When a vacancy opens for a decent flat in central London, and for such a good price, who are you to decline it?
While expecting a peaceful living arrangement to develop paintings for the gallery you work for, instead you're dragged into unexpected...
"Sherlock?" You ask in the cab, the silence becoming too unbearable.
"Shut up, Y/n," his words were your final straw.
"Hey, dickhead, I agreed to this as nice neighbor, so you better return the fucking favour," glaring at him for a second, you catch a small smirk right as you turn away.
"So, what is it you wanted to ask?"
Looking at his reflection in the window, you couldn't help but smile, "why exactly do you need me? You seem fine on your own,"
"A second opinion helps... and everyone else is incompetent,"
"You really should work on those compliments," facing the front, you catch sight of 221B.
"Not good?"
"Like you help Scotland Yard because they're idiots, I can help you because you're... lacking in certain humanly aspects," you tease lightly.
"I don't see why it's any use,"
"What? Don't have any storage left in your little hard drive of a brain?" Paying the cab before he could, your keys jingle in one palm but he had gotten to the door first.
Sherlock held it open, "there's space, I just don't see any use,"
"The 'use' is just decency,"
"Boring," each step creaked the wooden stairs, one dipping and creating one unsavoury noise.
"Ah, I get it, the all knowing detective doesn't want to be taught anything," you lay your coat on the couch. "How about this? For as long as I help you- when I say help..."
"While you're on this case with me,"
"While I'm on this case with you, you have to listen to what I say concerning manners, yeah?" You could see him slightly reluctant, but nonetheless, once you put on the kettle, he agreed with a soft huff. "Good. So what do we have, Mr Detective?"
Sherlock's eyes snap up as you balance the kettle, cups and such on the tray. "One thing is for sure, whatever got them killed is a link to the market,"
"But it's only the cards linking them,"
"Shoes," he shakes his head, "both victims shoes had clay... well, the first one had loads since it was raining that day, but I'll have to run some tests," he holds up a small sample bag. "And the only reason this would be evidence is-"
"Because the market grounds are the only place to have that clay?"
"Within a 15 mile radius, very good," he notes with a smile. "But, why does this mean the market is a lead?"
You took a moment to think over, Sherlock's gaze digging deeper into yours. "Because it was the last place they visited, and if they were killed or taken from there then the main dirt would just be the clay... right?"
"Good job, Y/n," he takes the cup you hold out for him.
Then it hit you, "but wait, the second victim's shoes weren't covered in clay like the first victim, what if there is other types of dirt in the sample?"
"Now you're actually thinking!"
"Sherlock," you deadpan.
"Uhm... now you're asking the right questions...?" He raises a brow, sighing when you smile.
"Better, carry on," stirring your tea, his voice drifted through the air, your mind wandering at his every word. If you were going to help him then you would need to play every possibility.
"The second victim was nothing short of a clean freak," he closes his eyes for a moment, "I can still smell the disinfectant. Hands scrubbed clean, nearly dry from excessive washing and inflamed no doubt... so if the last place she visited was the market, then-"
"There would be no other dirt except the clay!" Now you were starting to get excited, "but you need to match the samples right? Oh this is so fun!... That sounded awful..."
"John has said the same when I get slightly 'overjoyed' during a murder," Sherlock chuckles shortly, drumming his fingers on his leather armrest. He didn't stop there, planning next steps with small mumbles rather than informative sentences.
Listening to him wasn't exactly the worst thing, his voice had a soothing tone. Like soft velvet lulling you to sleep. Sleep, that's right... "I should head to bed," the time had just come to your attention.
Sherlock stops, frowning a little. Had he done something? He was just starting to enjoy your company! "I did something... right?"
"No, Sherlock," you place down the cup, "some of us actually need sleep," the sarcasm was paired with a smile.
"Alright fine, go about your tedious tasks," he waves you away, grabbing his violin.
"Goodnight, Sherlock," you give a certain amused tone which stops the bow from dragging along the strings.
He looks up at you, "goodnight, Y/n," he lowers it from his chin, putting it aside once you left. A small huff leaves the suddenly bored detective, his mind racing a little bit, through every option and bit of evidence.
That night brought decent sleep, your figure curled under sheets of warmth with no noise from 221B below. Calm. Peaceful. Not hateful at all.
~~~
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
