|Milk and Other Insufferable Things
Author: Deceptive Flower PM
It was absurd, really, that a high-functioning sociopath could be so good in bed. Criminal, even. But then again, this was Sherlock Holmes we were talking about. One-shot. An old classmate reflects on our favourite consulting detective.Rated: Fiction T - English - Sherlock H. - Words: 915 - Reviews: 3 - Favs: 3 - Follows: 1 - Published: 12-11-11 - Status: Complete - id: 7628679
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Disclaimer: Deductively not mine.
Author's Note: I'm not even going to try to pretend that there was some grand scheme to this. I should really be studying for finals, or finishing the final draft of my English final exam essay, or working on my final Film Appreciation essay... but, you know, procrastination at its finest, and blah blah blah.
Just a drabble of an old classmate who was clearly affected by Sherlock's existence, as most people are when they come into contact with him. Because, you know, it's Sherlock Holmes.
01. Milk and Other Insufferable Things
I told myself that I had entered his name in a search engine simply because I wanted to see what he had done with his life these past few years. Nothing out of the ordinary there, right? Everyone has done it – looking up old classmates to see who's become successful and who's sunk to the bottom of the social totem pole without a single hope of ever finding reproach. I was hoping Sherlock would be one of the latter.
Not surprisingly, I was horridly wrong.
The world's only consulting detective. Clearly his ego hadn't changed. He was still the snarky bastard he was back then if his website was anything to go by.
Not that I had anything against Sherlock Holmes. On the contrary. I was, to put it mildly, fascinated by the man (Obsessed? Of course not! What on earth would give you that idea?) and had been since I met him in University.
We were hardly what anyone would call 'friends'. I can almost see the scathing look Sherlock would wear when anyone assumed as much. We weren't lovers, either; although sometimes we did somehow end in a tangle of limbs and sheets when Sherlock had become exceptionally bored.
'Distraction' was the proper term. We were distractions for each other. Me for his boredom and him for, well... sad to say, a distraction from the fact that back then I was completely unappealing to men and Sherlock happened to be a willing sexual candidate. Damn my insecurities.
It was absurd, really, that a high-functioning sociopath could be so good in bed. Criminal, even. But then again, this was Sherlock Holmes we were talking about. Against my better judgment, I found myself thinking back on those sexual encounters. There was nothing romantic about any of it, really. An utterance of 'I'm bored, Gloria!' and suddenly half my clothes were missing and his were in the process of coming off and it was a mess of sweat and sickeningly delicious skin against skin until he had decided his boredom had been sufficiently sated and then he was dressed and back to analysing some ridiculous crime that he had no business sticking his nose in when he hadn't even finished his degree yet.
Not that I minded. Because truth be told, he really was that good. For all his assurances that we as asexual at best, Sherlock Holmes was an incredibly sexual creature during our University days. He just knew what would make me tick and squirm and damn it all I'm sure most of the noises out of my mouth weren't even human. Damn him and his talent. Damn him and his intellect. He was far too intuitive for his own good.
And yet, that was what made him so fascinating.
There was no possible way to find a grey area with Sherlock. You either loathed his existence or you were entranced by it. Unfortunately, I was among the latter group – along with a number of other ridiculous women (and men, good lord!).
After reading through Sherlock's website, and then finding my way to his flatmate's – bloody hell, the man actually had a flatmate! – much more amicable blog, I found myself more intrigued than before. I returned to The Science of Deduction once more, clearly fascinated by this life Sherlock was leading. It was so much more adventurous than my droll schoolteacher profession.
My phone buzzed with a new text message and I paused absent-mindedly in my browsing to check the message.
Really, Gloria, a simple 'hello, how are you?' would have sufficed. No need to go snooping through my website.
What the – how did he –
As if reading my mind, another message popped up a second later. It was Sherlock again.
Also, try to be more inconspicuous next time. Twelve hits on my website in less than half an hour from the same IP address. It was far too easy to trace. Still living in the same place you grew up, naturally. Your salary as a schoolteacher would only allow as much.
Why, of all the arrogant things-
Another message came through with an address attached.
Drop by for some tea. Also, pick up some milk on your way. We're out.
Dammit, Sherlock! Who the hell did he think I was – his housekeeper?
My annoyance level was skyrocketing by the time the next message came through.
Do hurry. I'm bored.
Oh. He was, was he? Well.
I found myself, again against my better judgment, rising to my feet to fetch my purse. If it was a reunion Sherlock Holmes wanted, then it was a reunion he was going to get. I twitched as my phone vibrated yet again with another message, but refused to read it.
I should probably finish those essays now...