Sherlock eyed Watson, who was busy scribbling away in his "blog" at the kitchen table Watson glanced over at Sherlock, arching his eyebrows in puzzlement. As the sun set, casting shadows that gradually began to slant in the flat, Sherlock never moved from his spot across from Watson.
Watson glanced up again, the second time since he had first glazed Sherlock, and then he threw his hands up, startling Sherlock. "What is it?"
Sherlock had just recovered from having a slight heart attack and scowled at Watson. "You need to let me know when you're going to do that. I nearly reached the point of no return."
Watson looked confused, eyebrows slouching, and before he could speak, Sherlock went on. "Had you done that for a longer period of time, and my heart had kept running in my chest, I could have died. Watson, you could have became a murderer. It's a good thing I'm not easily startled."
Watson let Sherlock ramble until he heard the last part. "Sherlock, you are not easily startled. I hardly ever startle you." Sherlock looked unconcerned by Watson's news. Watson looked around the quiet flat, and then back at Sherlock, his eyebrows shooting up now. "You were startled by me because you're thinking!"
Sherlock looked slightly annoyed, pale blue eyes beginning to burn though they were cloudy with daydreams. Sherlock. Daydreaming? Watson almost wanted to start laughing.
"I think all the time, dear Watson." Sherlock said, and for once, Watson ignored the patronizing tone the man across from him often used when he was trying to avoid an uncomfortable topic.
"No, Sherlock," Watson said, and closed his journal. "You're thinking."
"I know what it is called when neurons in the brain connect continuously and the person becomes unaware of their surroundings." Sherlock said tightly. Sherlock leaned away, his elbow leaving the table. For a second, Watson wondered how long Sherlock had been watching him, and why Sherlock had been so quiet. "I think in absolute stillness sometimes." Sherlock mused. "I become something like a weeping angel."
Watson smiled for a moment at the Doctor Who reference and then he nearly exploded out of his seat, realizing what had made Sherlock so still. "Sherlock, you were daydreaming." Surprise made a big smile come to Watson's face.
Sherlock scoffed, leaving his seat. Watson almost thought he detected the faintest shade of pink spreading across Sherlock's face. "Watson-"
"No!" Watson interrupted, cutting Sherlock off. This wasn't Sherlock's normal thinking habits. "You were off on the moon this time. What was it about?"
Sherlock looked confused and paused from turning around. Sherlock turned back slowly, dark hair ruffled. "What was what about?"
"Your daydream." The word sounded odd as Watson asked Sherlock. "What were you daydreaming about?"
Sherlock's eyes tightened around the edges and Watson knew then that he shouldn't have asked. Sherlock had the poker face of a professional thief and could lie just as well as he could pretend he was oblivious to knowing he had won the game.
"Nothing," Sherlock said and Watson gritted his teeth. And then Sherlock added in a low voice, "Of consequence."
Watson wanted to dance around the room. "You were thinking!" Watson was somehow out of his chair and pointed at Sherlock, accusing him of the most natural thing in the world. "Tell me, Sherlock. I'm curious. I've never seen you daydream before."
Pleasure flooded Watson and Watson gestured to the table. "Do it again."
Sherlock arched one eyebrow, his eyes twinkling as he tried to find a way to evade the situation. "Watson, are you well-"
"Do it again!" Watson barked and Sherlock seemed ready to take a step back. "I won't watch. I've got things to do."
"Ah." Sherlock looked uncomfortable as he slid, obediently, back onto the seat of his chair. "The blogging." Watson ignored Sherlock rolling his eyes and sat back down at his own seat. "How's it going?"
"How's what going?" Watson asked, his eyes going to Sherlock's face and back to his blog. Watson wanted to watch Sherlock daydream again, he couldn't help it.
"The blog." Sherlock specified, sounding slightly less annoyed. He was doing it. Watson pretended to surf through the pages of his blog, trying to look interested.
"It's going." Watson thought back to the days he'd mark the page with the date and write, 'Nothing happens to me.' That was hardly the case now. "It's tedious, writing every day."
"Write at night." Sherlock said matter-of-factly. Watson watched as Sherlock reclined into his chair, propping his boots on the table.
