Standard Disclaimer: Nothing in here belongs to me, not even Angus, the Phrenology bust. All characters are properties of their owners. I just borrow them for fun.
Author's Note: This is something I've whipped up tonight. I hope it's error free! I edited a lot! I think there might be more to this than a one shot, so we'll call this the first chapter.
Watson was out shopping and Holmes was bored. Bored. Bored. And slightly hungry. But mostly bored. I should have gone with Watson, he thought. Now he was stuck here thinking and, while that was mostly a welcome prospect—thinking without interruption—, now it was not so appealing. There were things that clamored for his attention: the box of files she'd moved into the living room, the police scanner (which was always profitable in garnering information about new cases), the internet (also just as profitable in the case department) and the violin. He chose the violin. Watson would be pleased that he was indulging himself in music, and it did help him to think sometimes.
He settled in by the window and began to play a melody of his own composition. As he did, he glanced over at Angus. "What're you looking at?" He asked, pausing and then reaching over to pick up his old companion. "You're not the best audience for my music." He placed Angus on the end table next to him, then sat back a moment, thinking of what he'd said to Watson yesterday about being glad she was there to talk to. How he needed her to discuss things with. Opening up to her had been so easy. Dangerously easy. No, it wasn't that exactly. He cradled his violin in his lap as he searched for the right words.
"It felt normal." He said out loud in the empty house. He glanced at Angus who merely stared ahead. "Why did it feel so normal?" He was not used to revealing anything about himself to anyone. In fact, he had a watch and "appear to listen" mode that got him through rehab, and he'd never had to open up to anyone. He had played that part well. It had made rehab tougher than it had to be, or at least that's what all the psychiatrists were nattering on about all the time. They were always urging him to talk about his past, how he felt about things, but after he'd gotten over the physical withdrawal, he'd not felt he needed all that tripe about "feelings" and "emotional baggage."
The mental aspect of this whole "addict" thing was challenging, however. He played a note from his instrument, then realized that he must have bumped the peg. The note was not quite flat, but flatter than usual. He fixed it by ear, and then he was idle once more. The mental part of this addiction thing . . . that was the "rub." It should be quite easy, he thought to himself. It wasn't that he was arrogant about his mental abilities, but he knew that he should be able to tackle any problem with his mind and fix it. It was elementary.
But, no, it wasn't that easy, and that frustrated him. Even now, with Watson gone, he could feel the itch in the back of his mind worse than ever. Things were boring. There was no case. No way to be useful. When he'd been high, those things hadn't bothered him at all. The drugs dulled his senses to a level that was almost tolerable. With them, he never would have noticed the ticking clock that was one minute and thirty-seven seconds slower than the clocks in Watson's room, the dripping of the water faucet in the kitchen, the itch behind his left shoulder blade, the floral perfume that Watson had worn that day and the way the neighbor always came out on his front porch to check the mail between 1:18 and 1:42 every afternoon. These were just a mere sample of the observations that seemed to assault him unless he was distracted. Drugs had been a distraction.
Work was a distraction as well. Being on a case seemed to dull that maddening craving. Being around Watson was also a welcome distraction. He began to ponder the thought of her in his mind. She was enough to distract anyone, he had to admit. With her lithe figure, hair like a wave of black silk and dark, mysterious eyes that seemed to know his every move, he could understand the effect she would have on most men. Of course he had noticed the appreciative glances of the officers in the precinct. He didn't like them, not one bit, but he didn't blame them either. For him, however, the physical beauty was secondary. Her mind, her personality, her strength . . . she was on the top of the list of the people he most admired. She was one of the few people that could draw him from the depths of melancholy.
"She's become . . . important." He glanced back over at Angus, focusing his eyes on the calm, Buddha- like countenance. "I can't explain it."
He placed the violin back in its case, knowing he was done for now, and settled back in the chair, thinking. What was this quality that Watson possessed? Having never come up against it in anyone, he could not define it. It puzzled him, and in a way, that was bad. He would not, could not, let this go. The way she seemed to have a steadying influence on him seemed mystical.
When she wasn't around, the craving he had for her was almost painful. "Is it…?" Love? He glanced at Angus and then let out a heavy sigh. Certainly not. He remembered the past…his days at boarding school. It hadn't taken long for him to realize that love was a game played by fools. He wanted no part of it.
Not that he didn't appreciate the female form, but thus far in life, his sexual exploits were only that-just physical. He had never wanted the entanglements that came from a…relationship. He frowned again as he thought of the distasteful word. Relationships were messy, painful and best left alone. Angus's placid half-smile seemed inscrutable.
And she. Watson. What would she ever see in him? He actually colored a bit from the thought. He was just an addict. Weak. A deep frown creased his face, then he closed his eyes. "A game for dreamers and fools," he whispered to Angus. The bust seemed to go on enigmatically smiling, as if he knew a secret that Sherlock didn't yet understand.
Author's note: If you like it, please drop me a line and I'll continue it. :)