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After he goes through the now familiar ritual of taking off his coat and gloves and loosening his tie, Holmes sinks into the chair he spends so much of his time in. “Watson, you do astound me. Sometimes, you can be so-”
I interrupt his musings with good humor, “exciting, shocking, exhilarating?”
“I do believe confusing was the word I was aiming for.”
I hum with amusement and contentment, for what else could I be feeling in these tiny, domestic moments that make up the majority of Holmes and I’s acquaintance? “There is a very good reason I am the writer here, I’m afraid.”
A good-natured glare is thrown my direction. “Indeed, you do have a tendency towards the dramatics, my good doctor.”
I hide my eye roll quite valiantly, I would say. It is best not to point out Holmes’s own flair towards the artistic. I will simply let him believe that he is fully departed from anything in the world that may defy absolute logic. Just the fact that I know better brings me comfort. That I am one of few in the world that have seen the genius at his most human is a concept I cherish greatly.