Your Life Is Not Your Own

"What now?" I ask Sherlock as the taxi trundles down the road, the Richard's house gradually fading out of sight. 

"Peckish?" Sherlock replies.

My stomach gives a low grumble in response.

"Starving," I laugh, clutching my lower torso. 

"Good. You can come back to 221 for dinner whilst we wait for the lab results to come back," Sherlock says. 

The invitation catches me off guard and I hesitate, unsure how to reply. We've known each other for barely a few days and he's already inviting me round for dinner? What does that mean? Does it even mean anything?

You're reading too far into this. He's just being nice. The voice inside my head tells me.

I take a deep breath in and try to calm the butterfly that are swarming my insides. 

"I would like that, if it's not too much of a bother," I eventually reply, giving him a genuine smile of gratitude.

He cocks his head sideways and shoots me a puzzled glance, "Why would that be any bother?" 

"Because I'm me. I'm messy and complicated and-"

"And I'm a high-functioning sociopath who solves crimes to get high. Messy and complicated is all I've ever known. I think I can handle you," He says, his lips curling into a grin, his blue eyes twinkling.

I feel my heart melt inside of me. I want to touch him. I want to run my fingers through his dark curls. I want to kiss him. It's not a want. It's a need. I need him.

Ten minutes later, the engine dies and the taxi comes to a halt on the curb outside our apartment. Sherlock and I clamber out of the car and make our way up the stairs and into his flat. 

"Hi, Sherlock.... oh and hi Lara," John greets as we walk through the door. He is seated in an armchair, reading the local newspaper. A young girl, no more than the age of five sits by his feet playing with her dolls. Sherlock barely acknowledges his flatmate as he walks straight past his armchair and storms into the kitchen, leaving me awkwardly standing in the doorway.

"Sherlock, what is-" John begins.

"Hush, John, I'm trying to cook!" Shouts Sherlock. This is followed by the sound of cabinets opening and clattering pots and pans.

"Sorry to intrude. He took me on a case with him and invited me round for dinner- I hope you don't mind," I say to John, suddenly feeling very self-consious. 

"Really?!" John asks, his voice filled with surprise, "He never invites anyone round for dinner."

"I suppose that makes me lucky then," I say, my cheeks flushing a shade of crimson.

"I don't think that's the right word. Sherlock and cooking is not a good combination. For starters, he keeps body parts for his experiments in the fridge along with all the ingredients. Don't be surprised if you find an eyeball in your food," John mutters.

I grimace and pretend to gag. I sure as hell hope I don't. 

"So who's this?" I question, gesturing to the blonde-haired young girl at his feet. 

"This is my daughter, Rosie. Don't be fooled by her cute face, she's a cheeky one this one," John chuckles. He reaches down and begins to tickle his daughter causing her to wriggle about and squeal. 

The sudden smell of burning pour from underneath the kitchen door and fills the room with smoke. Various curse words can be heard from Sherlock followed by more loud noises.