Anatomically Correct Heart

Just Another Day

"SHERLOCK BLOODY HOLMES!!!"

Eleanor wakes with a freight. She sits up, scratching her head. She's lying in Sherlock's bed, instead of her own. Rubbing her temples, she gets the power to get out of bed and into the living room. John stands, yelling at Sherlock from the doorway.

"YOU LET MY WIFE STAND IN THE COLD FOR TWO HOURS WITH MY YEAR OLD DAUGHTER!!" John yells.

"Calm down, John, I had simply fallen asleep," Sherlock says, yawning and stretching his arms. "Besides, who let you let your wife come to my flat today?"

"YOU BLOODY DID!!!" John exclaims.

"I did?" Sherlock asks. "Why?"

"John, take a deep breath, it's alright," Mary says, coaxing her husband to sit down beside her on the couch. "Luckily Mrs.Hudson was downstairs to let me in." 

"Oh, that's right," Eleanor says. "Weren't you two going out today and wanted me to babysit?"

"Yes, that's right," Mary says. "Luckily we have someone who's responsible around 'ere."

"I- we- have to care for that creature  today?" Sherlock asks. "I wanted to do an experiment."

"I wanted to have a nice, caring roommate, but we both know that  won't happen," Eleanor says, walking up to Mary and taking the baby from her arms. "Hi baby Sherlock! Auntie El is going to take care of you just fine."

"I may vomit," Sherlock murmurs. 

"Uncle Sherl is being a party pooper," Eleanor says, bouncing the baby on her hip. She looks over at the couple on the couch. "Don't worry, I'll keep them out of trouble."

"Thank you so much, Eleanor," Mary says, getting up and giving Eleanor a shoulder squeeze. "You don't know how much it took to convince him." She whispers.

"Yes, well, have a good time," she says.

Mary pulls John out of the room, promising him a nice cup of tea and some relaxing time.

"What are we to do now?" Sherlock asks, adjusting himself in his chair. "We're rendered from getting any work done with that thing  in our way!"

"Amelia is not a thing, sherl," Eleanor says. "She's a human being, and I'd like you to treat her that way."

"A menace- that's the word," Sherlock says.

Eleanor moves onto John's chair, bouncing Amelia on her knee. "C'mon now, there must be something you can do that won't cause too much of a disturbance."

"I wanted to measure the explosive levels of human bones," Sherlock says.

"No."

"How about the reaction of sulfuric acid to food?" Sherlock asks.

"No."

"I could always shoot the wall-"

"No."

Sherlock sighs and raises his hands in disappointment. "Then what am I to do?"

"Read a book, work on your website, play your violin," Eleanor suggests.

"Ah, yes!" Sherlock exclaims, jumping up and reaching for his violin. "I needed to finish my Symphony of Death!" 

"Oh dear," Eleanor mumbles, pulling Amelia to her chest. "This may be bad."

Instead, the music was lulling. The notes all mushed together, turning it into a lullaby.  The notes were joyous and full of emotion. With each stroke of his bow, Sherlock seemed more and more focused into his music. New emotions found in his music could be found on his face, which could be read like a book. Soon, Amelia was dozing off, and Eleanor was entranced in Sherlock's movements.

Eleanor finally snapped out of her trance, and went into Sherlock's room to set Eleanor to sleep. When she was finished, she walked back into the living room and sat back down in John's chair.

"Where did you learn to play?" Eleanor asks softly.

Sherlock had, by then, set his violin down and had taken a seat in his chair, and was cleaning his bow. "Secondary school. My parents thought that instead of researching and solving crimes, they could sway me into being a little more productive with my time. At that time, I had finished my years of education and were merely counting away the days where I could move out. Mycroft was just starting university. Anyway, they enrolled me in a class with one of my father's old friend, and I became musician. They still couldn't get me to make friends, I'm afraid."

"Was your teacher as good as you?" Eleanor asks. "I'm afraid if I hear what he can do- by how well he taught you- I may cry."

"Well...." Sherlock says, smiling while looking down at the ground and flicking his bow away from the cloth in his hand. "Sadly, Mr.Oleander died a few years after his wife, the year before I went to university."

"Such a shame," Eleanor says.

"Yes, I'm sure you would have rather liked him, though," Sherlock says. "He was a very nice man, with a lot of heart. Always spoke what the other people were thinking. Reminds me of you, actually."

"Thank you," Eleanor says.

"It was no compliment," Sherlock says.

"In your own weird way, it was," Eleanor says.

Sherlock smiles and looks down at the floor. "Can I ask you something?"

"Fire away," Eleanor says, leaning her head against the back of the chair in just a way where she could see Sherlock but still me lying her head down.

"Have you ever been in love?" Sherlock asks.

Eleanor squirms in her seat. "You've been asking a lot of rather odd questions these past few days, Sherl."

"To raise new questions, new possibilities, to regard old problems from a new angle, requires creative imagination and marks real advance in science," Sherlock says. "Albert Einstein."

Eleanor sighs and sits up properly in her chair. "In a way, yes, I have been in love."

"How does it... feel?" Sherlock asks. "On the inside."

"Some say it's the feeling of fireworks sparking in your stomach whenever you see your sweetheart. It may be the feeling of being hit with a freight train- suddenly and abruptly. The feeling of bees in your head, non-stop, for a full month. Tingles in your head, or in your heart. You may feel sparks or glitter or rainbows or butterflies or tiny little fairies dancing around your head," Eleanor says, choosing her words carefully.

"Why did you say 'some people'?" Sherlock asks.

"Because I don't think that's how it feels," Eleanor says.

"How do you think it feels?"

"It's the feeling you get when your heart is being ripped from your chest and being stabbed a hundred times. It's getting hit by a double-decker bus right as you cross the street. It's the feel after you get a detention- shame and agony," Eleanor explains. "It's a migraine that won't go away for an entire five years. Those fireworks the other feel? It's them exploding continuously in your body till nothing's left but a soul."

"And what does the soul do then?" Sherlock asks.

"The soul wanders around, searching for a fix, something- anything- to take the pain away," Eleanor says, no longer looking at Sherlock. "The soul waits for that one other soul to come, so they can join as one- to become whole again."

"Love hurts," Sherlock mumbles.

"Yeah, it does."