Young Writers Society

Sherlock - no, Arthur - repeated Emily’s instructions over in his head a few times before answering the pounding at the door. No one ever seemed to be polite when asking for their attention and Emily usually added in a few choice words. It was not an easy comparison to his own method of timidly opening the door and trying to remember the name she chose to assign this week.

His hand shook on the door handle and carefully watched it creek open. There was a young man standing on the stoop in a cheap black suit that was made to look very professional and very threatening. Sherlock looked down at his shoes for more details but interrupted by a hand being shoved at him.

"Good morning. Where's Emily?"

"She's just upstairs getting ready."

The man's hand remained in the shaking position with his own as the "suit" stepped inside. Emily had been making him watch enough detective and spy movies lately to pick up all of the right terms. She said it was part of his education for the modern century but Sherlock had other theories as to that matter.

"Ah, so you must be her friend Arthur?"

"Yes. And you're Agent Torrio?"

Finally the hand shake ended with, "Yes, Joe Torrio at your service."

The checkpoints in Sherlock's mind were making the wrong assumptions for someone being at his service. He quickly shut the mechanism off and took Torrio into the kitchen.

"Care for a cup of tea? Or coffee?"

"Well I don't know how long she'll be so I'll take a cup of tea. What's she doing up there?"

Sherlock didn't like the hints in Turrio's voice. And judging from the re-runs sitcoms from last night, the man was probably playing into the common trope. It crafted a certain sort of response in his mind.

"Emily? Probably making some last minute touches to polishing her revolver or one of her knives."

Detective special.

That's what she said the revolver was called. Maybe she could use it on this special detective, make it live up to the name.

The kettle boiled quickly and Sherlock set the mug of tea on the table, cringing as Torrio drank the tasteless hot water. Even he would have insisted on letting it stay for a moment or two. There was no appeal in drinking boiling hot water and destroying your throat. But it was evidently the common practice.

Luckily their awkward silence was broken by the fourth step creaking and the clicking of Emily's boots against the living room linoleum. The cat stepped from by the stove and the dog got up from its bed, just like they always did when she came into the room. Sherlock knew that no matter how much she blamed it on her charms, it was simply because the creatures hated the sight of him.

"Hope you two had fun while waiting on me. With this new case I had to dig up my favorite pair of fighting boots."

Sherlock leaned back against the stove while Turrio asked, "Why are these so special? And more importantly, why do you have more than one pair of fighting boots?"

"These have retractable knives and spines, and why would you alone have one pair?"

It was all going fine until she leaned down to kiss Turrio lightly on the cheek. He almost leaned back into the still warm burner, completely distracted as Emily tinkered in the kitchen.

"Where's the bottle opener?"

"Hmm?"

"The bottle opener? Oh, the drain board. Drinking late at night, again?"

He sighed while dodging the peach NeHi cap that flew past his head and landed in the sink. They walked slowly out of the kitchen, going back through the front door and climbing into Torrio's rather boring car. Maybe Emily didn't feel right about taking the Plymouth on hunts anymore.

Not since that vampire had left stains in the upholestery.

Right before she closed the passenger door, he remembered to shout, "Be careful."

"Darling, I'd worry more about yourself.

The car was gone and he was left alone with the television and a cold cup of tea.

Just a regular Tuesday.