I’m used to seeing Sherlock at home. I’ve seen him putter, and experiment, and sulk, and play his violin. Most people consider these scenes to be the dullest parts of the show, but at the same time, almost everyone occasionally spends an hour or two just watching Sherlock do nothing in particular. It can be a comfort to know that he’s out there, maybe engaged in some extraordinary new case, or maybe, in fact, feeling the same as you, bored or frustrated or needing a fix of some kind.
Only, now, Sherlock at home is different, because I’m there. We chat, we bicker. I blow my top about the contents of the fridge, he insults my writing. I compliment his violin playing. He plays while I cook dinner. He antagonizes me and shows off to me and sometimes doesn’t speak for hours at a time. I wonder if more people watch us during these scenes than they used to, and I wonder if anyone misses that old serenity of Sherlock at home alone.
“How can you stand it?” asks Sarah, the woman I’m meant to be dating. We’re filming some background scenes to go with the case of the Chinese graffiti.
“What do you mean?”
“Being with him all the time. On camera. Don’t you feel the lack of privacy?”
I have to stop and think about it. “I guess it doesn’t bother me,” I say. “I mean I’m just acting, the same as you.”
“But you’re not,” she says. “The other day I was watching, and you guys were, like, just hanging about. You were having a laugh about something on the internet, not acting at all.”
I shrug. “I suppose I’ve as much privacy as he does.”
“Yeah, which is none. I don’t think you could pay me enough to do your job.” I don’t have an answer for this, and she watches me speculatively for a moment before going on. “You actually like it, don’t you?”
“I don’t dislike it.”
“No, you like it. You like running around, being at the center of the story. I think you even like living with him.”
Her tone makes it clear that she finds the idea preposterous. I wonder who’s responsible for setting me up with her, and whether our relationship will last much longer. But then comes the bit where I get kidnapped and Sarah gets tied to a chair and, yeah, it really wasn’t fated to last.
Fill Part 12
Only, now, Sherlock at home is different, because I’m there. We chat, we bicker. I blow my top about the contents of the fridge, he insults my writing. I compliment his violin playing. He plays while I cook dinner. He antagonizes me and shows off to me and sometimes doesn’t speak for hours at a time. I wonder if more people watch us during these scenes than they used to, and I wonder if anyone misses that old serenity of Sherlock at home alone.
“How can you stand it?” asks Sarah, the woman I’m meant to be dating. We’re filming some background scenes to go with the case of the Chinese graffiti.
“What do you mean?”
“Being with him all the time. On camera. Don’t you feel the lack of privacy?”
I have to stop and think about it. “I guess it doesn’t bother me,” I say. “I mean I’m just acting, the same as you.”
“But you’re not,” she says. “The other day I was watching, and you guys were, like, just hanging about. You were having a laugh about something on the internet, not acting at all.”
I shrug. “I suppose I’ve as much privacy as he does.”
“Yeah, which is none. I don’t think you could pay me enough to do your job.” I don’t have an answer for this, and she watches me speculatively for a moment before going on. “You actually like it, don’t you?”
“I don’t dislike it.”
“No, you like it. You like running around, being at the center of the story. I think you even like living with him.”
Her tone makes it clear that she finds the idea preposterous. I wonder who’s responsible for setting me up with her, and whether our relationship will last much longer. But then comes the bit where I get kidnapped and Sarah gets tied to a chair and, yeah, it really wasn’t fated to last.