Chapter 3- The Mayonnaise Mystery

"I'm bored." I droned helplessly as I slid further down in my chair, my long legs and feet nearly reaching John's seat across the room like a seeping bridge of listlessness. "God, why can't there be a sudden spike in crime or perhaps a nice bombing? Just one mildly interesting case is all I ask, yet all anyone can ever seem to do is die in a perfectly ordinary and mundane fashion." I grumbled. "An entire city of millions completely lacking in imagination or motivation."

John, aside from a nervous glance at my encroaching limbs, never bothered to look away from his paper which I assumed contained nothing of importance. His indifference to my suffering only made my mood more dour. How he managed to reside happily unchallenged and pleasantly amused by accounts of celebrity sightings or a nice game of Soduku that was obviously written for a child was beyond me. The size of any given Kardashian's posterior was of no consequence to me unless she was smuggling blood diamonds in it- which would actually be a fairly ingenious scheme the more I thought on it. It was as though I could literally feel the neurons in my brain withering away one by one from lack of stimulation and it was slowly driving me mad. I put on an entirely fake yet bright smile and cheerily asked, "What do you say we play a nice game of Cluedo?"

From behind the neat lines of black ink on off white paper, my companion blandly replied "I'd say no. Absolutely not. Not even if we were trying to solve my own murder. I'd say just let me lie here and rot quietly away while you go on about your day, thank you very much."

I sunk deeper yet in my chair and made a pouting face he didn't bother to notice. I admit I didn't really want to play anyway because there were only 432 possible solutions to any given round and many of those could be immediately dismissed based on probability alone. Plus, John had a whole host of unconscious tells which made him a terrible liar so the game was that much less fun for me, but that was absolutely nothing compared to playing with Ms. Hudson. She seemed overly pleased with her draws and made dismally obvious comments at the outset such as "Oh, I always did want to be in films" or "My! How hard would one have to swing that to do someone in?" causing me to throw my cards down on the board with a tense smile and retire to my room under the pretense of a sudden migraine. It was that or risk saying something dreadful that would reflect poorly on my mother's attempts to civilize me during childhood. It should be of note, however, that John followed out of his own need for escapism shortly after under the guise of a welfare check so as to be sure I hadn't really suffered something more serious like a stroke and hadn't in fact collapsed face down in a pool of my own hastily expelled dinner. He confided that as bad as it might have sounded, he actually secretly preferred I had rather than been faced with continuing the one and hence only planned game night at 221Baker Street. I assured him I took no offense but reminded him that the whole fiasco was his idea and I, being the more clever of us, was the only one to execute a viable permanent exit strategy which he did not have. To further delay and keep Ms. Hudson waiting and worrying about my health would surely make him a bad host to which he gave me a stern look and a one fingered salute on his way out.

I sighed like a petulant child and flopped in my chair a few times before picking up my phone in search of something to relieve the endless restlessness that burned like fire in my very bones. "What are you doing now?" John asked quizzically peering over his paper. "Are you texting Mycroft?"

I groaned as I scrunched up my face in utter disgust. "No. Why on earth would I text Mycroft? He doesn't like playing Cluedo anymore than you do." On the occasions we did play they were more like lightning rounds and didn't last more than four turns a hand before one of us would solve it. We were both rather bored with it within the time it took to drink a single cup of tea.

John looked entirely put out the way he always did when I obviously missed his point. "For a case, you git. Molly then?" He guessed in a mild mannered tone.

"Yes, Molly." I confirmed. I was just about to tap the send button, but my finger hovered above the glowing screen ever so slightly at the sound of condescending chuckling. "What?" I asked somewhat paranoid. My text messages to her were always of a decidedly non-sensual nature, but if inquiries of recently deceased old men or the availability of medium sized left hands were considered a turn-on then I was truly Cassanova. I found it a bit tiresome and sexist to assume that a man and a woman couldn't converse in a professional context without it being some clandestine raging hormonal affair.

"You might want to be careful," he warned playfully as he turned the page of his paper with a crisp snap, "she may think it's your version of a booty call."

