Work Text:
I put up with a lot from Sherlock Holmes. Cigarettes squirreled away in the oddest places, mail stuck to the mantle with a knife, bullet holes in the wallpaper, favourite mugs used as impromptu chemistry equipment, a big toe in the butter dish. Sometimes a man just wants a harmless cup of tea and some toast with a digit-free shmear of butter. Not too much to ask, really. These little annoyances don’t amount to a whole lot in the scheme of things, I know. It’s just the price of admission. This is the toll I pay for a life with this enigmatical detective. My enigmatical detective.
How can a man with such an impeccably organized mind palace use a real life organizational system that consists mainly of, “Don’t move that pile! I know where everything is!” and “I didn’t misplace the gas bill, it’s under the third autopsy report from the top in that stack two paces west of the skull. I was using it to test the oxidizing properties of certain colognes upon envelopes.” Apparently Mr. Genius Detective cannot extend his impeccable logic far enough into the flat to, I don’t know, buy a filing cabinet?
•••
“We’re nearly out of milk!” I shout from the kitchen one evening while making two mugs of tea. One without sugar, one with an alarming amount of sugar. I don’t condone my partner’s sucrose intake, but I’m complicit in it. It’s just, the way his eyes drift closed and he lets out a little satisfied hum when he takes a sweet sip…
“Why are you telling me?!” Why, indeed? I’m the one who will either remember or not remember to stop by Tesco’s after work tomorrow.
I carry the two mugs towards our chairs by the fire as Sherlock tosses a cold case file on top of a stack of books and papers next to him. This particular tower looks like it was designed by Escher, its structural integrity related to no law of physics found in this universe. I hand Sherlock one mug and sit down with my own.
We need to talk about the piles. They’re getting out of hand… I momentarily lose my train of thought as Sherlock takes a taste of his tea, swallows, touches a fingertip to a drop of liquid trailing down the outside of his cup and places said finger between his lips and sucks before letting out a breathy, “Mmmm…”
God help me. Soldier up, Watson.
“Sherlock.”
He glances at my face and I can tell that he’s clocked the ‘we have to talk’ tone of voice when he rolls his eyes and looks instead towards the fire.
“I suggest you reconsider, John.”
“Reconsider what, Sherlock?”
“Reconsider before you destroy this perfectly lovely evening next to the fire by suggesting I leave my chair and my expertly made cup of tea and,” he sighs deeply, “clean.” The vowels of the word drawn out to show my partner’s disdain for such inane tasks.
“Sherlock, you might think cleaning is below you, and I actually don’t mind doing all of the dishes, and all of the laundry, and all of the food shopping, and, well, granted, Mrs. Hudson usually does the hoovering…”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“I’m getting to that! You don’t want anyone to touch your papers, but you let them grow and grow! It’s unsustainable! Some of the stacks are nearly as tall as I am!”
“Not so tall, then…”
“Sherlock!”
Sherlock leans forward and opens his mouth. I can tell that he’s about to let forth a load of rubbish that will rival the size of the offending stacks. He places his mug of tea on top of the nearest pile and is about to let loose when said pile wobbles and cascades onto the floor, files disgorging their contents and the mug rolling across the rug, leaving a sopping trail of perfectly sweet tea in its wake.
Sherlock closes his mouth.
I can’t help it. I start to giggle.
“It’s not funny.”
“I beg to differ.” I reply between snorts.
“John,” Sherlock starts while getting to his knees and beginning to gather papers into his arms, “these may simply look like old papers to you, but they document important cases that I solved before I even met you. There was no trusty blogger around to record my exploits back then.”
“They can’t all be important documents.”
“Pick any one at random and we shall see.”
I grab a single sheet of paper that has come to rest near my right foot. “Okay, how about this one:
‘To whom did it belong?
The one who is gone.
Whom shall have it?
The one that will come.
Where was the sun?
Over the oak.
Where was the shadow?
Under the Elm.
How was it stepped?
North by ten and by ten, east by five and by five, south by two and by two, west by one and by one, and so under.
