"A Risky Engagement" by Mozart

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i swear i have the biggest SEG on right now
he is
he is such a fucking prick
and i love him so much
It seemed fitting, anyway–he did know everything about you. Or at least he pretended to. Or tried to.

Not that he would ever admit to it. Why would he? To everyone else, you had a master poker face, but to him, you wore your heart on your sleeve and your world on your face. It would take John Watson an idiot to not be able to pick out every little fact of your life just by watching how you went about your day.

And he did watch you.

How did you know…? Well, you wouldn’t have had the slightest suspicion. But you found out ages ago when the Mr. Sherlock Holmes himself came up to you and told you exactly everything.

“When you come in to work, your skirt is straight but your blouse is never buttoned correctly–a sign that you wake up late for work so regularly that you get half of your outfit correct but neglect the (perhaps) more ‘challenging’ aspects of your wardrobe…this is backed up by your hastily thrown-on jacket that is meant to match your skirt but is consistently one to two shades lighter. Not only that, but one side of your hair is usually groomed neater than the other, suggesting that, in your rush to run out the door, you give up after brushing one side.”

“Uh,” you replied.

“You never get enough to eat for breakfast, considering that your stomach rumblings become quite animalistic before even noon, which explains the fluctuations in your weight…you do realize that it’s only healthy for a young woman like yourself to eat three meals a day, correct? You should be more responsible…it becomes all the more obvious when you have an increase in clients. You hardly eat and your hair loses its sheen by midafternoon. Disastrous.”

You were just staring now. Your key wasn’t even all the way in the door to your office. Even your stomach had silenced its usual bitching to hear Sherlock finish.

“That being said–along with another hundred tidbits I’ve left out because I have more important matters to attend to–it’s quite clear that you live alone and have no one attending to you. It seems to me that you need someone to take care of you, ideally a man…you know what I’m getting at, don’t you?”

Not really. It looked like your cat wasn’t doing a good enough job…

“A man to wake you up on time, get you something to eat, make sure you look halfway decent when you’re running out the door, kiss you good-bye and all that clichéd nonsense. I’m sure that no man anywhere in London would agree to be a babysitter, as the job surely sounds, so I’m afraid that you’re the sort of woman who was born to find a good husband.”


“Then again, I wouldn’t say that you will find a good husband. He might be someone you can’t stand. But being in your desperate sort of position, you’ll have to put up with it. That sort of challenge would be hard on his side, too. You’re dreadfully unmindful, and careless, so after a year or two you would probably have your victim committed. I suppose that even I would struggle at such a career, although I’m confident that I would be able to train you to be a somewhat self-sufficient and even, dare I say it, happy human being.”

And now he watched you carefully for your reaction. At first you were still dumbfounded–you were still frozen in the middle of your effort to unlock your door–then, a struggle to find a retort to his insults–finally, shock and disbelief at what you’d heard.

Sherlock shrugged and glanced back at the art on the wall across the hall from him.

The experiment would continue on another day. For now, he finished with measured carelessness.

“But of course,” he said, “I’m only suggesting.

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