Bouquet of Thorns: Sherlock x fem!reader

Chapter 2 - Evening Annoyances

Amusement played lightly on your lips, tilting up at the sight of Lestrade's text of thanks later that night. The illumination from the television glides across your skin while the case file sits stationary on the side table. Its beige binding allowed the artificial light to dance along like a projector of abstract colours.

Nothing but the gentle swarm of music filled your ears. You didn't remember when you muted the chatter of TV personnel to hum the lyrics of this song. This song whose name had slipped your exhausted mind, the artist's identity long gone.

Why were you listening to music again? Why had you turned the telly on? What was it?

Your mind drifted towards the meeting earlier on in the day. Sherlock Holmes. A peculiar man, manner and intelligence aside. He stood tall, confident, radiating smugness to the point of annoyance.

Yet, how he spoke with dismay at finding out he hadn't cracked the case in time was what took your notice. He was annoyed. The tables had turned, and you were enthralled by this fact. You were enthralled by the fact you had so effortlessly beat a man accustomed to being the smartest in the room.

A sudden knock rattled against your flat door. Had you expected a visitor? How long had it been since you had opened that very message from your friend?

"Too many questions," your head rested against your fingertips, both hands holding it still before the knocks became beyond simply irritating. Feet just as quick as your current fading sense of patience, Lestrade's presence was little relief.

"Not expecting me?" He asked, eyes flickering to the abandoned file.

"Not expecting company generally," you point to your couch; the velvet green of vintage origin looked almost onyx in the light. You watch him toss a piece of wood behind amber chunks, restarting the fire. "What's that smell?" each whiff drew you closer to his coat, a cologne that seemed too familiar yet very foreign. Tobacco. Tea, English breakfast. Curl cream. Odd... Lestrade didn't have curly hair, let alone enough care to start treating his hair as such.

"I was at Sherlock's if that's what you're wondering," he knew the smell of cigarette smoke would also cause an uproar from your end. "He smokes before you start shouting,"

"I would have done worse... so what is it you need?" The crackling fire started to take your attention as he rambled aimlessly about his day, your sympathies wearing thin. "Greg..."

"Sorry, sorry. I was just saying that since you're back in London, would you want a job in the yard?" He hands an application form over.

"I have a job," you push it away, the paper almost folding from the sheer force your hand pressed against it. "That's why I moved in the first place,"

"And yet here you are looking for bloody cases from me," he pokes the beige folder.

You turn away, wordlessly mocking every sentence from his mouth, "I'm bored; my job works on commission, you know this,"

"In what universe does an exhibition designer for museums pay better than a detective inspector?" He places the sheets of paper beneath the file.

"It pays for this flat, Greg, and has for the past few months," irritation started to sliver from the tip of your tongue, "that Sherlock Holmes... where does he live?"

"Just a block away, surprisingly," he didn't seem that bothered; it saved a few minutes in the car. Plus, fuel prices were not merciful in this day and age.

"Wonderful," a pace was taken up, walking from side to side. Then you caught realisation that the words leaving your lips hadn't exactly correlated with what you meant, "I mean that-"