The alchemy of love ( Sherlock fanfiction) English

Cinnamon girl

"There's things I wanna talk about, but better not to keep
Like if you hold me without hurting me
You'll be the first who ever did"

Cinnamon Girl- Lana Del Rey

Ophelia had been wonderfully welcomed by Mrs. Hudson, and she couldn't be more grateful for the warm reception. She couldn't say the same about Sherlock, who already seemed to be ignoring her. John was very kind and frequently excused his friend's behavior.

The investigation needed to progress. Sherlock had requested information from the factory about their recent buyers and was waiting for their response. Living with Sherlock was anything but restful for Ophelia. Unable to work, she was forced to endure her roommate's presence all day. The worst moments for her were when he played the violin. He sometimes played for hours, precisely when Ophelia desired quiet, and she was almost convinced he did it on purpose.

"It's been three hours that you've been playing that infernal instrument! Can't you just stop!?"

Yes, they had quickly forgotten the formalities. After all, they had known each other for a long time and were the same age.

"If it bothers you, you can go rest in the street."

"I'm not allowed to; should I remind you that as long as you haven't solved the case, I'm stuck here?"

"Then go have tea with Mrs. Hudson."

She sighed, and he continued to play the violin.

The most irritating moments for Sherlock were surely those when he had to accompany Ophelia shopping. She always ended up flirting with men, primarily to annoy Sherlock.

"You have truly questionable taste in men," Sherlock remarked.

"Who are you to lecture me?"

"No one, but the last man you flirted with had AIDS, the one yesterday was married, and the cashier you're likely planning to seduce is gay."

Ophelia looked at him with consternation.

"You're kidding me, aren't you?"

"Oh, but you're free to verify for yourself."

She sighed and followed him to the register, where she discovered that the cashier was indeed gay. He hadn't told her, but the way he looked at Sherlock spoke volumes. Ophelia disliked seeing the detective win a debate, but she had to admit that his ability to analyze people was undeniable.

Ophelia struggled to get used to the corpses in the fridge, and Sherlock had to endure the young woman's perfume, which permeated the entire apartment. Sometimes, when she walked beside him, it felt like a gust of fragrance hit him square in the face, and besides degrading his sense of smell, it knotted his stomach with the disdain he felt whenever he sensed her presence.

John enjoyed seeing the two of them argue. He also appreciated Ophelia's company, which was a refreshing change from Sherlock's. He had started to notice changes in his friend's habits—small things like the time Sherlock spent in the bathroom, which was usually 7 minutes and 35 seconds but had extended to 12 minutes and 24 seconds. Additionally, the tunes he chose to play on his violin evoked much more beautiful emotions than the old scores.

Today, Ophelia was bored, and Sherlock wasn't doing anything to bother or annoy her. He was content to read God knows what on his computer. Ophelia stared at the detective hesitantly, and after taking a deep breath, she said:

"Analyze me."

Sherlock looked up and frowned.

"Why?"

"To see what you can deduce about me."

"I have better things to do."

"It could help with the case. Besides, if you don't do it, I'll empty my perfume on your clothes."

He raised an eyebrow and looked at her with a challenging expression, which she returned proudly.

"I'll do it," she insisted.

"Very well," Sherlock sighed.

He got up and sat down in front of Ophelia.

"I already know everything about you, but we can summarize."

"I thought I was just an acquaintance."

"Yes, and?"

She looked at him with disappointment, still hurt that he had decided to forget all those years, all those dinners between the Brooks and the Holmes.

"Oh, you're upset," Sherlock deduced.

"Absolutely not," Ophelia defended.

"Yes, you are upset that I reduced our relationship to mere acquaintances."

"Let's say it's vexing that someone with whom I spent 18 years of my life reduces our relationship to acquaintances."

"We are not friends!"

"Shut up and do your thing."

Sherlock nodded and looked at her intently. First, he summarized what he knew about her—her family, her habits, her birthday, her crush on the neighbor when she was 16, and even the names of her stuffed animals.

"You remember Georgette?"

"Of course, poor Georgette."

"I lost her during the autumn holidays."

"Yes, I drowned her in the river."

Ophelia's eyes widened, and she glared at him.

"She didn't suffer."

"My Georgette!"

"Anyway, back to our main topic."

Sherlock stared at her for a long time, making her quite uncomfortable. Yet, the detective's eyes weren't unpleasant, especially when they traced the curves of her face so precisely. He finally declared:

"You take one sugar with your coffee but none when you have a lot of work. You only bite one nail, the little one on your right hand. You like whiskey and hate champagne. Your last relationship was four months ago. The last time you smoked was a month ago; it's the third time you've tried to quit."

"Wow, that's..."

"You also have a constant lack of self-confidence that you hide behind a fake cheerfulness and a dreadful smile. You're also quite hypocritical, probably because you don't want to offend people. You hate many people, likely due to your incredible ability to choose those who are bad for you or simply your inability to make good choices."

Ophelia looked at Sherlock, stood up, thanked him, and left. Sherlock couldn't help but regret what he had said. It was the truth, but were those really the only things he could say... weren't they?