What shall we give for it?
All that is ours.
Why should we give it?
For the sake of the trust.’”
“Ah, now there’s a tale worthy of your blog. Make me another cup of tea and I’ll regale you with the story.”
“You just want to avoid cleaning up your mess.”
“If my retelling fails to absorb your attention, I’ll stop and finish cleaning up.”
“All your piles?”
“Fine.”
“And any future piles?”
“That hardly seems f…”
“You know, I’m not sure I’m really in the mood for a story about your past…”
“Fine, future piles.”
“Alright. I’ll make the tea.”
•••
Spilt tea toweled up, fresh cups brewed, I settle in across from my partner, ready for a story.
Sherlock sips from his mug, eyes closing in pleasure. “Alright, get comfortable John, while I tell you about an incident involving something that I’ve come to think of as ‘The Musgrave Ritual.’”
Sherlock talks on, modulating his voice with all the richness and nuance of a theatre performance in the West End. Genius seeks an audience and I’ve been known to rave over the cleverness of my partner. He gets a pleased look in his eye when I throw out a ‘brilliant,’ an ‘extraordinary,’ or an ‘amazing.’ I feel like I’m feeding Sherlock up in times like these. After all, people can waste away spiritually as well as physically. I’ve seen it in fellow soldiers, in lonely widows who use any excuse to pop into surgery so they can simply talk to another human being, in children not getting the love and attention they need, or the wrong kind of attention. I was wasting away in a dull bedsit before I followed my old friend Stamford into a lab one day, where a stranger read my life story with a glance. Sherlock began the task of saving me that day, but, as it turned out, I wasn’t the only one in need of saving.
Like a wary animal will sniff any food proffered for hints of poison, so Sherlock wasn’t sure how to take a compliment when I began doling them out. He looked for a facetiousness behind my remarks or a motive for me to curry his favour and, finding none, was puzzled. But, like a wary animal starved for affection, Sherlock learned to trust my words and the esteem behind them over time. It made me sad that no one had done this for him before and all the more determined to continue to nourish him in this way.
Sherlock continues his tale and I continue to split my attention between the leaps of his fascinating mind and the leaping feeling in my stomach when a memory sparks a smile on his lips or in his eyes. He takes a gulp of tea and I watch his neck as he swallows.
“So you see, you should never put your life in the hands of a woman you have wronged.”
“That was fantastic, Sherlock. You’re fantastic.” My words cause some colour to rise in his cheeks. “We still need to do something about all these papers though, love.”
“That wasn’t our arrangement!” He wears a mask of indignance, but I’ve learned to read my partner over the years, and I know this display belies the truth of his insecurities. Sherlock found an acceptance in me that has rarely been extended to him, and he lives in fear that one day some Sherlock-specific characteristic will lead me to reject him as others have. I decide to not reassure him directly, having learnt that the act of me observing his insecurities is nearly as embarrassing to him as an actual rejection would be. I opt to approach from a different angle. Shoring up his poor self regard before he even realizes that it’s been revealed.
“Yes, Sherlock, your story kept my attention. I love hearing about how clever you are. It never ceases to amaze me, but this living room is still a mess. So, I will help you tackle it tomorrow if you can deduce what I’d like to tackle right now instead.”
“That’s obvious, John.”
“Is it?”
“My brilliance turns you on.”
“You have an incredibly sexy brain, Sherlock.” I stand and hold out my hand to him. He smirks and finishes his last sip of tea before dabbing delicately at the corner of his mouth in a way that suggests cleanup following other oral activities. Then he lets me pull him to his feet, wrapping his arms around my back and leaning in for a kiss.
“You didn’t finish your tea, John.” He remarks from a few scant inches away.
“Sod my tea.” I surge back into his space, all twining limbs, searching hands and thirsty lips. When I break away, we’re both breathing harder with blood pumping and pupils dilated. “Come on.” I tug him to the bedroom, leaving behind a half drunk mug of tea, a fire slowly burning down and a mess that can bloody well wait for us. Our time and energies are better spent elsewhere.