A/N: Simple home life.
Keep safe. Keep strong. -csf
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Yawning widely, I come downstairs to the living room, my mind trapped in the anticipated rich, deep taste of a strong cuppa. Something to ease me into another Monday. They can be a bit vicious at times.
Of course, nothing is granted in 221B Baker Street.
I stop short at the door, blinking sleepily.
Right. Cold cases.
Sherlock has evidently been up all night – after he vowed to me that he wouldn't – his erratic behaviour the more extravagant by the sleep deprivation he must be suffering by now.
They are just cold cases, but for Sherlock they are the only feeding his suffering brain can get to keep those mental cogs going. So he treats them as desperate, last port of recourse cases. It's oddly touching for the victim families to believe Sherlock saw so much potential in a case the police has let go cold, finding no viable suspects. I'm glad they see it that way too. I know Sherlock cares – sometimes so much he feels he needs to hide it or renegade his feelings. Scotland Yard thinks Sherlock does not fully care, but then if the cases were just mental puzzles to the detective, why would be bother offering the solution to the detective inspector? Praise alone doesn't cut it. I praise my flatmate more than enough. Sherlock likes the chance to put wrongs right, like all great heroes.
I just can't get his workings right now. Sherlock is currently standing on top of the battered coffee table, stretching on tip toes to reach a dark thin ribbon that has been draped all over the room. It stretches from the skull canvas on the black and white wallpaper wall to the ceiling lamp (how did he even reach the high ceiling?), flows from the fireplace mirror to the curtain railings, loops downwards around one of the thick hanging fabrics, circulates the back of Sherlock's armchair a few times, and criss-crosses maniacally in the centre of the room. Sherlock seems oblivious to the tangled mess of his own creation as he holds, in a dainty grip, the magnifying glass to the ribbon.
'Typewriter ribbon, John', he says, as if it explained all. He glances at me just as I shrug in incredulity. 'I'm reading the love letters imprints of a boring maid from the '30s in Coventry. She really shouldn't marry her lover. Auntie Mable is right, they are not a good match.' He drops that section of the ribbon and steps over the sofa, over the desk table and stands on his armchair. 'Lestrade found a mummified corpse walled in a chimney breast during house renovations. Well, when I say Lestrade...'
I yawn, uncontained.
'Do you need a hand?'
After all, he usually recruits me for these types of jobs. Which is fine by me, I like to help. I just resent the micromanaging; that's not the correct way of holding a magnifying glass, John!
I was putting it away!
'Perhaps later, John. A cup of tea and a piece of toast will do fine for now', he dismisses me generously.
He's lucky I'm making myself some.
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By the time I finished showering, got dressed and I'm drying my hair with a towel, Sherlock has moved on to another case. I know this because the living room has changed again. The typewriter ribbon is still there, but no longer attracts the attention of the genius. Can't blame Sherlock. The real shocker is the assorted collection of about a hundred balloons rising up to the ceiling. Several twine pieces dangling vertically from the expanded rubber surfaces. All colours of the rainbow, some of them display printed messages – 30, 70, retired teacher, just married, it's a boy... Sherlock seems to have amassed the whole stock of a greeting cards department.
'Solved that last case then?'
He shrugs a hand in the air; old news. 'Congenital heart deficiency. She died of natural causes, boring. The nephew had squandered his inheritance so was keen to feign the aunt alive to collect her modest income. He may have gone to the extreme of dressing up as her from a high window from time to time and when a secret admirer started to court her he played along. Hence the need to typewrite the letters. Any good old maid would have handwritten them lovingly. Maybe he liked his aunt and wanted to keep her close?' Sherlock finishes tentatively, glancing my way.
'Nah, sorry, too creepy for me.'
Sherlock does not retort. He glances fleetingly to the skull on the mantelpiece.
I open and close my mouth, without proffering a word. I'll save my questions to some other time.
'And the balloons?'
He agitates himself once more.
'Waiting for them to drop. A man's alibi depends on the helium loss rate. The balloon must stay up for exactly 1.3 days.'
I blink.
'You only needed one balloon.'
'Repeating the test to endure it's a fair test. The basis of a good scientific method!'
'But they are all different balloons!' I protest at last. 'That one has a rude shape!'
Sherlock follows where I'm pointing at. 'Oh, so it does. They all look the same after a while. John, the police cold case did not state the exact type of balloon on site. I'm covering all bases. My dirty laundry is outside my room.'
I look down on my wet towel. 'How come it's my time to do the laundry again?'
'I'm busy working hard, can't you see?' he asks in full antics mode. 'You are not the only one with an important job, you know?'
Right. This is an argumentation to avoid. Sherlock feels his vital work has been ignored, curtailed and belittled. I feel for him.
'I'll get the washing machine going. Just this once.'
I'm not your housekeeper.
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Baker Street's mayhem soon extends to the kitchen, I realise, as Sherlock has the nerve to barr me from it. A skinny detective standing between me and a cuppa, it wouldn't normally be a challenge. But I feel for the diligent and studious shape busied with something on the counter, his back turned to me.
I look back to the living room. The typewriter ribbon and the balloons still crowding the place.
'Don't, just drop it, John', he stops me before I fully ponder tackling the mess. It's like he's got eyes on the back of his head sometimes.
I suspect the shiny surface of the kettle, used as a mirror, though.
'What are you experimenting on now?'
'Popcorn, John. I'm determining the exact temperature and pressure needed to expand the corn kernels without burning them.'
'Don't tell me. Decades ago there was a murder in a cinema', I guess.
'Not even close.'
I can just about hear his smirk, the git.
'Perhaps in the microwave would be easier?'
'Nonsense, John! It'd blow up the metal components of my digital thermometer. Stop trying to sabotage the advancement of science!'
I chuckle.
'Does the advancement of science include the kettle in the near future?'
He truly ponders it.
'No. Go ahead.'
'Good.'
'Milk and two sugars, please.'
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'Is this pizza?'
'Yes, John.'
'Is it edible?'
'Naturally. Why else would I have made it?'
'You made it?'
'Defrosted it.'
'Oh, yeah. I can see both the burnt bits and the ice.'
'Statistically it is perfectly cooked, John.'
'Science or cold case?' That's the name of the game.
'None. John, look around you. I mean, really look.'
Suspicious, I do it nonetheless.
'You moved the telly two inches to the left', I joke.
'Three inches, but close enough!' he grins a real smile. I can't afford to be annoyed when I see that rare smile. 'Movie night, John! I'm a genius. I multitask. There is party decor, pizza and popcorn. It's what I could do with the cases I had on Lestrade's damned files. What do you say? I figure we can go for a marathon before you fall asleep. Your choice, John.'
He's an idiot. He'll be asleep on the sofa, drooling on my neck, before long.
He's a nice idiot. Once in a while Sherlock can really surprise you with his generosity.
'Budge over. We're in for a movie marathon.'
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