The One Next Door

Life in the Slow Lane

             Honestly, Sherlock's life kind of sucked. Which is really saying something, because he was the happiest he could ever be. Or so he thought. He lived an extremely simple life; he was an artist, an aspiring artist, to be nice, but an artist all the same. It didn't really matter to him if he could sell his paintings to a world famous art dealer or to the little old lady down the hall who was redecorating her bathroom; Sherlock liked the fun of it, not the reward. Because there were some things words couldn't express, somethings only paintings could, and everyone interpreters words the same way. The same can't be said about an abstract painting. So no, he wasn't in it for the money, because if he was, he wouldn't be nearly as happy as he was now. Sherlock lived in a dingy little apartment building, run by an iron fisted landlord who practically wore a crown while collecting the month's rent from his lowly tenants. Sherlock usually just slipped the money under the door however, because the landlord scared him to death. His apartment was a nice size for a bachelor, a kitchen, a living room, one bedroom and one bathroom; it wasn't like he needed extra space for when his friends came over. He only had one friend, and she lived down the stairs on the first door on the right, so she certainly wouldn't need to stay over anytime soon. Sherlock's flat was a wreck, paintings on every available surface, paint splashed over the floor and furniture, paint brushes spread everywhere, and unfortunate mugs of paint water that were easily mistaken for his morning coffee. The only thing Sherlock didn't seem to have was food. So he went downstairs and knocked on the door, to which he heard an exasperated sigh.
"Molly, I need some bread." Sherlock sighed, poking at the apron string that seemed to be strangling him. The door opened, and Molly Hooper poked her head out, sighing and opening it wider when she saw Sherlock standing there. They were polar opposites, which was obvious from their apartments. Molly's flat was as clean as it could be, not a remote out of place, not a spot on the carpet, it was almost impossible in Sherlock's mind. But, of course, they had a lot of things in common as well, for instance they lived in the same apartment building, enjoyed black coffee, and had mild crushes on the cute boy that walked past the apartment building every morning.
"You need what?" she asked with a sigh.
"Bread, I need bread. I have a little bit of butter left, and my toaster works, as far as I know, but I don't have any bread." Sherlock admitted, trying to look as innocent as possible.
"Then why don't you go buy some?" she asked.
"You know perfectly well that's not going to happen. The grocery store is all the way down the street, and I don't have any money left on my credit card." Sherlock sighed.
"What about cash?" Molly asked.
"I haven't got any of that either." Sherlock admitted.
"You should get a job then." Molly suggested. Sherlock just laughed, as if that were the most preposterous thing he's heard.
"I have a job." he insisted. "Sort of."
"When was the last time you sold a painting?" she asked.
"Last week." Sherlock admitted proudly.
"That doesn't count, that was that drawing you forced that man to buy." Molly defended.
"I didn't force him!" Sherlock insisted.
"Considering you drew it on the back of his rental agreement, he kind of had to buy it back." Molly pointed out.
"Guilty. Now, I didn't come here for a lecture, I came here for bread." Sherlock insisted. Molly opened the door, walking into her flat and letting Sherlock follow.
"I'm not going to let you have toast for lunch." She insisted.
"I'm not looking for charity." Sherlock defended.
"And yet here you are." Molly sighed. "And take off that apron; if you get paint on my table I'll skin you." Molly warned.
"Moody today, are we?" Sherlock asked, but even so he untied his apron and hung it on Molly's coat rack, walking into her kitchen.
"I was just making a salad; you can have some of that." Molly insisted.
"Don't put any tuna on mine." Sherlock decided.
"How'd you know I was putting tuna on it?" she asked, looking at Sherlock suspiciously.
"Your kitchen reeks of fish." He pointed out, and Molly sighed, dumping lettuce into two bowls and shoving one at Sherlock. "Thanks." He muttered, perching on the kitchen counter and ignoring the fact that he hadn't been provided with a fork.
"So, you've been job hunting I hope?" Molly asked as she pulled some canned tuna from the fridge. Her cat, an ugly old tabby cat which Molly had adopted from the side of the road, jumped onto the counter in anticipation, hoping to lick the spoon. Molly had fallen in love with the cat even though it had hair falling out in clumps and some sort of worm disease in its gut, spent loads of money fixing it all up, and named it Helen Louise. Molly claimed it was after her mother (Sherlock claimed she probably saw the resemblance between the ugly cat and her mother, he was locked out for about a week), but Sherlock properly called it Hell Spawn.
