Talk

by Naika's Thoughts

So here I am, John H. Watson, writing. Anyone who is reading this is, I'm sure, aware about what's happening. But this is our side, the side you do not see in the newspapers, that is kept private. So why am I writing this? Because maybe, just maybe, this is the only way I can show Sherlock that, despite his claims, he too is human. More than any of us, in fact.

3. The Jam

It's funny how you never realize the worth of something, until you are close to losing it. You think it'll all be fine, that you'll live forever, love forever, until one day, you are suddenly left out in the ocean, gasping for dear life, struggling to stay afloat.

Sometimes though, you just let go, not wanting to fight anymore. You become sick and tired, and don't want to stay any longer. So you quietly slip under the waves, slowly watching yourself go, until there is nothing left to do except close your eyes and sleep eternally.

I walked in today morning to a Sherlock I had never seen. This man seemed to be.. Thoughtful, in his actions and words. He seemed to possess emotions, and my laptop too. It's only fair to assume that he read my entries, but I am surprised to see that he wrote one too. But, he tells me that only after the death, it will be published. Not before.

I sigh as he told me this, because frankly, what he wrote is brilliant. Really. Un-Sherlockian. Or rather, similar to the man who currently occupied the body of William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I actually had to read it twice, thinking that I missed the acerbic comments, the acidic responses, the... Sherlock in it. But then again, he has been mellowing a little of late. A word of normalcy here, a retort bitten back, helping with the grocery bags.. Who knew? But miracles do happen, apparently. People return from the dead, and become nice before seeing death again. Who am I to complain, though? I'm just enjoying this, sitting here, watching Sherlock humanize, fumble with his words, look nervous, and be.. Normal.

Of course, comes the next logical question. How long will this normalcy last?

Apparently, all of two seconds. For Sherlock manages to break the bottle of jam while flailing his dressing gown about his skinny frame, trying to look all important and scary. The corner of the gown caught the bottle of jam, sending it hurtling over the edge of the table, and shattering on the floor, right behind that annoying clodhopper, resulting in pieces of fruit from the jam splattering over the lower cupboards in the kitchen, and the glass being strewn all over the place. I stare at it for a few seconds, my brain trying to catch up with what exactly happened, while Sherlock saunters out of harms way, turning around near the bathroom door to look at me and then at the mess, exactly like how one would look at a squashed insect stuck under their ridiculously expensive shoes. And then, without a backward glance, that twat glides into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him, leaving me standing in the living room, staring at the massacre with a mix of fury and horror, my blood simmering to a boil. Bloody hell, Sherlock. Why? Why only my favorite bottle of Hartley's jam? The jam is lying there, abandoned on the floor, oozing out it's contents on the tiles, and that sight made me angrier at Sherlock. That ungrateful prick! He expects me to clean up always behind him? For his actions?! Well, not this time.

"SHERLOCK BLOODY HOLMES! YOU GET BACK HERE RIGHT NOW AND CLEAN THIS MESS UP, OR I SWEAR TO GOD YOU WON'T SURVIVE TO SEE THE SUNRISE TOMORROW!" I roar, my words directed at the closed door.

And after two minutes, I am greeted with the satisfying sight of Sherlock cleaning up, grumbling as usual but more subdued, especially since he was being subject to my ' Captain Watson' glare. Good. He had better learn to clean up, later than never.