"What's so special about writing at night?" Watson mumbled, thinking crossly to the therapist secessions that led to nowhere. The dreams weren't as horrifying as they used to be, but Watson would rather stay awake. Sherlock's idea didn't sound half bad.
"Well," Sherlock said, his voice soft. Watson leaned forward slowly, hoping Sherlock wouldn't notice the attention Watson was giving him. "Just think of it. Writing by the light of a freshly lit candle. Looking at the dark ink while it stains the man-made material that came from a tree's bark. . . It sounds ideal."
Sherlock went on, almost to himself now. "I mean, Watson. You could do anything at night, really. Writing, reading. . ."
"I suppose," Watson said again, and he watched as Sherlock's eyes clouded over. Watson grabbed his pen, ready to look busy if Sherlock looked up suddenly, but Sherlock looked very far away. Watson was confused when Sherlock sighed softly and unfolded his already-crossed arms.
Watson stared, almost in awe.
Sherlock only thought constantly when he was greeted by Lestrade with a case. Lestrade's cases were usually solved in no time with Sherlock's help, but Watson found the cases to be almost bothersome as they involved traveling all over London. Sherlock enjoyed the busyness and pulled Watson along for most of the cases. Watson didn't mind that part. It kept him from writing in his blog and tending to the tidy flat.
Watching Sherlock now, Watson couldn't deny the strange peace that stilled Sherlock's features. Working with him on a case, Sherlock seemed almost animalistic as he fought to figure out the motive of a criminal. Now, Sherlock almost seemed like he was napping though he was very much awake. Sherlock seemed to be in a pleasant place, and was far from the barbaric man he was when he thought for Lestrade.
"What's he thinking about?" The words, though softly spoken, fell out of Watson's mouth without his permission.
Sherlock didn't jump, much to Watson's belief, and only remained still. Watson smiled, realizing that somehow Sherlock hadn't heard him, and then the flat bell rang.
For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of Watson's pounding heart beat in his ears. The unexpected ring of the bell had startled Watson, who hadn't been thinking at all. Sherlock would have normally flown out of his seat, but there he sat, so deeply lost in thought he seemed out of touch with reality. Watson sighed, feeling a familiar echo make sweat beads pop on his forehead. Loud unexpected noises did more and more to him these days-
"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson cried. Watson jumped again, and was relieved when Sherlock stirred. Sherlock did jump, and he jumped so hard he seemed to shed his skin. Sherlock jumped violently, falling backward in his chair, landing hard on the floor, and lying in a daze momentarily.
"Oh!" Watson cried in disbelief and ran to Sherlock's side, who looked rather red in the face and slowly coming back to his senses, his limps moving awkwardly as he tried to gather his bearings. "Are you all right?" Watson's arms found Sherlock's shoulders and he pulled Sherlock to his feet.
"Yes, yes," Sherlock looked still dazed and shook his head roughly. "Um. . ."
Sherlock does not mumble. Watson thought, shocked as the intelligent man in front of him, who usually was walking around with a mouth full of words, stuttered for several long moments. Concern filled Watson. "S-Sherlock?"
Common sense seemed to slap Sherlock in the face and Sherlock suddenly straightened up, shaking Watson off. "I'm fine!" Sherlock said sharply, and then to Mrs. Hudson, who was still calling him, "Coming, Mrs. Hudson!"
Watson watched, confused, as Sherlock scrambled to his feet and raced out of the kitchen and out of the flat, clomping down the stairs. Watson stood there for a moment, almost dazed himself. He rubbed the side of his head and righted Sherlock's chair, leaning against it as he wondered for his unusually absent-minded friend.
"Sherlock, what's going on-" Watson said when he heard footsteps behind him. Watson turned around to see Molly Hooper standing in the kitchen doorway. Watson stood up straight from leaning against Sherlock's chair, surprised. "Oh, hello, Molly." He had seen her around London plenty of times, as Watson had taken up an uncomfortable duty of following Ms. Hooper around. . . Seeing her in the flat shouldn't be surprising.
Molly nodded slightly, blushing. Her dark brown eyes roamed the flat, and Watson tried to remember the last time she had been there. "Hello, Watson."