"That thing is eating your tuna." Sherlock warned as Molly turned her back, and the cat took the opportunity to start licking the lid of the tuna can.
"Bad kitty!" Molly insisted, pushing the cat aside and dumping the tuna on top of her salad. Sherlock just picked around in his salad, eating the peppers and onions before he turned to the dry lettuce.
"I think there's a job opening in the coffee shop; I could recommend you to our boss." Molly recommended.
"Is he cute?" Sherlock asked hopefully.
"She is married." Molly corrected.
"So, what's the point?" Sherlock asked.
"Sherlock, you do realize that you're what, twenty five..."
"Twenty six." Sherlock corrected.
"Twenty six years old, you haven't got a job, you have a major in mathematics and a minor in business, and you finger paint all day. You need to start pulling your head out of the paint fumes and start to get your life together! Eventually I'll get married, and move out, and then you'll go to poor Mrs. Turner for bread, and she'll knock your lights out!" Molly warned.
"I don't finger paint." Sherlock muttered.
"That's what you get out of that sentence?" Molly groaned.
"I don't want a job, it's boring, I don't see what's so fun about making someone's coffee all day." Sherlock insisted.
"It's not fun, it's money." Molly pointed out.
"If I had wanted to get lectured about my life choices I would've asked Mrs. Turner for a lunch date." Sherlock groaned.
"Don't blame her for your mistakes; you know perfectly well that was a bad idea." Molly insisted.
"How was I supposed to know her son was married?" Sherlock defended.
"Hmm, let me think, by the woman with a wedding ring holding his hand!" Molly pointed out. Sherlock groaned, you make one mistake. Mrs. Turner was Sherlock's neighbor at the end of the hall, and Sherlock couldn't help but notice an attractive boy (seemingly single) carrying up some groceries to her flat. So Sherlock struck up an innocent conversation, and the whole thing ended with a carton of eggs in his face and Mrs. Turner calling 911. Slight misunderstanding, but it took a lot of explaining and a couple of whacks with a broom before Sherlock retreated back into his apartment and for the police to clear out. Thankfully no charges were pressed, but Sherlock always had a story to laugh at and Molly always had a guilt trip in case she needed a favor.
"So will you come get an interview?" Molly asked, trying her best to pull a puppy dog sulky face, but all Sherlock did was scowl.
"Fine!" he groaned, putting down his salad bowl in disgust. Hell Spawn hissed, its ugly fur standing on end as Sherlock approached the counter. That cat hated him to death, he had no idea why, he's never really hurt the thing. Well, he did throw it down the stairs once, but it walked away fine.
"Yay Sherlock! You're going to be all productive, it'll be great." Molly said happily.
"Are there any cute guys that work there?" Sherlock asked.
"Most of them are women, but there's one guy, Carl, but I don't think he's really going to be one to ask for a drink." Molly shrugged.
"Yes well, even the ugly ones are straight I suppose." Sherlock shrugged.
"Don't be shaming other people Sherlock; I'm sure Carl has his life together." Molly insisted.
"I have my life together fine!" Sherlock insisted.
"I don't want to lecture you, I'm not your mother." Molly defended, raising her hands in surrender.
"Good, because I don't want to hear it. What should I wear?" Sherlock asked.
"I'll call my manager this afternoon, then I'll come over and help you get prepared." She decided.
"Going to teach me how to make a coffee?" Sherlock laughed.
"As long as it's not paint water again." Molly sighed.
"Could you die from drinking too much paint?" Sherlock asked.
"I don't know, as Van Gogh." Molly sighed.
"He ate yellow paint because he thought it would make him happy." Sherlock pointed out.
"I'll give you more salad, just don't eat paint." Molly insisted.
"Yes well, it's tempting. If I have a job I'll surely need a little bit of something to help me stay happy." Sherlock decided.
"Pretty sure that will only kill you." Molly guessed.
"Pretty sure you're right." Sherlock agreed. "Well, I must be off; I'm sculpting this huge..."
"I don't want to know, honestly, more art talk and I'll start bashing my head into the fridge." Molly groaned.
"No please, take it out on the cat." Sherlock insisted, and Hell Spawn hissed once more.
