Sherlocked (BBC Fanfiction)

Chapter 9 - Continued Silence

I attempted to block out the quiet noise of the café I precipitously found myself sitting in.  Right near the glass door that led to the area provided for sitting outside was where Sherlock and I had chosen to sit.  The thin curtain attached to the door blew slightly from the wind, the rain still hammering all of London.  The early evening sky was crammed with rain clouds.

My hands were folded in on eachother on the small, circular, brass table.  In the middle was one, singular flower placed in the world’s tiniest vase.  I had my eyes averted over to the door on my right and I didn’t feel like speaking.  Small drips of water still clung to my hair from our walk in the rain and a permanent chill stayed enveloped within my jacket.

Around six or seven minutes ago, an older lady named Margie had come to take our orders and I was looking forward to the Hot Spice Latté and Banana Nut Muffin with my life.  My eyes looked up, the four fans fabricated to the ceiling circulating air poorly.  I closed my eyes, a sense of almost-peace washing over me like a tide.  My ears picked up bits and pieces of a song that played from a dilapidated radio on the counter and small parts of the few conversations going on around us.  But I knew knowing real harmony was few and far between.

“Here you go.”  My eyes snapped open and flashed up to Margie as she placed the two drinks and my muffin on the table.

“Thanks,” I managed.  She smiled at me and strode back behind the counter.  I immediately gulped down my latté, scorching my throat and mouth.  After swallowing, I stole a glance at Sherlock, who had this eyes epoxied to mine.  Immediately averting mine, I felt my cheeks suffer burns.  I bit into my muffin, the damp inside calming to my scorched mouth.  But I glanced up again, not allowing myself to look away, to succumb to the fear of austere eye contact.

Sherlock’s eyes bore into mine and mine into his, unseen daggers and knives being thrown for no rhyme or reason.  Both of us were poised in the gesture of eating or drinking; I had my muffin halfway in my mouth and Sherlock with his straw between his lips.  But I was resolute about winning, I wouldn’t back down.

Within those blessedly agonizing moments, my mind had snapped a mental photograph, archiving his expression deep into my brain, entwining his features into the frontal lobe of my mentality.  For a split second, only one half second in all of time I thought, I would ever see him like this.  He appeared unperturbed; not like the tranquil he felt back at the flat, this was the silent relaxation that needn’t be expressed in words.  His eyes rested upon mine and only for a moment, he was not Sherlock Holmes, the Consultant Detective.  He was Sherlock Holmes, the human being.  This provided me the comfort of knowing I wouldn’t be working with an utterly heartless sociopath.

And then he looked away, a smirk tugging on the corners of his lips.  I won, I thought.  I focused my attention down at my hand that rested on the edge of the table.  Taking a sip of my drink, lunch continued this way for the next half an hour.  Neither of us spoke a word to eachother, just occasionally glancing at eachother every couple of moments. 

At last we finished.  Exchanging glances of “I’m ready, let’s go,” we stood up, tossed our trash, and left.  Striding out into the rain, Sherlock hailed a cab.  By the time a taxi had finally pulled over, we were drenched.  Soaked to the bone, I climbed in, Sherlock following right behind.  He shut the door and told the driver, “221B Baker Street.”

The driver took off down the street without a word, matching Sherlock’s and my silence.  With my hair dripping into my eyes, I hugged my water-logged jacket to my body.  I counted the seconds until we reached the flat.  After what felt like forever later, the cab driver pulled up infront of the door of our apartment.  Sherlock paid the driver and climbed out, me on his heels.  Shutting the door, he drove off down the street.  We high-tailed to the door and strode in.  Feeling the warmth of the inside against my cheeks, I heard an older woman shouting from upstairs.  “Sherlock?  Oh Sherlock, are you home?”