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The candle light flickers. The shadow of his steapled hands at his chin, curly locks and impossibly long limbs stretched across the sofa, exaggerated and enlarged behind him on the wallpaper. He lays silent. Remains quite still, closed eyes and shallow and even breaths. This is not, however, a picture of gentle relaxation and calm. Every muscle rigid, tense and wound up. From his toes pointed, digging into the upholstery, to his forehead crinkled in deep and frustrated thought. This pose now held for over an hour, in the darkness, as I sit struggling to read my book by the light of the only candle in the room.
"Tea?" I suggest. No. Can't use the kettle. No electricity. Stupid! He doesn't move, raise an eyebrow or grunt in way of reply. Gas. Of course! Epic stupidity. I get up, taking the candle with me to the kitchen. "It can't be long now." I wonder. "What's it been? Two hours?" No reply. Not a twitch. "I'm getting hungry. Did you save the leftovers from earlier?" I open the fridge, take out the milk, push the dish of tongues to the side and reach for the clear plastic tub containing the remains of the evening meal. I open it. Egg fried rice, a sweet and sour chicken ball and some prawn toasts. I nibble, as I wait for the water to boil in the pan. Seseme seeds fall onto my new blue jumper. I brush them off with a flick of my hand. Is this water ever going to boil? I carefully test it with my index finger. Yes, it's hot! Bloody moody insufferable git. Still brooding, can't let it go, overgrown child! I'll text him. That will get him to move. He won't be able to resist checking his phone on the off chance it's a case. Christ! Anyone else would get cramp tensed up like that for this long.
I dig into my jeans retrieving my mobile. My fingers hover over the keys while I consider. Try to be what? Funny? Clever? Irritated and bloody well demanding he speaks to me? Bastard! As if spending the evening in the dark isn't bad enough, he has to be in one of his foul silent moods. I push my fingers into my eyes and rub hard. Reading by candle light was becoming painful. My eyes stinging, dry. If I stop reading, then the only other option is bed. Still early. Ish. Not tired in the least.
Ha made u look :)
No, no. Too adolescent and pathetic. Delete.
I'm bored :(
Again pathetic, needy. Delete.
U r an utter soddin wanker when ur like this.
Send.
His phone beeps from his dressing gown pocket. Sherlock stays rigid. I'm surprised, then slightly alarmed. I march over to the sofa. Candle in right hand, prawn toast in mouth and left hand free to press into his neck. But even before I touch him I relax, seeing his chest rise and fall. Sleeping? No. No-one could maintain that level of tension in sleep, could they? No, not even Sherlock. He knew i'd sent it didn't he? Of course he did. Heard me tapping the keys or something. Knew when I'd sent it, the time delay before it reached his phone. No more games. I'm getting my tea and going to bed.
I go back to the kitchen in a huff. See the pan boiling over. Great! Grab the handle. Shit! Metal handle hot against my palm. I drop it, candle to. Hot water splashing over the hob, over the counter, over me, my arm, my chest.
"Fuck!" Stupid! Fucking stupid idiot! "FUCK!" I cry out in the dark.
Hands on me. Pulling my jumper, up and over my head, discarded, flung into the darkness. Sherlock pulls me to the sink, knocking a chair, scraping across the floor. Fumbling with taps. Cold water running over my fingers held in his. He releases them. Is gone momentarily then back. His sleeve brushing over the tender skin of my arm as he places something in the water. A cloth? No a tea towel. Sherlock wrings it out. Holds it to my stomach, as I bath my right arm up to the elbow. I flinch. Ow! Yea, scolding yourself hurts. A lot.
"Thanks."
He huffs near my ear. I feel him shake his head, his body heat radiating against my back. He places my right hand on the tea towel and is gone again. Then water running in the distance. Now he's back, taking me by the hand, leading me tentatively around furniture, and experiments and evidence, down the dark corridor to the bathroom.
"Sorry. So stupid" I croak. "I'm okay. The jumper. It took the edge off." I feel rather silly. Sherlock is silent. I hear him testing the water, turning off the tap, as I strip in the dark. Not self conscious, no need, can't see a thing. I reach out for him and grab an elbow, while I climb in and slowly lower myself into the bath, tensing at the cold, wincing as my burning skin becomes submerged. I hear him put down the toilet seat and it creaks as he sits. Another softer huff escapes his lips.
