[Sherlolly fanfiction] Silhouettes

Chapter 26-- The Tune of a Life

(FIVE DAYS LATER)

"I like not having technology." Molly states, laid on the sofa.
Sherlock doesn't looks up from his work at the desk situated behind the couch.
She continues to think aloud. "No alarms, no chargers, no nothing." She exhales contently before her bored eyes drift to a chessboard on a nearby coffee table. "Without 'technology' we can do sophisticated things like play chess. We wouldn't have the time to do that with laptops."
"Nope." He agrees absently, his mind elsewhere.
She swings her legs around, pulling the table towards her as she opens the box, taking out the ivory chess pieces. They're all hand carved. She lines up the little figures from their original places and fiddles with them, purely out of boredom. Eventually, she speaks aloud. "Want a game of chess?"
"You can't play chess."
"We have plenty of time for me to learn." She mutters. "Teach me."
"No."
"Why?"
"Because you can play chess, but you can't play chess."
"I'm actually better than you think I am. Come on, teach me a few tricks of the trade."
"Win."
"How?"
"By checkmating the other King."
"Yes, but--"
"Molly, you can't play chess."
She exhales, knocking over the white king with the black queen childishly. "Checkmate." She mutters, flipping the piece in her hand. Boredom changes her. When she can't occupy herself with other things, she gets surprisingly cranky. As does Sherlock. They'd be lucky if they made it back to London alive. "I don't feel as sophisticated as I was hoping to." Molly concludes, lining up the pieces once again. She frowns as she spots one piece is missing. "I think I'm missing a piece."
"Let's hope it won't ruin your game." He mumbles sarcastically, but not horribly. Molly stands, looking to see if she's dropped it on the floor. Her eyes scan the deep, red, Persian rug. As she searches, Sherlock continues his work. The record player they'd found was, disappointingly, broken. And so, for some form of technology to return to their lives, he'd have to fix it. Lack of activity was slowly driving them insane. No murders, no corpses, no crimes, no serial killers, no blood, no body parts, no nothing. It's sheer hell.
A lot was riding on this one record player, and so, he'd work through the night just to get to hear it play.
**
(SHERLOCK'S POV)

Spending long, full weeks with a person in a house without a case of some description is one of the most difficult things I've ever done in my life. Of course we don't hate each other. Confined space is just playing on our nerves a little. We're easily irritated at the moment.
The joys of an engagement.

I'll be glad to get back to London where murders take place every week. Oh, how I miss the murder. Mycroft has told me that in two days, it'll be safe for us to return, if we want to that is. Judging by our present attitude, we'll want to. Though, I can't deny it, it's better being in exile with someone rather than being on your own.
**
Molly had been searching for the lost chess piece for over half an hour now, and she was beginning to think aloud. "I can't find it anywhere. Where is it?"
Sherlock exhales, but doesn't look up from his work. "You've been checking the couch for nearly an hour. Look in the box."
"It's not in the box!" She snaps.
"How would you know? You've not checked." He retorts.
"Yes. I have checked! And it's not there! Now help me find it!"
"I am helping."
She stares at him. "No, you're not. You're messing around with that damn record player!"
"I was referring to me telling you to check the box."
"It's, not, in, the box!"
"Yes, it is." He insists.
"Look, Sherlock, I'm looking in the box. It's not there."
"No, you're looking in the wrong bit."
"It's a box. There isn't another bit."
"The compartment, where the chess pieces should be. Check it."
And she does so. Molly lifts the first level of the box to reveal another underneath with a small chess piece rolling around inside. She sighs, taking it in her hand. "You could have told me."
"I did tell you. I've been trying to tell you for the past half hour."
"I could have carved a whole damn set of chess pieces from the coffee table with a butter knife in that time. It didn't cross your mind to stand up and open it for me?"
"Of course it did, numerous times in fact. But that would require moving. Also, I doubt your carpentry skills are of that standard."
"No, scrap making chess pieces. How about a stake?"
"You're getting crankier." He notifies, not at all phased by her mild threats.
"You're getting more annoying."
"Nope, I've always been like this. Your annoyance is merely--"
"I swear to god, Sherlock, we're isolated and alone and I will not hesitate to kill you and make it look like an accident."
"With a chess piece-carved-stake?"
"No, with the butter knife."
"Buzz-kill." He mutters.
"Take away 'buzz' and you have the basic idea."
He pauses for a moment and for the first time that evening, looks at her and stands.
"Would you like a sandwich?" He asks casually.
"What?"
"A sandwich, do you want one?"
She frowns. "Why would you think I want a sandwich?"
"When you're cranky, you eat. Sandwiches are a food and you eat food. So a--"
"You don't need to give me a bloody algorithm for a sandwich."
"I'm going for a cup of tea."
"Drinking away your sorrows. Engagement's off a fabulous start." She mumbles.
"I'm making myself a snack, want one?"
"What're you making?"
"My algorithm sandwich. I can multiply it by two?"
She observes him for a moment with a stern look on her face. Eventually she cracks. "Thanks." She purses her lips, trying not to smile as he walks into the kitchen.