Chapter Text
The London air is crisp with the stinging kiss of winter, and only a few dim lamps light my way to the flat I share with my friend, Sherlock Holmes.
You've probably heard of him from my blog or the telly. The bloody git will never admit he likes my blog, but he never reads something he hates, and he corrects me enough that I know the arse has read them all. I swear to God, if he scoffs and sneers one more time while I'm writing, our flat will be Lestrade's next crime scene!
Nevermind, I'm getting off topic.
The reason why I mention him is that Sherlock has become a source of severe irritation lately...well, more than usual anyway. It was fine when I just found some thumbs or a severed head in the fridge. You can never really forget seeing your first severed head where the milk is supposed to be. After the first year of mild heart attacks, you get used to miscellaneous body parts and questionable substances lying around the flat when your flatmate is a consulting detective of questionable mental stability who performs experiments with little if any concern for hygiene.
Yes, having to ask if he put arsenic in the sugar or exploded another eyeball in the microwave raises my blood pressure, and, yes, playing, more like screeching, on the violin at two in the morning has led me to consider the pros and cons of investing in a sturdy pair of cuffs and a gag to keep him quiet while I'm trying to sleep; However, I have come to discover that something far worse than a manic, drug-crazed, and case-starved Sherlock is a pining Sherlock.
Don't look at me like that! A crazy Sherlock is a predictable Sherlock. He'll try to find a fix or deduce you into getting him one, act twitchier than a rabbit in a fox den and madder than a Hatter, and or perform increasingly volatile, bizarre experiments until he has his next case.
I can handle crazy Sherlock. I'm strangely fond of him. This new morose Sherlock I can't. A screeching violin replaced with heartbreaking strains at all hours. A once constant whirlwind of movement taken over by a lethargic drone that spends its days and nights draped over the chair staring listlessly out the window at the bleak winter sky. After years of incessant noise and erratic, flailing limbs, the sudden stillness that overwhelms the once chaotic flat is unnerving.