You and Sherlock

"Helping"

To be perfectly honest, you weren't entirely sure how you and Sherlock wound up sharing a cab later that day. It was seven-thirty in the evening by the time you managed to get off, finally completing the reports and tests you had needed to. Molly had left two hours earlier, telling you to go and get dinner before you went to bed. You'd agreed absently, mind fully focused on the microscope in front of you. When you finally managed to get out the door of St. Barts', none other than Sherlock Holmes stood by the door, brow stormy and coat collar flicked up against the brisk night air.

"Y/N," he greeted you impatiently. "Let's share a cab."

You paused, stopping mid-step.

"What are you doing here?" You asked him, after a moment of silence in which you stared at him questioningly, waiting for him to answer.

"Will you share a cab?" He replied impatiently, ignoring your question. You sighed, knowing you weren't going to get an answer out of him.

"Sure," you replied tiredly, watching as he pivoted sharply on his heel and flagged a cab down.

Inside the cab, you sat in silence, observing Sherlock with interest. You not have been the way Sherlock was, but you weren't completely unobservant. His leg was shaking, impatient. His fingers were drumming against his right leg, and he was glaring out the window. Finally, as the cab turned the corner to Baker Street, he cleared his throat and turned to you.

"As you know, John Watson is coming over to Baker Street tomorrow," he paused, clearing his throat, "And I would like it...very much... if you would help me straighten up my flat."

"You're asking me to clean your flat with you?" You raised an eyebrow incredulously. Sherlock, in your experience, had never asked for help.

"It would appear social etiquette dictates that one's abode should be clean when welcoming guests." He replied flatly. You let out a long exhale through your nose and scrutinized him thoughtfully.

"Somehow," you began wryly, "I doubt there is much choice for me in the matter."

Sherlock shot you a glare and then looked at you consideringly.

"Is that a yes, then?" he asked impatiently. You nodded and returned to staring out the window.

You and Sherlock weren't friends, not in the slightest. He'd --by his own admission -- once said he didn't have friends. But you'd be lying if you said you weren't impressed by him. You'd been neighbors for over a year now, and had sometimes been roped into coming along with him when a case arose.

Privately, you thought it was because Sherlock, for all his bluster about being alone, did not really like being alone very much. And he desperately needed someone to show his genius off to. A small pang went through you at that thought, and you looked thoughtfully at Sherlock. He was lonely, and he didn't want to be. Hence, you concluded, the need for John Watson. You knew damned well that Sherlock would be able to take care of rent by himself.

"Where do you want to start?" You asked him, shaking him out of his thoughts, and you out of yours.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock had evidently already forgotten why you were in the car with him.

"In your flat. Where do you want to start?"

"Oh, my flat. Boring. Wherever." Sherlock replied flippantly before addressing the cab driver. "Good God, how long will this take? Are you driving across London the long way?" His voice was snappish and cold, and you felt a twinge of sympathy for the poor cab driver, especially because you were coming up on Baker Street just now.
Sherlock didn't wait to pay the fee; he hopped out of the cab almost before it had rolled to a complete stop, leaving you to dig through your over-stuffed bag to find the right change. I have to empty this thing out sometime. You promised yourself you would just as soon as you finished helping Sherlock.

***
"Helping" turned out to be "doing-all-the-work-while-Sherlock-made-a-bigger-mess." Not that you really minded. Cleaning was, in its own way, a therapeutic exercise for you and Sherlock being occupied allowed you to explore and touch the odd knickknacks that lay scattered across the apartment without fear of  receiving a stern, "don't touch that."
And his shelves were fascinating, books stuffed in somewhat haphazard arrangements, dust motes swirling from a long time without cleaning. His flat was cluttered, lived-in. It had his essence scrawled out in its books and crannies, his mind and heart — or lack thereof — revealed in its impersonal touches and informational tomes. It felt like a home, even with the borderline hoarding of various odds-and-ends.
It took you almost four hours to clean up the flat, though Sherlock looked up to tell you to stop when you started to enter his bedroom.
Eventually, you plopped down the in front of him in the kitchen, taking care not to disturb the lab equipment and experiments he had out.
"I'm done," you announced blandly, your tone flat. It'd been a long day.
"Good, good." Sherlock did not spare you a glance. You stared at him for a long moment, disbelief lingering in your mind, despite the fact that, deep down, you knew helping Sherlock was likely to have been a thankless task.
"I'm going home." He still didn't look up. You stood and picked your coat up. "Just for future reference, Sherlock, social etiquette also dictates that you thank someone when they help you."
And with that, you walked out of the flat, slamming the door behind you.