You and Sherlock

You're Not Bored Now, Are You?

Walking back into your flat, you shut the door softly and then leaned against it, sliding down to the floor. You closed your eyes and leaned your head back against the door. You sat there for a moment, trying to ignore the faint sound of voices and the footsteps from upstairs. You hoped they would leave soon. Deciding to shower, you dutifully put your takeaway on the counter and went to the bathroom. In the shower, you tried to shake off the pulsing feeling of rejection, ignoring the twisting in your stomach. But no matter how scalding you made the water, you couldn't burn out the sound of Sherlock saying "no." 

You didn't know why it bothered you so much. Logically, you told yourself, you shouldn't be upset; Sherlock had never really bothered forming a strong connection with you. But no matter what you told yourself, you couldn't shake off the dejected feeling in your gut. Turning off the shower irritably, you roughly toweled yourself off and put on a pair of sweatpants and a ragged t-shirt from your high school days. 

Making your way back to the kitchen, you twisted your hair up and out of your face before putting the takeaway pasta in the microwave. You'd just sat down with your dinner when the knocking came at your door. 

"No. No. No, no, no," You groaned, punctuating each no with a soft slam of your forehead against your palm. "NO." 

The knocking persisted.

"Ugh," you sighed heavily, irritably. You picked up your plate and silverware and continued eating as you made your way to the door. Opening it abruptly, you asked coldly, "Yes?"

Lestrade and John both stood in the hallway, John looking worried and Lestrade uncomfortable. 

"Er -- right, so sorry to bother you, Y/N," Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck and you tried to resist rolling your eyes, shoving another forkful of pasta into your mouth. "But, you see," Lestrade cleared his throat; you raised an eyebrow expectantly. The next words out of his mouth better not be Sherlock, you thought venomously.

"It's Sherlock," He continued. You considered throwing your plate but decided against it because there was still food on it.

"What about him?" You stabbed your fork into the pasta.

"Well, he's just gotten in a cab," John said, shifting his weight. 

"And?"

"Y/N. I've known Sherlock Holmes for five years, but you know him better than I."

"Me?" You raised your eyebrows. "I've only known Sherlock for about a year and a half. Why should I know him better?"

At this moment, Mrs. Hudson wandered into the hallway, out of her flat. She caught the tail-end of your remark and decided to add her two cents.

"You know Sherlock quite well, dear. Don't think I haven't heard your midnight rendezvous."

John and Lestrade both stared at you in shock, and you felt your ears burning up. Blushing, you closed your eyes.

"That's not what it sounds like," you finally managed to say, voice squeaking. "Sherlock just kind of -- comes in? Unannounced?" You cringed, and Lestrade, evidently taking pity on you, nodded. 

"Right, well," John shrugged, turning to Lestrade. "If you don't know Sherlock that well, why do you put up with him?"

"Because I'm desperate, that's why," Lestrade sighed, and then looked at you meaningfully. "And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one."

You sighed, resigned. Lestrade turned and walked out the door, and John looked at you before going back upstairs. 

It took a few minutes before anxiety set in. You were washing your dishes when suddenly your gut was telling you to find Sherlock. It took you another minute before you decided to listen. Hating yourself, you shoved your feet back into sensible shoes and then stormed up the stairs, hoping that John hadn't already left.