Aprons. So ridiculous-looking. Yet so helpful. I mustn't spill even a single drop of this coq au vin I'm making – my beloved's favorite – on my suit. Oh, how frightfully enraged he'd be! And such a fool I'd make of myself. Can't even take care of my attire? I can put myself together for the Prime Minister, but I can't even put myself together for my love? What kind of a boyfriend would I be then?

Er…no matter. Mustn't let my mind wander. No good can come from that, can it? What's the time? Oh! My love was expected home from work at the Yard over two hours ago...must have gone to the pub again. He drinks a frightfully large amount of alcohol, which I've grown to detest. As long as he hasn't taken to the white powder again, I'm satisfied.

Actually, I'm rather satisfied with him no matter what he does. He works hard; those murder cases themselves are a right bother to deal with, as is Sherlock. It's the only reason he spends the majority of his time after work at the pub, then occasionally comes home for dinner. Some nights, he just drives from the pub to the Yard, changes his shirt, and sleeps at his desk. The bed gets so lonely those days…

Ah, yes, here he comes now! Bugger, I haven't even finished the coq au vin!

He's fumbling with the keys, he's stumbling into the flat – his uneven footsteps give that away quite clearly – and he's gripping the wall for support. The flat reeks of alcohol – what is it today…gin and vodka, I believe. No, just vodka. How many… five? Six? Six. Six shots of vodka.

"Good evening, my dear!" I call from the kitchen, stirring the contents of the pot on the stove.

No reply.

"Gregory? Are you all right?"

No response to that either.

I abandon the food on the stove and rush out to see how he is. He has – thankfully – hobbled over and lied down on the sofa. I walk over, place my hand on his forehead, and run my fingers through his silver hair. I crouch down beside him and take his hand.

"Love, are you feeling all right?"

He opens his eyes and stared at the ceiling, then at me. He rolls his eyes, as if disgusted with me, and turns his head away from me. The whole time, I am staring at his eyes. His tired, bloodshot eyes. He starts sniffing and sits up.

"I-Ish that c-c-coq au vin? Thash my favo-fa-favorite!" His lips crack into a smile, the kind of smile I'd do anything to see. The kind of smile that makes all of my efforts worth it. The kind of smile that makes my hatred of anything he does disappear into thin air. The kind of smile that I would – and have – with pleasure pick apart men with nothing but a scalpel to see when I come home. The kind of smile that reminds me why I love my dear Gregory.

"For you, my sweet." I lean forward and plant a light kiss on his lips. Vodka and lots of it. I was right. I also taste a small amount of cocaine on his upper lip. Twice the usual amount. So that comes to…six shots of vodka and a double dose of cocaine. Oh dear god.

I take a moment and look into his deep brown eyes. Someday, I promise myself, I'll help him get through this. We'll make it out of this. Someday.

He starts sniffing the air again. His eyebrows wrinkle and his lips come together into a frown. Oh, no. I know that face too well. I have done something that upset him. I start sniffing the air too, and I find my answer.

My coq au vin is burning.

Oh, no.

No, no, no.

I let go of his hand and run into the kitchen, turn off the stove, and get to work scraping the burnt food off the bottom of the pot and into the trash. I hear him hobble his way into the kitchen behind me, steadying himself with the walls and doorframes.

"Wash the matter with you, eh? Who the hell jush leavsh food 'round on the shtove? A bloody idiot, thash who!"

I can see the fury and the disappointment in his eyes.

I am so sorry, my love.

"I'm so sorry, Gregory. It's just…I was helping you, and—"

"Help? I didn't need your help! I wash FINE!"

"Dear, you were…incapacitated, and I was worried, and—"

"Incapashitated? INCAPASHITATED? Me? Incapashitated?" He stumbles over to the rubbish bin, grabs my shoulders, and spins me around to face him. The pot and scrub slip out of my hand and into the bin.

He shoves me over to an area of tiled wall that [fortunately] didn't have a cabinet or a counter protruding from it and pins me to it sideways. My head slams into the wall, and just as I begin to wince in pain from the blow, one of his hands pushes my cheek into the wall.

"I'm so sorry, Gregory! Please forgive me!" I am begging, almost to the point of sobbing. My enemies have broken my fingers one by one, stacked bricks upon my chest, and branded my bare back without so much as a whimper from me. But only my darling can hurt me, make me beg, bring me to tears. Only him.

"If I wash incapashitated, could I do this?" His warm knuckles come down hard on my eye. The pain travels straight to my heart.

He finally lets go of me, and I slump to the floor, bottom lip quivering. I am a sorry sight, and I know it.

You're hurting me again, my love.

He gives my figure a swift kick, eliciting more screams from me. "You're hurting me, Greg. Stop it please!"

He makes his way to the front door. Before opening it, he turns around and faces me. "Shtop worrying about me, I can take care of myshelf, thanksh. You need to man up. You're lucky you even have me to care for you. Without me, you're just a panshy!" He opens the door, steps out into the evening chill, and slams the door shut behind him.

I do something I have never done before. I sit against the wall, tuck my knees into my body, place my forehead on my knees, and weep.