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...
"Alright, I'm back," holding a medical kit in one hand, you chose to keep his shirt on.
After catching himself almost gawking at you in the smooth purple cotton of his shirt, he states simply "I'm fine, you know?" he was starting to pluck at the strings of his violin by the window.
"Yes, but I'm not letting it get infected," indulging in the cup he prepared for you, soon you were seated on the armrest of his chair. "Sit."
"Why?"
"Because if you do then I'll let you explain the entire case like I know you want to," patting the leather, he soon leaps over with a scowl, "good boy,"
Facing the fire, his eyes met contrast of blue with orange while you clean the scrapped and bleeding wound. It hurt, that was for sure, and the wet sleeve he used to contain the blood all this time was no longer around, Sherlock not wanting to stain his silk robe. Plus, that beige cloth he snatched from the kitchen was doing no good either, now discarded in the bin.
"See? You're a big boy, no need to be scared," you tease.
"The case," he changes the subject. "Those packages were filled with a sedative to be used all over the world. I don't know for what but I'm sure it isn't good.," finger drummed to distract his mind, "regarding the deaths, they needed disposables, people to test batches on and do labour work for them," he looks to the ring on the coffee table, "young couples desperate to come at odd hours would suffice and once they started asking questions is when they would dispose of them... but, this is likely part of a larger connection," rambles Sherlock without aim.
"Is it connected to that Moriarty guy?" you whisper, nearly falling off the chair when he snapped all attention to you so quickly, "I... read up about it... I'm sorry you went through that,"
"It had to be done... but apparently it wasn't enough," his tongue clicks. "Sometimes you just can't kill a roach,"
Snorting a little, you cover your face in regret, "I'm so sorry, bad time to laugh,"
"Not at all," he glances up with such perfect half-hooded eyes, twinkles of amusement in his iris' and a subtle uplift on his lips. "I also... got you something,"
"Hm?" the first aid kit was placed away. "A present?" You ask while his arm dug under his chair to pull out a wooden box. "You did not." Words failed to form on either side while you open the box, clicking the locks to reveal such a pristine set of new paints. "Oh... My god,"
"A bit pricey but take it as repayment for helping out tonight... it was a bit much for your first case, hopefully it won't be the same next time," Sherlock shrugs.
"There's going to be a next time?"
"If you want- oh," his body stiffens under the hug you gave. "You're welcome," he pats your back causing a sigh from yourself.
"You're a bad hugger,"
"It's bad because there's a box in the way and you're sitting awkwardly," corrects Sherlock who soon takes it away, "here," he stands.
"A hug? From the Sherlock Holmes?" getting up quickly, you narrow a gaze before accepting. It was a light hold, one you wished to be tighter but it was just as warm nonetheless, his blue robe lightly dragging across your legs. "Hm, not too bad,"
"Not too bad? What do I need to do so you admit I'm amazing at hugs?"
"Withstand one movie night with me." There was a challenge on both ends, neither ready to give up.
~~~
"That's stupid, why didn't he just call her?" Sherlock groans at the movie's plot conclusion. "I mean he has her number, she has a phone, why didn't-" but then with your lack of response, he realised the obvious.
You were laying there, blanket over half your body, hands curled against your chest. Slow, steady breathing. The constant rise and fall of your chest, head luling to one side, eyes closed. Asleep and peaceful, he couldn't help but keep the sight, the memory, of these few seconds deep in the recesses of his mind.
He kept it. He wanted to remember this.
"So much for movie night," Sherlock shuts off the rom-com you insisted on. Right as he tossed the remote onto the other seat, your head fell against his shoulder. "Right..." he wasn't sure what to do, and for once Sherlock Holmes' mind was blank.
Hand shuffling around, he tried to figure a way to lift you but your body kept shifting into his arms. Not in the right way, not to aid him. He almost... smiled. The way your hand trailed up to grasp at the fabric of his shirt, completely calm in his arms. Knowing you felt safe in his arms made his heart leap to his throat, a panic of ruining it arising.
"You... oh, damn you," he almost laughed at the thought. How easily you- how easily he warmed up to you. With others like Irene, that was false. A false narrative, a web of lies, a Grimm fairytale.
Irene seduced him for her gain, lost the game while she was at it. It was intrigue to lust, from that to love—unrequited to an extent. This was from nothing, maybe even from what some would call purity.
You trusted him as if knowing he wouldn't let you get hurt. Tonight was the only proof you needed to know he meant well.
And your trust in him was all the reassurance he needed.
So, here he was, ruffling the blanket up from the little cocoon you had made to at least make himself comfortable. The fire illuminated the room, half his face seen in the TV screen, there was a different look he didn't understand.
"How hateful," though despite the comment, he enjoyed every moment. While your smile spread across your lips, his hand eventually rests on your waist and the other slowly etched towards the hand on his chest.
It was boring.
But he wasn't bored.
~~~
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