Watson

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"Watson.'' The voice shakes me from my thoughts, and I look up from my journal to see a young woman of uncertain age in the kitchen. Covered in blood.

"Bloody hell, what's happened?!" I bolt toward her, years of medical training kicking in as I near her, grabbing the bedical bag we keep in the living room for just these moments.

"Christ sake, Watson it isn't my blood. It isn't even real, which you'd've known if you'd listened to what I told you yesterday."

She's right, I note as I inspect her (her arms lifting as she patiently waits for me to finish my exam), the blood's fake. It isn't obvious at first, but as someone who's seen copious amounts of blood close up, I can see that's it's slightly too dark for her not to be dead already. It's also much too thick for actual blood. Thank the Gods. I drop my hands, sighing deeply as the girl moves to the sink.

"Why-" She doesn't let me finish.

"I was simply conducting an expirement. It appears that rasberry jam and water doesn't make a good fake blood. Which I'd guessed already."

"If you'd already guessed that, then why would you still try it?" She huffs, looking at me as if it's obvious.

"Because I read a post saying that it is impossible to make a good fake blood using those ingredients. Impossible, Watson. I've decided to prove them wrong, but it seems like it might take a while."

Washing herself off, she says nothing more until I reach for a cloth to help her, at which point she freezes and stares at me as if I'm a slug that's crawled on her. Actually, no, she rather likes slugs. Maybe a turd, then?

"What in the seven gates of hell are you doing, Watson?"

"Helping? Isn't that why you called me over?" She shakes her head as if I'm the stupidest person she's ever met, and pulls away.

"Well if you didn't want my help, why the bloody hell did you decide to give me a heart attack?"

"I hadn't meant to startle you, I assumed you'd be able to tell the difference between real blood and terribly fake blood." She's acting weird. Well, weirder then usual.

"Why'd you call me then?"

She doesn't look at me as she answers; "You were too in your head, your breathing was too eratic. I thought it best to pull you out before you went too far."

Silence falls over the kitchen as I ingest her words. She was worried about me? WhenI'd moved in a few months ago, she didn't know how to worry about someone! This is progress. Come to think of it, she has been slightly kinder lately, avoiding certain topics she knows I hate, only taking part in things that are quiet in the late hours of the night when she can't sleep, could it be that she's actually-

"Watson! Go clean up the patio before Mrs. Hudson sees it." Of course. She just wants her lackey to be able to function properly.

"Watson!"

"Just going, Sherlock."