Sherlock

III

We went out to have breakfast together that day. We didn't pay. He knew the owner - had helped him out years earlier. I found out he was 3 years older than me, which means he must've been 25 that day. 

I've worked many cases with him since then. I learned more and more about him every time and afterwards we'd also go out to eat. He'd say he was starving and we'd go somewhere and every time, the owners would tell us it was on the house. It gave me an inside to all the stuff he does that has nothing to do with Scotland Yard. 

I barely remember the second time I met him. It wasn't on a case, no. I just met him on the street and he asked me to come with him. We went to a small restaurant and I ordered a glass of wine.

"And you, sir?" the waiter asked with a smile. He simply waved his hand in the air while staring straight ahead. I would've said he was staring at me, but it was clear that he didn't see me. The waiter took the menus and left.

"You're not gonna get something to eat?" he asked, still staring straight ahead.

"I ate an hour ago," I examined his face, "aren't you gonna eat?"

"What day is it?" he pressed his hands together and rested his elbows on the table. 

"Friday," I answered and furrowed my brows.

His eyes darted left, "I'm good."

He leaned his fingertips against his lips and furrowed his brows. I looked down at my hands sitting in my lap. My light jeans were a contrast to my dark hands and my silver ring stood out clearly.

"Here you go," the waiter said as she placed the glass of wine in front of me. 

"Thank you," I said and looked up at her with a smile.

"Did you say Friday?" Sherlock asked pointing at me after the waiter had left.

"Yeah," I took a sip of my wine.

He raised his eyebrows and moved his hands to the armrest on his chair.

"You seem surprised?" My voice raised at the end of my sentence.

"Passage of time can be surprising when one is consumed in thought." He looked at the glass in my hand.

"What are you working on?" I asked and his eyes shot up to look at my face. 

"Helping a friend," he said, "sort of." His eyes looked back down at my hands.

"Are you okay?" I asked and furrowed my brows.

"Are you married?" He answered almost before I'd finished my sentence.

I put down my glass of wine with a smile, "no."

"Your ring?" He waved at my hand and looked at me with furrowed brows.

"It was my mothers," I looked at the silver ring on my finger. 

He nodded thoughtfully with furrowed brows, "I'm sorry about your mother."

I breathed out a shaky breath, "It's a very long time ago."

"Yet you clearly still mourn her," he pointed at my hand.

I furrowed my brows and nodded, "Do you notice everything?"

"Not exactly everything, I just have a habit of observing." His hands moved with his words as he spoke.

I slowly nodded, "What else," I paused, "What else have you noticed about me?"

"Clearly you're an orphan and you crave recognition, presumably because of your young age. You loved your mom very much, but not so much your dad. I would say you possibly didn't know him that well, but clearly you didn't have a strong bond with him, since I cannot see anything of sentimental value that could have belonged to him," the words flooded out his mouths in a prefect rhythm, yet a little too fast, "you have a very small circle of friends - I'd say two or three - and you're quite close, but you prefer to be alone. You have 6, no 7, houseplants in your small apartment - yes small apartment. You absolutely love pets, yet you have none, maybe it's because you're allergic or maybe it's because your landlord won't allow it. Now moving on, you're single and has been for some time and you want to find someone but it's hard, possibly because you can't find the time to look and possibly because of your sexuality - finding a partner when you're queer can be very hard."

I stared at him for a second, "how can you possibly know all that?"

"I observed, deducted." He folded his hands on the table. 

"How do you know that I love pets?"

"You have several scratch marks on your arms and hands, but not any fur on your clothes. You could have a fur less cat, off course, yet you don't seem the type," every word he said sounded so well thought out.

"You're very impressive." I took another sip of my wine. 

"I am quite aware," his tone showed his disinterest in the compliment as he was still staring at me with furrowed brows. 

"How could you possibly know that I'm... queer?" I glanced away for a second before looking at him once again.

"I won't tell Lestrade if that's what you're worried about." He looked at my hands again.

"But how did you know?" I asked again.

He sighed, "I noticed the pride patch on your bag and the bisexual pride pin on you jacket lining - not as discrete as you might think - then there is the way you tend to avoid looking at other women, almost as if you're afraid they'll know," he pursed his lips slightly, "but - believe me - people are rarely that observant." 

"You recognised the bi pride flag?" I said with so much surprise that I found myself embarrassed by it afterwards. 

"I have extensive knowledge of the LGBT community, yes," he stated, commonly.  

I looked at him with furrowed brows for a while, "so, you're queer?"

He once again pursed his lips and nodded his head once. 

My lips twitched slightly upwards in a triumphant smile. 

I felt I'd figured him out then. Thought I knew how his brain worked, and I believed I had "won" over him in that moment. Of course I soon found out I was wrong and that there was much more to him than what you see after meeting him twice. 

I've never truly found out what he was thinking of that night, but my guess is it was one of his many cases. I will never surely know what goes on inside his head.