Sherlock Holmes was sitting in his usual armchair with my laptop balanced on his knees. I found myself jealous that his profession allowed him to lounge as I toiled all day for modest wages, something I knew he would never subject himself to. My bad mood stemmed from me being beyond tired, as well as having to deal with a very difficult mother with an even more difficult child. My previous patient had spent nearly an hour screaming at me for callously shoving a vaccination needle in her poor, sick son; her insistence that I was a medical monster had left my nerves raw. However, Sherlock must have been in good spirits because instead of his usual early evening moping he had set himself to violating my personal space, which included using my laptop without permission.

"I don't understand why you insist on using my computer when your own is not only a better, more expensive model, but yours." I snapped. I hoped this sort of comment would cause him to stop browsing, or at least apologize, but he ignored me and continued to tap the keys rhythmically.

"Money doesn't make everything better Watson." He replied without looking up.

I bit my lip to keep the fury from roaring out of me. I knew him well enough to recognize he didn't mean to upset me, but I couldn't overlook his blatantly disrespect towards my privacy. This wasn't his first violation, nor was the first time I had clearly expressed my views on personal property.

"I've told you numerous times," I hissed, stomping over towards him. "don't use my things without asking." I snapped. Once again I snapped the laptop shut nearly taking his fingers off and ripped it away from him.

"Watson?" He said softly.

"Yes?"

"May I use your laptop for a moment?"

"No!" I shouted sitting in the chair opposite to him. I lifted the screen up briefly and saw he was checking news websites.

"Watson?"

"What is it, for God's sake." I mumbled, hoping for an apology.

"Will you please fetch my laptop from the kitchen?"

"Fetch your-" I huffed. "-Sherlock, you're physically able to fetch your own things."

Holmes folded his hands together and his eyes fluttered shut. I shot him a scathing look I was sure he could see, even beyond hooded eyes, and willed him to feel my displeasure from across the coffee table.

"So far asking has yielded poor results." Sherlock said coldly. "And it's put you into an intolerable state."

I had enough abuse and decided to remove myself before I violated my integrity and hippocratic oath.

"Fine." I snarled. "I won't subject you to my intolerable moods any longer. Me, and my things, are leaving!"

To my fury he didn't say a word, he just opened his eyes long enough to impartially watch me struggle to unplug my laptop charger from beneath his chair. He lifted his long legs as I crawled under him, and for a short moment his socked foot clumsily brush against my hip. I felt a pressing urge to get my things and go, a part of me was sure I could feel the cruel part of him laughing at my growing, unexplained embarrassment. I yanked the plug out of the power strip savagely and the light above me shut off.

"Watson?"

"I know!" I replied in frustration. I switched the adapter back on and stood up suddenly.

I saw his eyebrows lift on his amused face before the blood-rush to my head spotted my vision.

"I was hoping you might assist me, that is... if you're not busy."

"You have a case?" I asked taking deep breaths.

"Of course." Sherlock replied.

I felt my anger melt away into fatigue, my face still felt hot as I rotated the laptop charging cable idly in my hands, avoiding my irritating room mate's intent stare.

"What did you need from me?" I asked.

"Your laptop." He said flatly. My shoulders slumped visually. "Just for a moment, no need to plug it back in, I don't want to trouble you further."

I retrieved my laptop and he sat it down on his legs as he had minutes before. A wave of defeat washed over me, and something else, a deeper emotion like humiliation and disappointment in myself.

"Hopkins believes it's an 'open and shut case'." Sherlock read aloud staring at the screen. "Well of course he does." he huffed.

I leaned over him to see what he was snarling over. It was an article that had been posted today, and at first glance it appeared to be a blog on some college website. Upon further inspection I saw a caption of a dating ad, sort of a digital cupid for students on campus. Next to it was a picture of a very lovely girl who I was certain had no problems finding partners in life instead of on the internet. Murder was written in the headline and my insides clenched.

"Who is she?" I asked.

"The victim." Sherlock replied.

"Why was she murdered?" I asked with a pang of pity.

"She's the murderer."

"But you said she was the victim!"

"Pardon, she's a victim of bad press and an even worse justice department. D.I Hopkins believes she's the murderer."

"But she's not?"

"No."

"How do you know?" I asked appalled.

"I inspected the crime scene." Sherlock informed me. "The girl, Reshma, wasn't even there when Isaac Kathy died."

"Who?"

Holmes handed the laptop to me before shooting out of his seat and stepping into his room. I scrolled down the article to see a photo of a handsome boy who had answered Reshma's ad and was apparently laying dead in her room, a boy loved by many and missed by more. Reshma had admitted to luring the man into her home before serving him tea laced with cyanide.

"Why was he murdered?" I asked searching for a reason in the article, I had reached the end of it with no conclusion.

"I have theories, but none confirmed." Sherlock said hopping back into the room with his coat and scarf. "Are you coming?"

Before I could reply he exited the room leaving the door open, undoubtedly left for me to follow.

Authors Note: I figured if I was going to write a Sherlock Holmes story I had better do it right, so I added a little mystery in it. This is just the opening chapter of a fic I have planned out. The mild tones of Watson/Holmes slash will pick up speed in later chapters.