Shadows of the Past (BBC Sherlock) -1-

11. A New Low

I didn't know what the boys were thinking, by letting me actually experiment with cooking in the small kitchen they had in the apartment. I was stunned that Sherlock even let me have the chance; he'd deduced that I didn't do much cooking. I could have told them that just as easily, but he wanted to act like his normal know-it-all self and figure it out in less than a minute.

John was currently out, which left me with Sherlock. I was waiting for his insults about my cooking to start. I wondered if he was going to wait until I burned the place to the ground.

I tried to make simple things, but even those didn't work out. I gave up on making anything and settled for cereal. That was about as far as my making-food skills went.

My phone buzzed on the table, scaring me. I peeked at the number. I scowled. It was that same damn, unrecognizable number again. For the past month now, that number had been tormenting my phone.

When it first called, it called for a few days and then stopped. It started the following week the same way: it'd ring for a few days and then stop pestering my phone. I thought I was in the clear after a solid week of not seeing the number, but that was shattered a few days ago, when the number decided to pop up again.

As I munched, I grudgingly thought about Moriarty. Where was the snake now? Lying low in the grass, waiting to strike again? I chewed on my lower lip, afraid of what he was going to do next. I knew what the man was capable of, Sherlock and John knew as well. Whatever Moriarty did next would probably not surprise us, only because if he did something extreme, it would be the kind of thing for him to do. He was a psychopath after all, not a sociopath. I had curiously looked up the differences not long ago.

I felt awful for calling Sherlock a psychopath. He was nothing like Moriarty. He was different from most people, yes, I'd give him that. He and Moriarty weren't ordinary people, but Sherlock didn't kidnap people or strap bombs to them. He didn't murder people.

At least, to my knowledge, Sherlock didn't do any of those things.

I dug through my clothes once I finished breakfast. Sherlock was sprawled in his chair; his head tilted back, eyes closed. That man was far from boring. I began to wonder how someone like John Watson became roommates with a man like Sherlock Holmes. I'd have to ask them how they ended up living together.

I figured a nice shower would do me some good. I let the hot water spill over me. I hadn't realized I was tense until I felt my shoulders relax under the water. Times like this were great. They made you temporarily forget the world you lived in, let you forget all your problems, let them wash away down the drain with the water...

Unfortunately, these moments didn't last very long. My mind was buzzing with thoughts. I needed to talk to Amanda, I hadn't since she found out about Moriarty walking free. She, like me, hadn't been happy when she found out. She was livid but nothing compared to the outrage I had felt on the day. I had witnessed it.

When I came out shower-fresh, I heard Sherlock's voice travel down the small hallway. He's got to be talking to himself. He does that every now and again. Really, it could be dead silent in the apartment, and Sherlock would start muttering things to himself. At first, I had thought he was talking to me or John, or whoever was near him. John told me that this happened often and that when it happened, I just ignore it. I couldn't though; it was kind of interesting to hear the consulting detective talk to himself like an insane person.

I entered the den room to see Sherlock pacing, holding a phone close to his ear. I went to the kitchen to retrieve my phone. Only it wasn't lying on the table where I had last left it. My eyes snapped back into the den room, on Sherlock.