"Helen can tell you don't have a good job." Molly insisted, picking the cat up off the counter and hugging it to her chest. The cat immediately started to purr, and Sherlock just hissed at it himself, spitting a little bit on Molly before making a grand entrance.
"Thanks for the salad." He decided, grabbing his apron on the way out and slamming the door. Sherlock sighed, craning his neck to see out the windows above the front door. It looked sunny out, a nice day for staying inside and doing nothing 'productive'. So he walked up the stairs to his apartment, unlocking it and giving the bottom hinge a good kick before the door finally swung open. Sherlock tied his apron back around his neck, turned on the radio to the classical station (it helped him think, and it was pretty) and got back to his sculpture. It was to be a big lump with finger marks all over it, dragged across the clay, and then splashed with all kinds of paint. It represented, well, he wasn't quite sure until he was done. Maybe something about human nature, Sherlock just kind of went with impulse. It was up to his waist, and still being molded, so he had a huge load of unmolded wet clay on plastic sheets in the middle of his living room, right now the center of attention. Molly only helped him with his art on special occasions, and he knew that he'd have help with this one since the one thing she loved doing was splashing paint everywhere. They'd hang plastic sheets from the ceiling and make a big square, then get on all these aprons and gloves and get globs of paint and splatter it everywhere. Molly really did like making messes, maybe as much as she liked cleaning them up. She hated Sherlock's apartment, and every time she was over he'd find her picking things up and organizing them, and cleaning the windows and vacuuming. Once Sherlock went away to his parents' house and asked her to water the little plant he had in his windowsill (a present from Molly, she said the place was too dark) and she ended up cleaning the entire place. Sherlock had come home and thought he walked into the wrong flat. Sherlock sat on a stool and started molding away, dreading getting an actual job, but Molly was right, he needed one. The only thing in his fridge was a bottle of water, a stick of butter, some cheese with mysterious green spots on it, and some wet cat food Molly had given him way back. Sherlock didn't really make income, of course, other than when his paintings sold, and that was a rare occasion. They never went for more than fifty bucks, at most. But of course, there were more important things to buy than food, such as the gigantic lump of clay sitting in the middle of his living room. But it wasn't like he had to cook any meals, or have any guests over, or even host anyone other than Molly at all. And when she did come over for a couple of hours she'll always just eat his cereal. Molly was easily entertained, sometimes she'd just watch his TV while he painted, other times she'll just lounge on Sherlock's couch and gossip about all the town drama with him. On rare occasions they'd actually leave the apartment building, sometimes she insisted Sherlock needed to get some fresh air and they'd go on a walk in the park or something. Other times they'd go to the mall, fitting to that 'all gays liked to shop' cliché. Unfortunately Sherlock did like to shop, and they'd pick out racks of clothes for her to try on and Sherlock would rate them all. The most they've spent in one dressing room might've been about three hours; it ended when the shop attendant asked if they were actually going to buy anything, and then kicked them out. He hated shopping for himself though, it wasn't nearly as fun getting the right sizes and colors and buttoning all the buttons on men's dress shirts, it was always a nuisance. But the mall was always a fun place to go people watching, and on many occasions Sherlock and Molly would take a table near the window of one of the indoor restaurants just to look at the cute guys walking by the window. They've never really come in relationship conflicts, mostly because Sherlock never really had a relationship, but also because usually it's one or the other. The town wasn't really crawling with bisexuals, so usually it was one disappointingly straight guy, or a gay guy that Sherlock really wasn't able to get into a relationship with. Of course, he tried, as demonstrated with Mrs. Turner's son, but for all the people watching he did and endless flirting, Sherlock was a bachelor at heart. But that was alright, because he really didn't need a distraction like a boyfriend weighting him down while he was trying to work. Molly was annoying enough. There was the rare occasion when Molly got a boyfriend herself, usually those crashed and burned because the boyfriends get overly protective, or Sherlock does. They start off fine, Molly and her boyfriend hanging out and stuff, but then Sherlock comes, and the boy finds out just how much time Molly and Sherlock spend together, than they get all suspicious, and it takes a while for the boyfriend to actually believe that Sherlock was gay, and then by that time he usually left in a hurry. That, or Sherlock hissed at him until he left. That didn't usually work out too well with Molly though, who would be in tears for like a week, insisting that he was 'the one'. They never were, because after a week she'd be back to normal.