I'd never imagined that Sherlock's influence on my choice of romantic partner would extend past his death.
Then again, it was so like him to make sure he'd left enough of an impression on my subconscious that he'd continue to ruin my chances from beyond the grave.
It'd begun with the blonde bartender.
I'd sidled up to the bar and asked for a pint while Sherlock sighed with great resignation.
"What?"
"Here we go again. Get ready Three-Continent Watson, the bartender is about to attempt to woo you."
"Woo? Who even says that anymore?"
"Your brain, apparently," he smirked.
I shook my head, smiling.
"How do you know?"
"She leaned too far forward when she asked for your order. She just re-applied her slightly jarring plum lipstick. She's smiling too wide. She's walking this way. Vatican Cameos."
I chuckled under my breath, "Sherlock, being approached by a woman does not require us to take up battle stations"
My (albeit imaginary) companion's eyes narrowed, and I rolled my eyes as he began his deduction.
The bartender, in the meanwhile, sashayed up to me, hips swaying, and placed my mug before me.
"What's your name, handsome?"
Beside me, Sherlock winced.
"Tacky, don't tell her," he muttered.
I plastered on my most sincere smile.
"Monty Python. At your service."
Sherlock grinned slyly.
The blonde backed away, disappointed.
"Well that's that chance gone," I mumbled ruefully.
"Don't be ridiculous. She had syphilis."
I choked on my drink.
"Okay, what about this one?" I questioned, smiling at a tall brunette who'd just entered the pub.
"Hmm, let's see... She's undergone plastic surgery, several times by the looks of her earlobes, and she's only trying to make her ex-boyfriend jealous. He's sitting on the other side of the room with his friends and hasn't looked at her yet, but she keeps glancing vindictively at him. Careful, if he does notice, it won't go down well. He still cares. He's still wearing the bracelet she gave him. Yes, she gave him. She's wearing a matching one. And he's been working out. Recently."
I laughed shakily.
"Not that one, then"
My eyes landed on a girl at the other end of the bar. She wore thick glasses that matched the ebony of her braid. She was dressed like she'd been headed for the library and had taken a wrong turn, in a bright yellow sweater, faded corduroys and sneakers.
"Oh Croft, John. No. Not that one."
I looked at Sherlock, bewildered.
His eyes were stormy disapproval.
"Why not?"
He sighed theatrically.
"Because, Watson, she's a prostitute and a drug addict."
"What??"
"There's a necklace at her throat. It's clearly meant to be seductive. It's also meant to be hidden. She keeps pushing the hem of her sweater neckline back over black lace. Her glasses are fake. As we entered, the woman reclining by the door slipped her some money. She then proceeded to lick her face. Conclusion? Prostitute. As for the addiction... Well, you know the signs better than anyone" because you were always on the watch for me.
The words remained unspoken.
"Fine. Definitely not her. Then who?"
"Why does there even have to be someone?"
"Because I need a distraction."
"From what? The monotony? You have me for that."
"No. From you."
