god, how boring was real life?

sherlock holmes had just really come to that realization. he'd always known it- all the little people milling about in their little lives, tap-tap-tapping on their little computers, having their weddings and funerals and birthdays.

yikes. he was starting to sound like mycroft, he mused internally, crossing his legs restlessly for the umpteenth time in fifteen minutes. the pale blue of his eyes, typically roving around a room or closed tight, stayed fixated on a clock.

a clock.

four fifty-seven pm. you got off at five-- really a waste of valuable time you could have spent with him, but there was this annoying thing called money that neither of you had.

he was waiting on a bench outside of your workplace.

stalkerish, maybe- but you'd long come to expect it, since you'd first gotten close and this odd...you didn't want to call it a situationship, but in all honesty, that's what it was. the word made your nose wrinkle. as if you were only in it for the physical things, as if you were afraid of commitment. as if.

you couldn't say he followed you around like a lost puppy- if there was anything he was not, it was a dog- maybe a cat? yes, a cat. disgruntled from being chased, perhaps, or latching on to the person who'd found it stuck up a tree and pretending that it was still indignant about the whole ordeal.

sherlock was the one afraid of commitment, definitely- jittery about it at the very least.

anyways!

he was waiting outside your workplace, eyes fixated on the clock with something as close to anxiety as you'd ever get from sherlock holmes-- it wasn't as if he had anything to do, the opposite, actually. he didn't have a case. so he wanted you.

you were a drug of his, in a way- but you'd tolerate it if it kept him from relapsing back into actual drugs.

you didn't leave at five on the hour. you clocked out at five- thank god your boss hadn't asked for more overtime- and still had to shove all of your things into your bag, before leaving completely.

the moment you stepped out the door, sherlock was on his feet, and he was talking, rapid-fire.

oh, joy. your second job.

babysitting.