No One Ever Gets to Me

Bored

If I had known back when I had first met the obsidian curled detective with the high cheekbones and rude demeanour that I would end up being in mostly ridiculous situations on an almost daily routine, I wouldn't have changed a thing. If I had known that within one day I would have moved in with him in the perpetually cluttered flat and started solving crimes of every manner and oddity, I still wouldn't have changed a thing. Sometimes the most unexpected things turn out to be the most loved.

So went another day in the now infamous address of 221B Baker Street.

For some the idea of running around the streets, alleyways and forgotten crooks of London for clues would seem ridiculous, but to me it was a battlefield, and to the detective I had come to call my closest friend, the only life he had ever known and he loved it, he would never admit it, but he did, in his own quirky way. The very way his smirk rose on his cupid bowed lips and the way he carried himself, he would rather die than never spend another day as the only consulting detective in the world, that much was plain to see, apart from, funnily enough, to the great detective himself.

Most days were packed of excitement and with mystery, so much so it had begun to be ridiculed in my perception of life. Bored was a word however heard far too often from Sherlock's lips, how it contemptuously fell off the detective's tongue so numerously a day I would never be able to process, the fact of processing anything that happened inside Sherlock's mind, no matter how small seemed far too big a challenge however.

Another sigh left the detectives lips, that made the total for the last ten minutes around twenty five, it made me myself want to sigh at his boredom. Having to deal with the bloodhound on a case was difficult, but when he was bored, it was downright dangerous, and not to mention extremely tedious.

Another sigh. This time I put my morning newspaper down, giving up with the hope of finding anything interesting enough to last Sherlock more than five seconds, in which, the only likely thing that would happen would something along the lines of "boring" being spoken. Looking up at Sherlock who had slumped down on the sofa in a way I could only describe as a sulk, I raised my eyebrows questioningly annoyed and he turned to face me feeling my gaze landing on him from my position in my chair.

His completion was ivory, and carved into it was a masterpiece, of shapes that rose and fell in sharp angled ways to reflect the sharp brain within. His eyes met mine with confusion and annoyance, his face the same, strung with large indicators of being rather pissed off .

"What?" he said in a deep baritone voice, yet slightly higher than his normal tone, something a doctor would pick out as fear in patients, but in Sherlock's case I knew he wasn't at all scared, but I knew he wasn't at all pleased either. "What do you mean what Sherlock, you've been sighing every five seconds for the past ten minutes, would you shut up or maybe try to find something to do?"

"That's a hyperbole" He huffed at me annoyed, and I prepared for his no doubt witty comeback after I tried my hand at my own. "Fine, your sighing every five minutes."

"Now that's an understatement," I gritted my teeth trying to restrain myself from raising my voice and getting angry at him, an emotion he usually stirred within me when he was bored. "There's no cases on John, nothing, absolutely nothing, it's so quiet, peaceful " he scoffed and crinkled up his nose in anger and slight disgust  "you should know you've just been looking though the paper, what happened to a good murder." It always annoyed me how Sherlock never seemed to care over anything or anyone, or at least tried his upmost to hide it, he could say the most horrible of things, granted half the time he didn't understand how it was horrible or didn't realise that it was, and the other half was directed at either Anderson or the Telly, which was understandable, but still, it got on my nerves.