(I feel like an author today so this is just a random thing XD)
It wasn't very welcoming, you know.
He was mean and cynical to every damn thing, not to mention he has that edgy-ness in his voice that manages to piss anyone off. I'm getting use to it, yeah, but still. Makes you wonder how Mr. Watson deals with Mr. Holmes.
More like, how will
I deal with him? A middle-aged man, single, and has a mind of a robot only built to look at mysteries.
"Married to his job," Mr. Watson said once. I could only roll my eyes.
Today was rather boring. I only stayed here in England to write a report on how social I can be, and that's like asking a turtle if he can write how to fly. So, I lounged on a sofa, staring idly at Mr. Holmes as he plucked the E and D strings on his violin near the window.
"Sherlock," Mr. Watson called from the kitchen, "Have you read the news? I think it might be interesting."
The said man just continued plucking, no longer staring out the window, "Watson, really? A murderer on the loose by killing his victims by lynching them? How unoriginal." I groaned, rolling away from Mr. Holmes. What
type of case does this man desire anyway? Homicide? Suicide? Simple stealing?
'I just had to live with this anti-social freak.'
Mr. Watson strolled into the living room, slightly chuckling, "Typical. What about Barns's case? The one with the serial killer?"
"Not interesting, Watson."
"Hm." I wonder how do men stay friends with a conversation like this? I rolled back to face Sherlock, seeing Mr. Watson drink his coffee in one hand while the other was holding the newspaper. I spotted two other cups on the coffee table; one juice and the other coffee.
"Really," I croaked, my voice surprisingly dry, "Juice, Mr. Watson?"
"Well, we had some. I thought you might like some." He replied.
"It suits you, child," Mr. Holmes added, his mouth twitching to smirk. Ass. Mr. Watson quickly sent a soft glare to his friend.
"Now, Sherlock."
"All she does is eat and sleep." The tall man replied, "A waste of time and space. Not to mention she forgot that she's wearing her shirt inside out. A
dirty shirt, hence the ketchup stain from the hotdog she ate when she went out with her
friend 2 days ago."
I looked down at my shirt, and truth be told, it was inside out and the stain from my hotdog treat was still on it. Fuckin'--
"Sherlock," Mr. Watson hushed, causing the man to return back to his habit; staring out the window whilst plucking the strings. I hissed when I stood up and walked back to my room. I nodded at Mr. Watson as a thank you gesture, and closed the door.
I sighed deeply when I thought about 2 days ago. Mr. Watson and Mr. Holmes were busy on a case and they refused that I would go with them and that I stayed home with Mrs. Hudson. I was very reluctant to stay, since the case itself was very interesting. But no! I had to stay home and chill with Mrs. Hudson. Not like she's bad company, it's just that I really wanted to go.
So, I stayed home. Mrs. Hudson had alot of things to do, and we decided to complete them together. The first thing we had to do was go shopping form some dinner to prepare for Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson. She would often joke around,
'I'm not their housekeeper, but they do need someone to take care of them. Men. They can't seem to take care of themselves, especially when it comes to Sherlock.' I couldn't stop laughing at the image of Mr. Holmes cooking up a meal for himself.
When we bought all the materials we needed we ran into this lady who called herself Molly Hooper. I thought it was a pretty weird name, but then again, I have a weird name, too. We chatted for a while and discovered that she had a not-so-secret crush on Mr. Holmes. Mrs. Hudson was all over Molly, explaining his habits and what he does all day (not forgetting to mention that Mr. Holmes often shoot his walls when he's bored). Mrs. Hudson tried her very best to convince that Molly's a sweet girl, and to aim for a different man instead. Molly, of course, wasn't convinced.
'I like Mr. Holmes for who he is,' She defended. I had to bit my tongue back to prevent me from saying,
'Loving a jackass. Typical.'
I then thought about how I felt. About Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson. I didn't really care much about them, although there were times where I felt like worrying about them. Those thoughts washed away as soon as I saw the hotdog stand, and immediately ordered one. Molly also ordered a hotdog while Mrs. Hudson simply asked for a nice cool drink. We all sat down at a table, chatting about nonsense and such.
Until some douche bag stole Mrs. Hudson's purse. I was pissed. I yelled at him to stop, glancing around to see if anyone wil do anything, but no one reacted. I
ran.
I felt my legs fly over the concrete ground, slowly but surely catching up to the thief As soon as he paused when he saw a car come up, I leaped on him, both of use falling into the ground. I harshly took the purse from him,
"Better not try that on me, su-kah!"
And I awkwardly turned around, seeing many people stare at me before slowly clapping. In the crowd, I spotted Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson, both surprised at my victorious action. Molly and Mrs. Hudson soon came up to me, panting hard.
"D-dear, you shouldn't have done that!" Mrs. Hudson spoke, making me grin shyly.
"Well, stealing is bad," I replied simply,
"So, it's only right I took it back for you, right?" Mrs. Hudson chuckled softly as Molly hugged the living daylights out of me.
"You had me worried there!" She yelled, smashing my face against her chest. I managed to squeeze out of her grasp when Mrs. Hudson told her she's suffocating me.
"Jesus, Molly!" I gasped. She apologized softly, smiling a bit.
All the while, the man behind me glared holes at me, pulling a sharp pocket knife. Somewhere in the crowd, a woman screamed loudly as the thief lounged at me, aiming the knife at my heart. I swore time started slowing down as the thief moved from his position, the knife sharping in the light. Just as the knife was about to edge into my heart, Mr. Holmes blocked the attack.
He grasped the thief's writs angrily, I could tell it would be bruised soon enough.
"Committing murder in the streets, Mikey?"
"W-what? How do you know my name?"
Mr. Holmes merely smirked, about to 'simply educate us' about the man, "
Back of your shirt, there's a mark with your name. How's your mother by the way? Seems like she hasn't gotten the news of you stealing from old ladies and killing young girls, now then? But what about the shoes. Oh, you live far off of England, aren't you. You have dirt and, sadly, feces on the bottom of your shoes, and the walkway here is pretty clean. Not to mention the outskirts of England have lots of farms, meaning you're not a city boy but a barn boy. Now tell me, why and what is a farm boy doing here in central England? Must've been because of your business, recently going down the drain and you have resort to stealing. From this experience, you're completely new to this sort of thing since you're not just a farm boy, but also a fisher. You catch fish, sell the fish, profit. However, you recently join a new crew, and that new crew requires you to meet a certain quota that's out of your current reach. So, to reach this quota, you decided to steal just to get. You. By."
I awkwardly shift to one side, watching the thief's life flash before his eyes. The thief, now named Mikey, slowly and hesitantly released the knife. Mr. Holmes harshly pulled away from the man, glaring holes at him as Mr. Watson pulled me close.
"Are you okay?" Mr. Watson asked kindly, grasping my shoulders. I nodded, staring at the thief and then at Mr. Holmes.
"
Mr. Holmes--"
"We're going home. Now." Was all Mr. Holmes said icily, briskly walking aside the thief. Mr. Watson sighed, apologizing to the crowd that Mr. Holmes was in a bad mood because I was in danger. Molly and Mrs. Hudson hesitantly accepted it, but Molly was unsure leaving me alone.
Mrs. Husdon kindly explained to Molly, "
Don't worry dear, it's Sherlock's own way of caring for <name>."
'Right.' I idly thought, slowly following's Mr. Holme's stride.
'Mr. Holmes, a cynical old man who cares more about cases than others, is worried about me. What a joke.'