"Been a pretty crappy evening." I reflect. "And it started so well, with rapping up that case and then the Chinese." I lick my lips. Prawny toastiness still lingering there. "Can't believe the electricity's still not come back on." Feel funny, laying there in the water, shivering now, in the dark, naked and raw. I try to make him out in the dark. My eyes now slightly more adjusted. He's hunched, I think. Elbows on knees, hands on face. Looking at the floor, wall? Or towards me? Impossible to tell. "Thanks. For helping. Bloody difficult. Groping around in the dark and everything. Thanks."
He hums in the positive. Then sighs. At last a response.
"It seems you were determined to rouse me one way or another." His voice deep, steady and emotionless. Joking? If I could see I'd know from a glint in his eye and the slight twitch of his lip, but, as it is, there are no cues. "Seems rather absurd to go to such unnecessary lengths to initiate a conversation." I hear his smile this time with warmth in his tones. "Rather attention seeking wouldn't you say?"
"Huh! Me attention seeking?! You Git." I smile teeth chattering. "So says the worlds greatest consultant attention seeker!" I shiver, skin now cooling. "And who in their right mind would burn themselves just so that you would snap out of your god awful mood? Huh?" I mutter as Sherlock gets up and feels around, locates the towel and holds it up for me. The scratchy fibres are abrasive against my stomach. I draw breath quickly across my teeth at the sensation. The jumper really did stop the worst of it. It will be red for a day or so but no permanent damage. My hand, however, will need a little more attention. A dressing perhaps. It will be raw for days.
"People do strange things for stupid reasons." He replies. He's deliberately trying to annoy me. Wind me up. Trying to distract me from the pain? Maybe. But I can't help but say:
"Like sulking all evening because I got wax on your violin? I really couldn't see what I was doing Sherlock."
"Yes, you have been rather clumsy this evening. Although, on reflection, perhaps you've come out worse than my violin." My retort dies on my lips. He's not wrong. I'm aching, shivering and actually quite tired now
He takes my hand delicately in his once again, and we walk slowly towards my room. I climb into bed naked, wrap the duvet round me and shiver at the cool cotton. He carefully lays down next to me on his back on top of the covers, crosses his legs and puts his hands behind his head.
"I am sorry you know." My voice muffled by the blanket held high covering my mouth and nose. "It's not permanently damaged is it?
"A slight mark on the varnish perhaps. I will examine it when the lights come back on."
And, at that, they do come on. Bold and bright. I blink, eyes readjusting. He looks at me, pupils tiny. He smiles. Gestures to look at my arm and hand. I oblige. Sherlock gently takes my hand in his, avoiding the angry patches and examines it closely. As I thought. I'll need a dressing on my hand for a few days, but it will be fine. Bloody painful though. He retrieves the first aid kit, from my dresser, and I attend to it while Sherlock goes back downstairs. When he returns, I am dressed in grey night T-shirt and black bottoms and back under the covers. He comes in, violin in one hand, two cups of tea in the other. Ha, I should damage myself more often! He settles the violin on the bed and the cups on the bedside cabinet. Sherlock takes up his position laying next to me, propped up with pillows. Sherlock rubs at the waxy residue and then turns the violin in the light. I also look at it. There is a tiny round lighter patch now on the main body of it, to the side of the fingerboard, roughly the size of a shirt button. I lean over and rub it lightly with my finger. Sherlock tracks the movement of my bandaged hand and fingers thoughtfully and catches my eye.
"Sorry." I feel even more guilty and look away from him. Sherlock returns his gaze to the damage. I consider his expression. Not angry, not upset. No just... pensive? "Can it be? I don't know. Revarnished, touched up?"
"That scar will be right in my line of sight when I play."
This comment stated matter of fact, but his eyes dart towards my hand with a glint in them. He places it under his chin, as if confirming his hypothesis. Sherlock eventually removes it from his neck and puts it down between us, then takes my hand and examines my first aid dressing, lifting it slightly to reveal the red mark again. He rubs his thumb lightly over the dressing on my palm, then raises it to his lips and places a light kiss there. I smile involuntarily. Sherlock releases my hand, turns over to grab the tea cups and hands me mine. We sip in silence. I wonder what possesed him to do such a personal thing. Too affectionate a gesture for Sherlock Holmes to normally make. Perhaps an apology.
Sherlock brings out his phone from his pocket. Looks at it and grins and raises an eyebrow very slightly.
"Am I?" He says eyes creasing at the sides, nose a little wrinkled.
"Are you what?"
"A Sodding Wanker."
I laugh. "Yes, certainly. A complete and utter insufferable one at that."
"You wouldn't have me any other way."
We melt into fits of giggles. He's right of course.
Sherlock takes up his violin again and begins to pluck at the strings, still smiling, looking fondly at the tiny round mark.