Yuukoku no Moriarty - Sherliam Oneshots

A Study of the Devil

This was inspired by another author, animefolklore.

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Pale moonlight washed through the window of an attic, illuminating a sleep deprived raven haired man. One hand holding a quill, suspended mid air as though waiting for an idea to write a novel and the other, massaging his throbbing forehead. Damn, nothing today as well?! I need to write something... he thought, only to doze off moments later. 

Sherlock woke up to the sound of the townspeople buzzing around in the morning, preparing for their daily chores, and the like. He stretched, got up from his partially broken chair, and climbed down from the ladder that connected his house (more like a room with a tiny kitchenette) to the attic. As a struggling writer, he did not have much money, and only had a stable house due to the generosity of the owner of a cafe next door - a woman named Martha Hudson. 

He lazed around the whole morning, and in the afternoon, finally decided to go to the cafe in hopes of finding a subject to write about. The writer enjoyed observing customers, and once in a while, they inspired him to write a novel. He opened the cafe door, and was greeted by one of Ms Hudson's coworkers. It was a quaint little cafe, with dull pink walls and white furniture. He took his seat in one of the empty chairs, and brought out his book and quill. Resting the side of his face in one hand in a bored manner, he looked at the customers. Nothing different - the same old people, the same old banter. 

Time passed, and fortunately for Sherlock, a peculiar blonde man with eyes like rubies entered the cafe. He was handsome, with a charismatic aura the writer couldn't resist. He was drawn to the man, there was no doubt about it. Coincidentally, all tables were full and the only chair that was free was the one opposite to Sherlock. The blonde man walked over, took his seat and ordered a coffee. Sherlock averted his eyes, and felt internally crushed as he couldn't write about the person who was sitting so close to him. Nevertheless, he made an attempt. He began describing the blonde man, guessed his personality, and was about to write another line when he heard someone clearing their throat. 

"I'm not that funny, you know."  the blonde man said with a smile. Damn, I got caught, thought Sherlock.

"Uh.. sorry about that, I just enjoy writing about people who interest me." he said, while mentally slapping himself. 

"Hmm? Do I interest you? Then, why guess so much about me, when I can tell you about myself?" he said, resting his chin on his fist.

Sherlock was taken aback. He braced himself to be called a creep or something worse, while this man didn't seem to mind. The two introduced themselves; apparently, William was the blonde man's name. They talked casually at first, Sherlock mentally taking notes of the blonde man's behaviour, personality, and basically every single detail. No one had ever interested him this much. Soon, William talked about his job as a maths professor, and Sherlock told him about his novels.

They'd talked for so long, that Sherlock noticed that dusk had fallen. Without thinking, he blurted out "Do you wanna come over to my house William?"

Thankfully, the blonde took it well, and agreed to go with the writer. They walked side by side, and soon reached the raven haired man's apartment. He led the blonde inside, and the two sat on the couch. William broke the silence first. "Hey, where do you write your novels?"

"Uh, in my attic. Want me to show you?"

"Mhm."

They climbed the ladder to Sherlock's attic. It was quite a big one, with a medium sized bed in one corner and a work desk and chair in the other. William sat at the foot of the bed while Sherlock showed his novels to the blonde. 

"This is my first novel.. and- ah! this was my favourite one.." the writer explained, but the blonde didn't seem to be paying attention. Slowly but steadily, he got up and cupped Sherlock's face with his hands. The writer was pulled into a passionate kiss. Wait, what? he panicked, but soon lost himself in it. 

That was the last thing he remembered before he was pinned down to his bed. That night was a passionate one, one which Sherlock had never experienced. No words were exchanged between the two men, but then, love cannot be described by words. The blonde had made him feel ecstatic. When the writer woke up the next morning, however, the only evidence of the said blonde was an indent on the side his bed. That was the last time he saw William.

Damn, he made me feel so good and left without a word? You really are the devil, William, he thought sadly.

The next week, a novel was published under the title, A study of the Devil  by the author Sherlock Holmes.

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Wow, that was longer than expected. I hope you liked it. Thanks for reading, and don't forget to vote :)