#off verse

Baël; original form

"Er, yeah. Can I help you?"

[text] Because he's Mycroft and thus unavoidable. SH

I'm gud! I lov my dadi and he's hapi and I lov John and he's com hom and I love Berty but she's stinky.

[text] Did you know that photosynthesis and cellular respiration are very nearly the reverse of each other, chemically? SH

The funny thing about faked deaths was that once you've done it yourself, you start expecting it from everyone else when you hear reports of death, even see it first hand. A good half of Sherlock expected that somehow Moriarty had played a cruel joke on them all, that he was still alive, rebuilding, maybe even watching him. A rarely-visited café was the scene of tonight's little escapade, a silent meal, by himself, trying to resist the temptation of the cigarettes being smoked by the man outside, and concentrate on the little deli sandwich he'd made his dinner. Bored, bored, bored.

It was a constant source of bafflement to Sherlock how easily the heart could be swayed. A whisper here, a gentle touch there, the tiniest of smiles at the right moment--simple ways to get someone to do what one wanted. Janine was no different, despite her spunk and earnest nature, and Sherlock was already twisting this to his advantage. They'd been dating nearly two weeks now, and Sherlock found that everything was going according to plan. She'd get attached, maybe even fall in love, and he'd use that to get into her boss's office. Child's play, for the child willing to do it. Right now, he was attempting an omelet. Essentially, he'd cut up the components to an English breakfast (in smaller portions and minus the toast) and tossed them into some frying eggs. Maybe not Gordon Ramsay, but palatable. Bertille had gotten her fair share, too, as Sherlock had "accidentally" dropped a piece of sausage or two for the golden retriever at his feet. "Ten minutes," he called into the flat. "If you're not up, I'll give yours to the dog."