M. Malcontent
"The milk's gone off." Sherlock's voice cuts into the silence of our sitting room on a drizzly afternoon. He's standing behind his armchair, hands braced on either side of the backrest, pondering the fire with a venomous glare.
"You could go and get some," I point out, glancing past my laptop screen at him. I don't know why I bother mentioning this to him – he never goes unless I drag him along with me. This time, he doesn't trouble himself coming up with an answer to my proposal, and I go back to my blog.
"Have you seen my purple shirt?" he asks next.
I blink uncomprehendingly at him. "What?"
"Dolce and Gabbana. Purple shirt. The one you say women like."
"Why would I have seen it?"
"I can't find any of my washing."
"What!" Why am I surprised? "Please don't tell me you were running another experiment with the washing machine."
"No, I wasn't, I was... running a different kind of experiment. On myself. And now I've misplaced... things."
In truth, I'm somewhat used to things like this. They don't shock me anymore, but they do bother me, though I try not to let him see that. "I don't want to know," I say decidedly, and turn back to my blog.