providing an avenue for time-wasting hypothetical situations when Sherlock had time to waste.
That, and governmental aide, when it was necessary.
Superficial
"What?"
(John wondered how many times an argument began with "what?")
"This… isn't how it should be."
"I cleaned it."
"Bravo! Are you looking for congratulations? I won't give you any—"
(Of course not.)
"—you hardly deserve it, I can't find anything now—"
(It was best to let the rant run its course. He was bored; organisation set him off more easily when he was bored.)
"Are you finished?"
(A pause, for good measure.)
"No."
"Good. I'm going out."
(He wagered Sherlock would still be glaring angrily at the organised space when he returned. Such was life.)