A thorn by any other name would hurt just as deep, or whatever the saying is.
~~~
Greg Lestrade would say Sherlock Holmes was always the smartest in the room. Whether at 221B or Scotland Yard, no ordinary person ever came close to compete with his...
"John doesn't realise all the fun happens past 12:35 am; I did a study-" he cut himself off, "but I doubt you're here to inquire about that,"
"No, no," you wave a hand in the air, watching how his fingers tap against the bow of his violin. "Besides, Greg told me about your blog as well as John's... interesting study on the variations of ash. However, I must say that John's audience is much broader,"
"Median audience with a subpar interest," he grunts, unable to focus on his violin while you stood with eyes burning the back of his head.
"You do know you just called yourself subpar, right? They're interested in his blog because of your odd... dynamic," laughing lightly at his immediate huff, it was obvious he wasn't so amused.
"Why are you here?"
What an excellent question from a self-proclaimed genius. A question whose answer was lost within your blank mind. Without an excuse, within those very few seconds, you recall how you ended up on the doorstep of 221B.
~~~
Taps against the countertop, you find time passing slower all of a sudden. Tea had started to cool, the steam becoming less opaque even with a brush of cold wind drafting from the slightly ajar window.
A walk was the first thought to flash through your mind. With the night still young, what would be wrong with doing such a simple task?
The streets hadn't warmed up; each leaf clung onto fine branches of wood like slipping Christmas baubles marketed on window sills mid-November. Snow was yet to fall from the heavens above despite the cold weather nipping at the tip of your nose. Fur trim, thick cotton, wool-lined, coats of all sorts with upturned collars brought the London streets to life. As you moved past a small food truck with the heat warming your skin, salt sprinkled along thinly sliced chips, just tempting enough to break a grumble from your stomach.
Further down the road, away from the populated streets, a door caught your eye. Where were you? Baker Street, it seemed. Hadn't Lestrade told you that Sherlock Holmes lived here? Somewhere...
It wasn't that difficult to tell once your phone clicked to life. John Watson's blog pulled up to locate a contact number or address. "Address, address, what is- ah, 221B Baker Street," with each door slightly glazed over within the darkness, you had strategically started with the door to your right in hopes of figuring out the way.
~~~
Back to the present, you simply shrug in response, "I have an inquiry,"
"Will it take long? Shall I brew some tea?" he glances over you once, then once more, violin propped up like a centre piece of a shrine, "I deduce Lestrade never got to that cup of tea you prepared," his fingers fiddle with the bow.
"You'd be right,"
"Well, you're lucky the kettle is on," he gestures to John's seat while walking to the kitchen tray prepared within a few moments. Just when he turned, he was met with the sight of you, leg crossed over the other and fully relaxed in a chair. His chair.
"I take Earl Grey," you add on, "hope that's not too much trouble," a smug smile tugged at your lips, noting the irritated look in his eyes.
"Not at all," he grits through his teeth. "So, that inquiry, do go on," he sits in John's chair. The fabric felt uncomfortable against his skin, almost itchy. How the hell did John sit in this all day?!
He shifts around, moving a little before settling on a very odd pose. You watch his legs prop up over one armrest while his body almost contorted to nestle into the corner. "Done?"
"Sorry, someone took my chair," he huffs, leaning his chin onto his fingertips.
"Wouldn't have a clue who it could be," you muse, eyes cast down towards the tea. "I asked for Earl Grey,"
He clicks his tongue, "Ah, sorry, we just ran out,"
"Just?" You look at his cup and see an Earl Grey tea bag in it. "Mature,"
"We are adults, after all," the warm firelight, luminescent against one half of your face, captured the softest of feature changes that the darkness would have shielded. "Do go on, however,"
You give the detective a few moments to say anything more, eventually carrying on. "Greg, how do you know him?"
It was a case from ages ago. The world, or at least Greg Lestrade's world, was all the more simple. Though in reminiscence, it was more ignorant bliss than anything else. He hadn't found out about his wife's cheating, unaware of the declining relationship between himself and his children, not knowing the possibility of losing his job due to so many unsolved cases, and of course, incognizant of anyone by the name of Sherlock Holmes.
"Mr Sherlock Holmes?" Lestrade knocked twice on 221B's door, the entrance cluttered like the rest of the flat. "My name is Sergeant Lestrade of Scotland Yard. May I come in?"
That was the very first mistake. Sherlock had been seen at the crime scene, lurking a little, which raised a lot of suspicions and therefore caught the eye of Lestrade.
Assistance was offered, and an answer was unveiled to Lestrade's dumbfounded amazement within the next few hours. Here he was, staring at the murderer, staring at the evidence that had been spoon-fed to him. While it should have brought him down, shattered his ego, and pained his pride, Lestrade took Sherlock's hand in a firm handshake.
"Thank you, Mr Holmes," a card was exchanged from his hand to the amateur detectives.
"Sherlock, please," he insists, taking it with an indifferent nod while leading him to the door. There was a short silence where Sherlock gave the sergeant a once over, "I recommend looking into where your wife spends her late nights. Unfortunately, it is not at the office,"
Of course, in classic Sherlock fashion, Lestrade was met with a door to the face before he could input a syllable.
"So now you solve the cases he's stuck on- which tends to be most," you watch how the curls of his hair only let slip a few streams of firelight. They danced along his smooth skin, highlighting the defined features of his face while yours took the radiating heat. It warmed you up, the tip of your nose no longer frosted by the contradictory weather outside.
"Will you be staying long?" He finally pipes up, turning to see both your eyes closed, chin in palm and body facing the fire.
"Depends how I feel," you mumble, trying to enjoy the artificial sun.
"Well, I feel the need to focus. If you so desperately need company, then John should easily provide it; he's upstairs," a finger pointed upwards to what would have been the flat upstairs.
"No, I suppose you've bored me enough," snatching up a few biscuits, you place them into a tissue before stuffing them in the pocket of your coat.
You were a mere two steps out the door when he spoke up to catch your attention, "The case, how did you piece together it was the lover?"
"The same way you did," you shrug, hands stuffed into both coat pockets, "I saw who the first responding officer was,"
~~~
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