Two months later
Millie's POV
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"There is no bloody way you could cook-"
"There is every "bloody way" I could cook-"
"Oh for god's sake, I'm not letting you, you'd poison us all! Wait-what are you doing?"
"I'm getting a recipe book. Fairly obvious."
"Millie, tell him. He can't cook?!" says John, looking over to me exasperated.
"Let him, John. It'll be funny," I say, grinning at Sherlock who is determinedly scouring the meagre contents of the fridge.
"It won't be funny tomorrow morning, when we're all projectile vomiting," sniffs John, but he doesn't say anymore.
For twenty minutes we listen with fearful amusement to the clattering, occasional shattering, cursing and banging from the kitchen. Then Sherlock re-emerges, triumphant, with black streaks across both cheeks and flour clinging to his purple shirt.
"It'll be ready in an hour," he says simply, and sits down heavily between me and John.
"God help us all," murmurs John, tapping into his laptop. He's writing up the most recent case for his blog. It was a good one, too. John called it: The case of 'deadly justice'. We'd been called to investigate why small-scale criminals had been quite literally disappearing off the streets of London. Prison counts hadn't been going up, and the police hadn't been making more arrests than usual. It was really very interesting. Anyway, it turned out that the woman in charge of the overnight cell at the police-station had been rubbing arsenic on the bed sheets, so that, when the criminals were bailed out, they would die a few days later and 'disappear' from the scene permanently. Obviously she had to be detained and sentenced, but we found it dryly amusing that the woman had thought that she was killing people for the greater good.
We're watching "I'm a celebrity, get me out of here!" and, like John predicted, Sherlock became addicted immediately. It's really entertaining to watch the great consulting detective sit and yell at the people on the screen.
While Sherlock and John are occupied, I allow my mind to wander. It's been two months since we've heard, seen or mentioned Moriarty. It's just a matter of time before he inevitably makes another appearance. However, what's been bothering me, John and particularly Sherlock, is the lack of Irene Adler. She hasn't visited, texted or called- and, although none of us say it, we are all secretly fearing the worst. We've gathered that, although probably against her will, she has worked for Moriarty, and that can only end badly. But, Sherlock hasn't mentioned it, so John and I haven't brought up her disappearance in conversation.
It's getting very late. John's shut down his laptop, and the programme finished a while ago, so we're just sitting together watching a late night interview, though I think it's fair to say none of us are actually taking in what's going on. I'm still thinking of Irene Adler. I don't like her, but I don't want her to be dead, for Sherlock's sake. I wonder if he actually has feelings for her, although he has made it clear that love is a weakness and a distraction from work. This gets me thinking about our relationships, as a trio. We both 'love' John. He is the cement that keeps us from falling apart, and we both prioritise his life over ours. Sherlock and I- that's a bit more difficult to analyse... Our relationship is verging on platonic, although, thanks to the actions of Jim Moriarty, very occasionally it feels like something more. Very, very occasionally.
It occurs to me that I'm really tired. My sleeping pattern is exceedingly irregular, and I haven't slept properly in a couple of days. None of us have, actually. The hum of the TV, and the steadily rhythmic breathing around me is lulling me into drowsiness, and, I find my mind, still flitting from Irene, to Moriarty, to Sherlock, slipping into sleep.
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"Crap! Sherlock?! Wake-up... oh for god's sake, I told you!" shouts John.
I jolt uncomfortably out of sleep. I realise, with a pang of what might be embarrassment that I am sprawled over Sherlock's chest. I push myself up, and note with relief that Sherlock is still asleep.
I assess the situation. It is almost two o'clock in the morning. The TV is still on, and there's smoke... everywhere. I panic, thinking that Moriarty has set fire to the apartment. But then my rational side kicks in, and I realise that the smoke in the room is accompanied by a bitter, unpleasant smell. Burning food, I think.
John slams the oven door shut, and I feel Sherlock jerk awake next to me. Coughing and spluttering, John walks though the smoke and drops a blackened tray of indistinguishable food in front of us.
"Ah. Dinner," says Sherlock, blinking sleep away.
"Yes. Dinner.You didn't think that maybe it would be clever to put on a timer?" asks John, prodding the black lump with a fork.
"Evidently not."
I resist the urge to laugh.
"I'll look up late night take-aways," sighs John, sitting down and opening his laptop. "Open the window, Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson won't be pleased if we have the fire brigade over again."
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It's another hour before our food arrives, and we eat ravenously. We then sit in silence, too awake to go back to sleep, John on his laptop, Sherlock scrolling through new cases on his phone, and me pretending to read. It's nearly light outside when John asks-
"Sherlock, what were you trying to cook for us anyway?"
There's a pause.
"Scrambled eggs."
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YOU ARE READING
Guns, Games, and Mutual Appreciation ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book I}
Fanfiction"My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other people do not know." ~Sherlock Holmes, The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle. Sherlock Holmes is a man of impenetrable coolness; logic rules over empathy, and reason underpins all actio...
