I sat on the end of the sofa, enjoying the simple pleasure of spending a rainy afternoon with a good book. When I was somewhere near halfway through, the downstairs door slammed open. Probably Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson didn't tend to slam in. Stomping on the stairs confirmed it.

When he stormed into the room, I couldn't help but look up from my book. Sherlock kicked his shoes off, kicked them aside, and set about to the business of undoing his scarf. Good Lord, why was he drenched? He threw his scarf down, and his coat followed. Bound for the cleaners, no doubt, but in that moment all I really cared to notice was how even the best wool gave off an unpleasant sheep smell when thoroughly soaked.

Perfect. The flat would smell of wet sheep for days.

"What-?" I began, but Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.

"Got the bugger."

A shake of his head sent water droplets in all directions. He slogged noisily to the bathroom and slammed the door. In moments, I heard the shower running.

Never a dull moment, right?

I turned the gas fire up, and then I returned my attention to my book. Nearly a chapter later, Sherlock emerged, pajama-clad, and flopped down beside me. He leaned over and scanned the page I was reading.

"Ah. Anastasia is-"

My hand shot out and clamped over his mouth. "Don't. I have my own opinions on the matter, and I'd like to find out if I'm right on my own."

Chastised, Sherlock slumped down, his head falling onto my shoulder. Then he wriggled. He huffed through his nose like an irritated cat, and he prodded at my shoulder, as though to fluff a pillow. Finally vexed, he seized a cushion, thwumped it onto my shoulder, and dropped his head onto it.

Boundary issues. I could fill volumes on the subject.

Sherlock drowsed, half-sleeping and halfway reading over my shoulder. A few times, I even thought I heard a soft snore, but when I looked, I saw that his eyes were still slitted open, watching the words on the page. He seemed completely relaxed. Feline.

"Likewise," I muttered.

Sherlock shifted, lifting his head just slightly. "Hm?"

"I feel safe with you, too." I turned a page. "Which only serves to prove how far off the rail I've come."

With a vague chuckle, Sherlock let his head rest again. "Really, what would you do with normality?" The subtext hardly needed stating: That's so dull.

"I used to think I could give it a go."

That was before. Before this strange, petulant contradiction of a human being had snatched me out of the hell in my own mind. Nothing would ever be the same.

The rain drummed steadily on the windows, echoed by Sherlock's slow, even breathing. Contented, I passed the afternoon reading my book.