Guns, Games, and Mutual Appreciation ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book I}

Chapter 5- Games

John's POV

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There's a knock on the door. 

"I'll get it," I call to nobody in particular, because I know Mrs Hudson is out, and Sherlock couldn't care less if the door was opened or closed.

Grumbling to myself, I open the door to Millie, who is holding a heavy-duty carrier bag presumably with filled with more of their "props"'. 

"Come on in, then. It's freezing outside."

She smiles briefly, then glances upstairs.

"Don't worry, he's in."

"I know."

I raise my eyebrows as I shut the door behind her. It's the sixth time this week she's come over. 

"You'd think two freaky intellectuals would have better things to do with your time than playing 'games'- I don't know, solving crimes? Tracking serial killers? Not appealing anymore? I'm starting to think you two have feelings for eachother, and that Sherlock is using the title 'games' as a cover up to keep me at bay while you two express your passion in the living room. Coffee? Tea?" I ask from the kitchen.

"No thanks. Very funny, John."

At least she can take a joke, I think, imagining Sherlock's look of genuine confusion at my ludicrous suggestion.

"I should... probably get going. Thanks for the tea, John," she grins, forgetting that she declined my offer.

I sit back for a minute and listen to her ascending footsteps. It must be sad, being an all-knowing-all-seeing genius sometimes. I think about what Sherlock, or Millie, would do if they couldn't work for a living. It must very sad.

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Millie's POV

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"Right," he says, holding up a pink plastic ball. "What about this?"

"Okay... well, pink, generally speaking, is a colour associated with females in a younger demographic. I'm saying younger demographic because there are scuff  marks all over the ball, which implies that it's been used. Frequently. Grass stains, too- definitely not an adult's toy. But it hasn't been used for a while, there's a thin coat of dust, which implies that it's been lying around, but not enough dust to suggest that it's been forgotten. No, this is a toy that's been treasured, for some reason. Perfume? Where did you find this? I think...this is a toy of a dead child. A bit morbid this time, don't you think? You can tell that this toy has been cherished, but not touched recently, and there's water residue streaking the surface.. tears? But the perfume. That's what gives it away. Look right there, threads of angora wool.. someone- a mother, I'll assume, has been cradling this ball, which implies greif, which suggests death and.... the rest is elementary," I sit back, satisfied, and look at him.

He stands up and paces round the room with renewed vigour.

He's funny this man, and in the last month, I have gradually understood small fragments about him. For example, he loves to show off. Desperately. Loves attention, adores it. At the same time he's rude, obnoxious, child-like, sometimes, an old man at others and totally inexplicable- I am extremely attracted to him. Not physically, or emotionally. But definitely on a mental level. He engages me, and challenges me, and both me and my brain revel in it.

It started with just objects, like the pink ball. He'd grab one from the mantlepiece, and test me, asking me about it. While I spoke his eyes would flicker side to side as if he was reading a text, and at first this confused me. Later I realised that he was literally taking notes in his head, and comparing them with his own deductions. Then I started playing the game too. Sometimes John would be there. Sometimes it would just be us. It didn't really matter. I'd bring in 'props' , or make up complex cases, and he's pace around- he does a lot of pacing- and solve them perfectly each time, looking so smug when he'd finished that I'd have liked to have slapped him there and then.

This has been going on for a while now, this 'game'.

However, there was one time, where he'd described a situation to me in much more detail than usual. The case of a woman, who matched a man's intelligence, who stimulated him mentally, the perfect woman, and he asked me if it was right or wrong to let emotions get to that man. When I didn't reply, he'd become angry, slamming his hand palm-down on to the table and looking at it for a very long time.

I'd left early that night. 

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"Millie?" 

I blink, switching from thought to real time.

He's doing it again. Looking. Not saying anything, just looking, very intently at me, as if he's noticed something.

"What?"

But as I speak, his mind moves on: he's lost interest. He flips his phone over in his hand, seemingly transfixed. There's no point trying to talk to him when he was like this. He's thought of something, a new test probably, and he wouldn't notice if I left now. So I get up, and leave Sherlock in his room, flipping his phone again and again, and close the apartment door softly behind me.

That's when I get a text.

It reads: Tomorrow, 8:37 PM -Sherlock

I look up at the window, but the curtains are drawn. I hear John say: "Is she gone?" and when he receives no reply: "Bye Millie."

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