A Match Made in Hell | sheriarty

➓ 𝓝𝓮𝓰𝓸𝓽𝓲𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷

"Do I need a reason to be happy?" Sherlock played coy, then shook his head to avoid airing his warm thoughts and smothering that little flutter of attachment. This level of mushiness wasn't befitting for a sociopath like him who by his own admission had never loved anyone. "Mrs Hudson, I'm having a client here today so will you please not interrupt the meeting?"

Due to her ability to be quick on the uptake, Mrs Hudson's grin soon covered the bottom half of her expressive shapely visage with mischief, as conspiratorial as a wink. Reading too much into his emotions, she now understood the source of Sherlock's 'joy'. It looked like James from Tesco Express was plastered all over her mind like a garish wallpaper. "Is James coming here again?"

Nothing was expelled but a sigh of frustration. He had seen this coming, and he rued the fact that he'd allowed the situation to evolve to this point at all. Even for someone so concerned about the minutiae, Mrs Hudson had an eagle eye for rumours. She loved to take many mental shortcuts when springing to judgement on others' love lives. "No."

But it looked like she'd taken it as a yes. "Don't worry, I'll give you some privacy. In case you two want to, you know, get intimate," she whispered archly. Mrs Hudson flashed a knowing look and barely stifled a velvet sound of giggle in which the whole Baker Street would've drowned.

Oh my God, this woman! Sherlock thought but supposed he could forgive her given the sincerity behind her ineffable twaddle. On the other hand, he was grateful for the lack of cams and bugs down here recording her claptrap, or his personal stalker would've taunted him for the rest of his miserable life. He had got so used to being watched 24/7 that he'd almost forgotten how relieving it felt not having to phrase every sentence with care or refrain from giving any pleasure to the silent applause of eyes. Love, a chimeric dream indeed, Huders.

"For the last time, Mrs Hudson, he's not my boyfriend nor do I have any intentions of getting intimate with him!" Sherlock's groans were accompanied by the waving of his signature hand - surely something to give fodder to Moriarty living in his mental flat rent-free and siphoning off every notion.

"So it's him? Oh, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson laughed that full belly laugh of hers, animatedly. Sherlock realised that instead of talking himself out of this situation, his answer had practically lent itself to her already existing heartfelt conviction. "No need to be so confused! This is a case you can't solve with your brain."

At that, Sherlock forced his bristly eyebrows into a pronounced furrow that asked a question above his even more questioning eye crinkles. "Then what am I supposed to solve it with?"

"Your heart," came a reply in a voice dripping with the sweetest of honey, putting across the desired sentiment. The amused old landlady had already turned her back to him and resumed watching the brain-killing program that seemed to rejuvenate her neurons. In those humble words was the liveliness of her heart, but the remark fell unheeded upon the detective's ears.

How did John get along with her so well? Oh, that's right. Sentiments. They both valued sentiment more than sense. Tedious. Stupid. Destructive.

Before Sherlock could say something, a young couple on the TV - the girl's heart clearly belongs to someone else, but the other doesn't see it because he is so blinded by his love, ugh - glued their lips together into a crystalline kiss charged with one-sided love. A sigh spun of air and adoration rippled through Mrs Hudson's petite frame like dye into water which goaded Sherlock on even more and steeled his resolve. The same old cycle of betrayal repeated itself, so predictable. Didn't ordinary people get bored of such trifling things?