You're An Idiot, Sherlock Holmes (OC x Sherlock)

It's For Emergencies

"Don't tell me you're still keeping body parts in the fridge," I say to Sherlock from the kitchen. "Would be great not to see severed fingers, heads, toes . . . on second thought, maybe don't touch the fridge at all." I look back and smile at him from my little joke. "I swear if I find something that isn't food in the crisper drawer- sorry- salad drawer, I don't know what I'm going to do with myself." Sherlock stands up and walks into the kitchen to boil water and ruffles my hair when I least expected it.

I stand on my tiptoes and quickly ruffle his hair. He reaches his hand out to ruffle mine again. I grab his wrist. "We're not making this a thing," I chuckle. "Once was enough." I reach down and open the crisper drawer and pick up something that's neither a body part nor food.

"What's this?" I ask Sherlock as I hold up the handcuffs. 

"It's . . . for emergencies," he simply answers, eyeing me.

"Emergency-? Oh . . . " Quickly realizing what he meant, I couldn't help to hold back a smirk as I carefully put them back where I found them. I look up at Sherlock as he makes tea, waiting for him to look back at me. We lock eyes before bursting into a fit of laughter. 

"Emergency, yeah, no," I say, finally calming down from the laughter before laughing again. "We'll definitely need those . . . sooner or later." I walk out of the kitchen and kiss Sherlock's shoulder on my way out as I sit down in my armchair, hearing Sherlock's continuous quiet laughing behind me. 

The pink phone on the desk rings, making me jump as I practically leap over to grab it. I walk into the kitchen, setting it on the table as I answer it, putting it on speaker.

"You can come and fetch me," a man's voice says. Probably the same man that Sherlock was on the phone with at Scotland Yard. "Help me . . . help me, please!" Sherlock looks up at me with a large grin and I shake my head at him.

Don't smile! I mouth.

~

"Feeling better?" Sherlock asks as I take a bite of my food.

"Yeah, definitely," I answer. "We've hardly stopped to take a breath since this thing started. Has it occurred to you that . . . "

"Probably," he answers quickly, not looking up from the pink phone on the table.

"What-? No- has it occurred to you that the bomber's playing a game with you? The envelope, breaking into that other flat, the dead kid's shoes, it all means something to you."

"Yes, I know."

I hesitate to ask Sherlock the question that's burning like a fire in my mind for so long. "Could it be him, then? Moriarty?"

"Perhaps," he replies, almost in a whisper. 

The phone beeps, before emitting three pips and showing the photo of a woman I recognize on TV. 

"That could be anybody," Sherlock states. 

"Lucky for you," I say, standing up. "I've been more than just your blogger."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrow. " What's between us has nothing to do with-"

"No, I mean that Mrs. Hudson and I watch far too much crappy TV," I quickly answer, glaring at Sherlock. I walk over to the remote on a nearby table and turn on the restaurant's TV.

"Thank you, Tyra! Doesn't she look lovely, everybody, now?" The pink phone rings and I look back at Sherlock, who quickly answers it. "Anyway, speaking of silk purses . . . "

I walk back to my chair and sit down. Sherlock's on the phone and looks over at me and I give him a concerned look. 

"Why are you doing this?" he asks into the phone.