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A New Species of Insect

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Can you please go pick up Rosie from daycare?  They said she’s running a fever.  I can’t leave work early again.

 

What are you doing?  Are you out?  Can you go pick her up right now?

 

We are not doing this again.  You just texted me 17 times about foot bones not even an hour ago.  I know you’re ignoring me.  Can you help?

 

Can you help?

 

SHERLOCK GO PICK UP ROSIE.

 

The unanswered texts were starting to stack up, and I was beginning to feel like a nagging girlfriend.  But, I knew the only way to beat Sherlock at his own game was to be just as persistent, just as inappropriately pushy, and just as bloody annoying as he was.  Being thus acquainted with him did that; I used to be an everyday normal sort of bloke, believe it or not.  A bit broken, a bit screwed up — but relatively normal, all things considered.  Now, after Sherlock happened, I’m still broken and screwed up, but at least I’ve got another broken and screwed up person to muck about with, yeah?  Time for another text message.

 

That’s it. When I get home tonight, I’m tossing out that thing that’s been in the fridge for ages now. Not sure what it is, but it’s going in the bin first thing.

 

Every time I leapt into an unoccupied exam room to fire off a new text, I felt the burn rise – Oh, you won’t win this time, Sherlock Holmes. Nooo, you. Will. NOT. 

 

I’m not joking.

 

I’m NOT joking.

 

Still nothing, and there probably will continue to be nothing from him.  That's how Sherlock is most of the time: unbearably rude, impossibly selfish, unbelievably...  I had to stop myself, because Sherlock is exactly as advertised.  You cannot expect much from a person who's never let on that you ought to expect anything at all from him.  Silly, me.

 

Just as I was resigning myself to break it gently to my employer that I would be dodging out early -- yet again -- from another busy afternoon at the surgery my mobile dinged.  Not from Sherlock’s number, but from Greg Lestrade’s.  I read it and breathed a sigh of relief.  Then I read it again.

 

On my way. SH

 

And that was it.  No theatrical complaints.  No bargaining for future favours.  Just “on my way.”  I decided to fire off another missive, just to make sure things were clear.  You never knew.  I never knew.  Not with Sherlock, anyway.

 

Take her straight home, yeah?  I’ll be done here around half 4.  Ring me when you get home.

 

And the reply, almost immediately this time:

 

Gladly. SH

 

"Marchmont Street" Photo by K9Lasko