Ch. 27

Sherlock emerged from taking his bath (which took quite long, seeing as he had to scrub all of the coal dust off of himself,) to find a plate of grilled chicken, rice, and salad sitting on the counter for him. He tied his bathrobe and looked over At Norah, who was standing over the stove with a glass of white wine in her hand. "Thought you might be hungry," she said, tossing him a fork. "I know you, you forget to eat when you're working."

Sherlock felt rather…domestic.

Huh. This wasn't so bad, actually.

"Thanks," he said, not bothering to sit to begin eating.

"Want some?" She asked him, holding her wine glass up. He went to the cabinet to fetch another glass, taking the bottle from the counter and pouring himself some. "You of all people should know not to get me around alcohol." He said, taking a sip and returning to his late lunch.

Chuckling, Norah sat in a stool across from him with her own plate of food. "Still can't handle your liquor then, Holmes?"

"I won't go into details about John's stag night." He said, mid-chew. He shuddered just thinking about it.

"I'll just use my imagination then."

"You're one to talk," He remarked. "I seem to recall driving to a wild social event just to drag you, barely clothed, off of a table that you were dancing on once."

Norah nearly choked on her rice. "What? When was that? I don't remember."

"Of course you don't. Second year, first term. Why is it that the Biology majors were the alcoholics?"

"We had the most rigorous coursework, we had to forget our exams somehow," She said, sarcastically, taking a bite of lettuce. "Are you going to tell me about the seven dwarves then?"

"Right," he said. He had saved the story until they got home. "After you left, I immediately figured out that it had something to do with the dwarves-,"

"Bullshit," Norah said, facetiously sipping her chardonnay. Damn her deducing.

"Fine, when I did figure out that it had something to do with the dwarves…"

He continued his story, sharing every little detail with Norah. She liked details, she craved them. He didn't often get to discuss his cases this extensively with anybody anymore, but Norah just sat there and listened to him. She always did. Her eyes lit up when Sherlock spoke, soaking in his words like rays of sunlight. She leaned in closer when she couldn't stand the suspense, and she grabbed her face when something good happened. Sherlock couldn't take his eyes off of her while he told his tale. She was so breathtakingly beautiful, with her dark copper hair up in a careless ponytail and her porcelain complexion, make-up free today. He liked it when she didn't wear make-up; he felt like he could see more of her. Every one of her reactions to his story was a picture perfect moment. He used his photographic memory to capture mental images of her, and carefully tucked them away into a drawer in his mind palace.

When Sherlock finished talking about his latest adventure, the food was finished and the wine bottle was empty.

"I'm still mad at you, you know. For sending me away."

He smiled at her. "I know."

Norah stood up and walked around the island to take his plate from him, but he took it from her hands and got up. He walked around and took her plate as well, putting them in the sink. He then moved to the pans on the stove and the salad bowl. She watched him affectionately.

"You should get some rest," she said. "You've been awake for over twenty four hours."

"Hasn't stopped me before. There is far too much work to be done. It's not even six yet." He stalked away from the sink and went back to stare at his wall. Which man was Richard, and which one was James?

His thoughts were interrupted by Norah's hands resting on his shoulder blades. She had this awful numbing effect on his brain.

"Sherlock, darling, if you're not going to do it for your own sake, then do it for my sanity. Sleep."

Sherlock turned around, looking down into her angelic face. She worried for her crazy crime-solving beau.

He reached up and caressed her cheek gently. "Alright."

In his bedroom, Sherlock removed his robe and replaced it with a night shirt and his flannel pajama pants. He had just finished brushing his teeth in the bathroom when Norah entered his room. She was wearing a baggy white "I (heart) New York" t-shirt and a pair of Sherlock's boxers. So that's where the checkered pair had disappeared to.

"I uh, I didn't sleep much last night either," she said nervously, looking down at her feet. "I was too worried about you. And you know, there's that draft upstairs in my room-,"

"Norah," Sherlock beckoned. He sat on the edge of his bed, holding his hand out for her.

A shy smile crept across her face as she reached out to take his hand, and they climbed into bed together. No sex, just intimacy. Often times, there's a difference.

Sherlock laid down, resting on hand behind his head and the other on Norah's thigh. She kneeled next to him in bed.

She seemed so ethereal to Sherlock. He would never understand how she could not see that quality in herself as plainly as he saw it in her. Sure, she was clumsy and she cursed like a sailor and her nose dripped when she cried. But that only made her heaven on earth.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

Norah heaved a shaky breath, gazing into his ocean blue eyes. "I think I'm falling in love with you all over again."