I blinked my eyes slowly and asked in a measured tone, "I beg your pardon?" Unlike him, I didn't automatically view women in a sexualized light nor had I ever had need of buttocks for an experiment. I saw her as a woman who although not necessarily brilliant, was educated in her own right to do well enough in life. More importantly she was useful in getting me access to things that were shall we say, difficult, to otherwise procure. But of highest importance was the fact I could trust her. Her physical appearance simply didn't figure into the equation unless she had taken steps to make it so such as her habit of smearing lipstick on or rearranging her hair if she thought I might notice- which I always did because I notice everything. But what she didn't understand was that I by and large couldn't care less if she wore her hair down, in girlish pigtails, a pink Mohawk, or shaved it off entirely so long as we continued in the arrangement we had agreed upon. Otherwise her stylistic preferences were her business as were mine. I didn't wear my hair as I did because John thought it sexy. Then again perhaps he did as he seemed to make everything else sexual.

"Ok then. You want to solve mysteries? I'm game." He declared nearly crumpling his paper into a miserable heap as his arms fell into his lap. "Let's solve the mystery of Sherlock's hang-ups about relationships because that's one I don't understand."

I gave him an icy sarcastic smile and glanced down at my phone to delete the message I had crafted. "Really? Of all the many, many things you clearly don't understand this is the thing that most captures your attention?" I couldn't help but allow the acid I felt seep its way into my voice, making it sound both cold and fiery at the same time. I raised my eyebrows in mock interest and continued, "Ah, is this the bit where you tell me how abnormal it is to not become embroiled in downward spiral of passion which turns to indifference before dying an all too slow death of hatred as is the path of most so called relationships? If it is, then by all means feel free to go ahead without me because I can assure you I've heard this lecture many times."

He seemed slightly sad as he shook his head yet he smiled which was not at all the reaction I expected. "I'll bet you have, but tell me honestly, Sherlock. Have you ever dated anyone- like…ever?"

He wasn't trying to mock me the way so many others had- that much was apparent in the tentative way he asked the question, but I still didn't understand the purpose of it all, so thought carefully before venturing, "Is this one of those bonding things? You'd feel like more of a friend if you knew more of my history in search of common experiences you could relate to?"

He laughed a little as though he were caught off guard or slightly embarrassed. "Sure," he nodded affirmatively, "I suppose it can be one of those things, yes."

"Very well then." I conceded with an irritated sigh and a defeated tone. Sometimes I wondered if having a rabid wombat as a flatmate wouldn't be less painful. "The answer is yes, but as you'd probably envision it turned out not to be within my sphere of refined interests." I could see him sit up in his chair ever so slightly and I warily asked, "I'm not going to get out of this without disclosing all of the lurid details, am I?"

He tried to put on a serious expression to cover for his excessive curiosity which was wholly inadequate as he firmly stated, "Oh, absolutely not. Not a chance." After a brief pause he cocked his head and furrowed his brow as he asked, "Did…did you say lurid? Are they really?"

I carefully placed my hands together under my chin and smirked mysteriously. "I will tell you it involved a beaker, 9 meters of medium weight black tarp, fire, and mayonnaise. But before we begin, I have a list of demands that require your assurances."

He seemed enraptured by the juicy tidbits, but to his credit at least outwardly attempted to maintain a dignified expression. Nonetheless he was clearly eager to play along and prodded, "Go on."

"I will require a fresh pot of tea, indulgence of one pack of cigarettes which I will choose when and where to smoke without reprimand, relieved of the duty of picking up milk for the next month…"

He shook his head and look confused as he smiled. "You never do that anyway!"

I pretended not to hear him as I laid out my final demands undeterred, "…and your solemn vow on all you hold dear that not one word of this will be found in your blog or will be passed in idle gossip with others." I paused to lower my voice to imply the utmost importance. "Also, I need for you to try your utmost not to laugh each time you look at Mycroft. He's terribly resentful and still fairly sensitive over the whole thing." I gave him a small wink which sent him off like a rocket nearly tripping over himself to boil a kettle posthaste.

