❛ I'M REACHING OUT AND I JUST CAN'T TELL YOU WHY ❜
𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇 an untouchable and a self-proclaimed consulting detective band together in the most unlikely of ways
[ bbc sherlock holmes x fem!oc ]
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UNKNOWN NUMBER (1) One Unread Message
Congratulations, Agent Rockefeller. You've passed the first test, but screw that prized thinking cap on tightly with all of the knuts and bolts you can find — you might need it sooner than you realise
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THE KITCHEN OF NUMBER 34 CRAWFORD STREET HAD been turned upside down and onto its head, as everything positioned on the counter-tops was moved to the table so the black marble could be rid of dust and traces of red-capped milk with the vacuum cleaner and a bottle of strong sanitising liquid.
Once they'd been practically thrown back into their place she moved to repeat the process on the small wooden table in the corner, the tiles of the room getting the same treatment in no time at all.
Poppy watched as the water swirled in with disinfectant ran down the plug hole of the sink in a clock-wise rotation, and she chucked the washing-up bowl back in once she'd wiped around the basin with a dry piece of kitchen roll.
The bin bag was hauled up and Poppy lugged it through the door and into the living room, unlocking the front door when she was stood on the mat. Without looking back she tossed out the bag and it slumped next to the landfill bin that was due to be taken out the following Monday; she locked the door and moved on to the front room.
But Poppy should have known that as soon as she'd pulled off the red lid from the can of 'Mr Sheen' all-surface polish and pressed down hard onto the nozzle that her doorbell was to be rung. When the shrill sound echoed around the house and bounced off the ugly colour of the painted walls, Poppy pulled off the bright pink rubber gloves covering her hands with her teeth as she shoved her feet into her slippers.
"What do you want now, Mycroft?"
Mycroft Holmes was stood on her front door step with his hands clasped tightly around the hooked handle of his umbrella, looking in distaste at the hanging basket suspended from the overhanging porch. "These petunias look like they could do with some pruning, Rockefeller. They look as weary as you do."
"Thank you, Mycroft. Welcome, come in and put up your feet before I strangle you with a street full of witnesses. One of them is bound to come running and be your knight in shinning armour if you beg for mercy loud enough."
"I don't beg, Rockefeller, it's such an unbecoming trait." Mycroft stepped in through the door and wiped his leather oxfords on the bristled door mat slowly, peering down to see if all the mud had been brushed away. Then he looked around the room, and chose to stand because he didn't fancy sitting anywhere in the living room. "You've been cleaning, Rockefeller."