Watson chuckled softly at his confusion by the fast-paced day and offered awkwardly. "Would you like to have a cup of tea?"
Molly shook her head rather quickly and said, "No, thank you. Sherlock's asked me to help with something."
Watson paused, lost. What ever could that be?
"Well, um," Watson said as Sherlock entered the threshold behind Molly. Watson paid attention as Sherlock dodged around Molly with an 'excuse me' and Molly stepped out of the way a second too late. Her cheeks darkened another shade of red as Sherlock walked to the kitchen cupboards.
Watson took a moment to gaze at her attire. Molly was never one for expensive dress suits and ties. She stood before the both of them, clothed in a floral flannel shirt and fitted dark wash blue jeans. Her feet were hidden in her trademark dark rain boots with the bright blue flowers on them. Her hair was braided down the middle and the rest of her hair stirred faintly in the air as the air conditioning unit did its job.
"Would you like a cup of tea?" Sherlock offered Molly and Molly glanced at Watson, shaking her head. Watson suddenly remembered the season and asked himself why he would ask Molly if she wanted tea during July. Then Watson thought to Sherlock, who was normally aware of such things. Sherlock must be preoccupied-
"No, Sherlock. I told you, I have to be back at my flat by nine o' clock." Molly said, looking slightly harassed. Sherlock turned to her, looking hurt. Watson hated the way Sherlock looked at Molly, and how Sherlock had sometimes looked at him when Sherlock wasn't getting what he wished. Sherlock looked like a kicked puppy and he knew it.
"Please, Molly?" Sherlock asked, and took a step to Molly.
"Oh, Sherlock, if she doesn't want a cup, she doesn't." Watson said to defend Molly. "Quit giving her that look."
"What look?" Sherlock turned to Watson, the 'kicked puppy' look still on his face. It intensified when Watson rolled his eyes.
"Stop it." Watson hissed and took a small bow directed at Molly. "Let me know if you need me to harm him."
Sherlock's jaw dropped as Watson slowly took straight again. "Watson! Friends don't harm each other."
"Are we friends?" Watson asked sarcastically, looking over at Sherlock quickly. "Friends don't shoot randomly in the flat they share."
"I was bored." Sherlock said in a monotone, and then rose to meet Watson. "Friends don't interrogate friends about daydreaming." Sherlock countered.
Molly looked surprised, her mouth dropping open into a small o. "You were daydreaming?"
Watson and Sherlock both turned to Molly with a, "Yes!"
They both turned back to each other, their bickering becoming more confrontational. "I wouldn't harm Molly, Watson."
"And you wouldn't daydream either." Watson said sharply and Sherlock looked hurt this time.
"You're saying I'd hurt Molly?" Sherlock sounded angry at the implication. "I wouldn't lay a hand on her." Sherlock snapped.
"Not with your hands!" Watson snipped and they both froze, the realization dawning on Sherlock at the same time Watson heard his words. Sherlock knew now what Watson was trying to say. Watson had never liked how Sherlock had treated Molly when Watson had first seen the two of them in a room together.
Watson heard his words, and while he had meant to say them in a better way or not to get upset with Sherlock or say what he meant to say so bluntly, Watson was dismayed by the way he came across. He immediately spoke the very second after the silence had settled in the room. "My apologies, Sherlock."
Sherlock shook his head quickly, his eyes clouding over again, in a different way. His dark curls followed his head. "It's fine, Watson. I know very well what you mean, and I don't intend on. . ." Sherlock looked at Molly somberly. "Ms. Hooper will be safe with me." Molly tried to smile, but she looked nervous at the rather explosive exchange between the flatmates. "She will call you," he said to Watson, and then to the nervous Ms. Hooper, "do you understand, Molly?"
Molly looked daunted, but she nodded very seriously. Watson sighed at himself, and stepped around the two of them to make a cup of tea for himself. "Call me when the kettle boils."
"All right, Watson." Sherlock said, and Watson grabbed his blog off of the table.
He laid on his bed, his eyes running over the words he had written before the exchange. He scribbled down his exchange with Sherlock, and then in CAPS, he wrote a single question:
What is Sherlock thinking?