A Study in Reason

Wednesday, November 5th, 2014

I went over to Baker Street at nearly midday today after receiving no word from either of the boys.

John, it seemed, was out. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, but the evidence suggested he was still in the flat. So, while I was waiting for one of them to appear, I took a proper look around. 

I knew Sherlock was the main decorator - if he could be called that - because John had only moved back in recently so I decided to see what I could glean from the surroundings. The mess in both the kitchen and living room seemed to be a normal thing because it was like that when I had my first visit. This meant I was fairly confident that it could tell me practically anything I wanted to know. I already knew that Sherlock Holmes fancied himself a scientist - and he was very good at it - that much was evident at a glance. He didn't have any photos around the public areas of anyone, so it was safe to assume he wasn't on good terms with his family - pretty understandable from what I knew already. The way things seemed tossed about told me he was bored incredibly easily and the skull painting on the wall, in addition to the real one on the mantelpiece, clearly told me he was unperturbed by what others would deem "macabre". Of course, all of this I knew already, but it was good to confirm it. It would come in handy for my other case very soon. I moved to his bookshelf and started examining titles. There were medical textbooks in Latin, history books on crime in 18th century London, books on human psychology and -

'Stop it.' 

I leapt away from the book case in surprise. 'Stop what?' I asked casually.

'Trying to read me,' Sherlock answered, leaning against the doorframe, eyes dancing over and around the room.

'I was trying to read you book titles,' I told him matter-of-factly.

'I know.'

'Why didn't you text me? I thought we had stuff to do today,' I asked suddenly.

'I wanted to see how long it took you to come of your own accord. I have to say, you're very keen.' 

We were silent for a moment, sizing each other up, analysing each other's motives. I broke the silence first. I had wanted to unsettle him slightly - I'm still not sure why - and get some answers at the same time. 'Why don't you have any photos of your family?' I asked him. He rolled his eyes but the gesture was lost because his face was now looking at me in a new way. He was almost... Curious.

'They're boring. All boring.'

'Except Mycroft to whom you don't speak except when necessary and whichever parent you got your genius from.'

'Oh, no,' he said, face lighting up in amusement. 'My mother is boring too.'

'Let me guess, she's a genius who knits.' 

Sherlock paused. 'If you like,' he replied slowly.

'My dad's like that. He's really brilliant but he watches telly all day. He's especially boring because he so smart but he does nothing with it,' I told Sherlock. 'Unlike you. You would be just as boring as everyone else if you didn't do what you do.'

'You think intelligence is a good thing?'

'Don't you?'

'Oh, of course, but that's not the point. You think your dad is boring because he's smart and does nothing with it.'

'Isn't that why you think your mother is boring?' I asked, genuinely curious.  

'Intelligent people can be boring for reasons other than righteousness,' he drawled.

'Righteousness?!' I asked, taken aback.

'Of course. You don't find your father boring. You resent him for not using his brain when you have to every day. You want to be ordinary.'