He would later be very disappointed to learn that the whole of my tale comprised of a young woman whom Mycroft employed early in his career and had accompanied him home for a brief visit while they were on their way to properly muck up something for someone no doubt. The said woman apparently fancied me like a moth to the flame and I in turn avoided her by isolating myself in my room to clean my beakers. She held no interest for me even though the boys at school would have thought me some sort of hero and lined up to congratulate me for getting on with an older woman. By that time I had decided on studying chemistry at university, but waiting until I got there seemed like an utter waste of time. As it turned out I had wasted my time despite my best intentions. Only after I arrived at university proclaiming I knew most of what the degree required did I discover that was not the way of things and I was expected to attend classes the same as all the other dull students who hadn't been bothered to look into it beforehand. Those were quite possibly the worst years of my existence on this planet as evidenced by several rows with my professors, a stint in jail over a complete misunderstanding, and a few expulsions. But that, I told him, was an entirely different tale which would require its own set of allowances.

As for Mycroft's assistant, in a completely misguided attempt to earn my favor she brought a sandwich to my room for me. Not only did the shameless cradle robber attempt to foist a wholly unwanted sandwich upon me, I was completely put out to discover she had smeared mayonnaise all over it. Simply put, I could not and still cannot abide the taste, smell, or thought of eating it despite it being a stable emulsion and I told her as much. She backed away from me as though I had wounded her and in doing so she tripped over a fold in the tarpaulin which kept spills off the hardwood floors least my mother paint the walls with my blood. She stumbled backward into a Bunsen burner and the hem of her blouse caught fire. Stupidly she stood there in total shock while her clothing burned despite my yelling at her to get to the ground and roll, so I lunged at her, tore off her shirt, and pulled her to the ground to smother any flames that had caught hold of her undergarments or hair.

Naturally, upon hearing my alarmed yelling and all the crashing about, Mycroft and my mother ran to my room only to find me straddling the woman and pinning her to the floor- her shirt in shreds at her side and me with my hands hovering over her breasts and her with a terrified look on her face. We were both surrounded by bits of sandwich all over the floor and more horrifying to me than being discovered in such a situation was the fact that several pieces of bread and lettuce clung to me, glued in place by mayonnaise.

I stoically received the most severe and bewildering lecture from my mother as I ever had in my entire life despite my protestations of innocence while my father and Mycroft looked on in mildly disgusted silence. I was forced to endure the suspicion I might have been a rapist and the entire lot of social shaming and disowning that entails until the silly girl had recovered sufficiently from her shock to properly clear my name a number of hours later.

After the fact, she occasionally inquired about me to Mycroft and according to him apologized profusely. She even went so far as to send me a small jar of mayonnaise in jest, although my father found it and ate it late one night never once appreciating the irony of it all. In the end perhaps she realized a relationship would not be proper for any number of reasons chief among them my complete disinterest as well as my age relative to hers which would have technically classified her as a pedophile even though I had reached the age of consent. It was my understanding then as it is now that if polite society looks down in distain on rapists, they are even more unfavorable to child predators. She left Mycroft's employ shortly after and last I knew she was working in the children's toy section of a midrange shop. John seemed to find that last bit of special interest.

Of course there were others- all with similarly disastrous results but each for wholly different reasons and some of those were still too fresh in my memory or too personal for me to rehash for his amusement and I think he suspected as much. Even though I had in a way tricked him, he wasn't entirely cross with me and good naturedly went to the shops to buy the cigarettes I was owed with the disclaimer that should Ms. Hudson catch me smoking in the flat as was against her policy he would plead complete and total ignorance.

To my dismay, he also bought a disgustingly large jar of mayonnaise and assured me that should I ever become wholly unbearable he would "make a Sherlock sandwich" by spreading the despised condiment in my bed sheets and wrapping me up like a burrito just to watch me go into a fit. I attempted to maintain my composure in the face of the jarred menace, but silently cursed myself for giving him the ammunition with which to torment me for the foreseeable future.