you are sherlock holmes' flatmate.

the beginning of a very good horror story, you mused to yourself- the roommate to a volatile, sociopathic, bordering on insane man with intelligence envied worldwide.

how easily he could murder you and have nobody find the body. a compliment, in his books.

anyways-- that's entirely besides the point. you must've zoned out midway through his longwinded ramble.

for some context, sherlock holmes was utterly shitfaced. like, stupid drunk. entirely incoherent.

it was...mildly endearing. and incredibly infuriating. you'd be lecturing him to hell and back in the morning- if he could even hear over the pounding of his hangover.

but currently, you were just...having to listen to his rambles. it was more amusing than you'd ever thought it would be.

he was just...so...stupid.

"your nose," he said suddenly, breaking you out of your slightly self pitying inner monologue, "is so...."

he cast his hand around, a severe look pulled onto his face, though it quickly melted off as his brow furrowed in an attempt to find the proper word.

"...nose-ish," he finished, sitting up in his chair before melting back down. "shouldn't be allowed."

sherlock reached out, hand unsteady and slightly floppy, to brush against your nose. he missed, and his finger poked lamely at your cheek.

"so're your eyes," he said, recovering after a moment. "eye shaped. too much eye. i'm-"

he made another attempt to settle himself in his chair.

"mmm. m'gonna be sick.".