[Comprehensive] Mrs. Holmes Daily

"Oh, Vichy, although it's frustrating not being able to get rid of the control of hormones, you don't have to... Your voice has changed just now, it's at least ten decibels lower than your usual volume, and it's hoarse."

Her voice was of course hoarse, not only hoarse but also weak.

... She hurts, she is cold, she is weak, she still has a headache, how could she still be full of anger?

Ludwig silently turned another page of the book and stopped talking.

Sherlock finally realized that something was wrong, he held Ludwig's finger and frowned:

"Why are your hands so cold?"

"My hands have been kept outside, of course it's colder than yours..."

Sherlock turned on the light with a "snap", and finally saw everything in the room clearly.

"What's wrong with you? Why is your face covered with sweat?"

Ludwig avoided Sherlock's hand:

"Because I'm a little hot... Do you still want to sleep? You can't sleep like this, or I'll go to the study to read."

She sat up with a book.

However, when she was looking for shoes on the ground, there was a sudden force behind her.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around her waist and protected her injured wrist with the other, and gently pushed her back, pressing her whole body into the quilt without even exerting any effort.

His movements were not gentle, Ludwig's body position suddenly changed, and the uterus seemed to be twisted by something.

Ludwig couldn't help taking a deep breath, lying in the soft quilt, unable to recover all of a sudden.

During her menstrual period, it really seemed like she was going to die.

But fortunately, this is only the first day, and the pain will be relieved on the second day.

"From your coping attitude and the conversation just now, you know very well what's wrong with your body, but you just don't want to tell me..."

Sherlock leaned sideways on the edge of the bed, leaning against her side, looking down at her condescendingly.

His tone was calm, but Ludwig was inexplicably a little... frightened.

"...I'll ask again for the last time, what's wrong with you?"

Ludwig turned his face to the side of the pillow:

"It's just a little cold, don't make such a fuss."

"Catching a cold is not the symptom...stick out your tongue."

Ludwig pretended not to hear.

Sherlock looked at her coldly for a while, without making a sound, just took out his mobile phone from one side of Ludwig's folded coat pocket.

Instead of texting like he usually does, he made a phone call for the first time:

"Let the doctor come."

"..."

Ludwig covered his forehead and pulled Sherlock's nightgown sleeve.

"There's no need to call a doctor. It's really nothing serious. I'm just... just lacking iron."

Sherlock ignored her this time.

The other party on the other end of the phone didn't know what to say, Ludwig only heard Sherlock reply indifferently:

"My patient obviously doesn't believe in my medical skills...Send Dr. Covent here...What, he's gone?"

Finally, Ludwig couldn't help but sit up, snatched the phone from Sherlock's hand, and pressed it without looking at the caller's name.

Sherlock's face seemed to have a layer of frost:

"Rooting someone's phone is not something that a self-proclaimed 'educated' person should do."

Ludwig threw the phone aside, and with a crisp sound, the phone slid down the bed sheet to the floor.

But none of them thought about picking it up.

"If you don't want me to grab it, how can I grab it?"

Ludwig's tone was also a little bad:

"I said, I'm just a little iron deficient, nothing serious, I know my own body very well."

Sherlock was silent for a while:

"Iron deficiency will cause cold sweat all over your body? Although you didn't show it, judging from the tightness of your muscles, it's obvious that you can't clearly feel the pain..."

He pursed his lips and paused:

"But I don't even know where you hurt."

Ludwig buried his face in the pillow.

She missed the little room in Baker Street terribly now.

Although her bedroom will be picked by Sherlock from time to time, but compared to here, Baker Street still seems very free.

There, at least no one will interfere with her to spend her menstrual period in peace. She can lie on the bed, sweaty and sweaty for a day, and then take a shower, go out refreshed and tell Sherlock that she is just retreating. self-discipline.

I hate being forced to explain things.

"I have no problem, auntie, I'm just here."

Sherlock frowned. As an Englishman, even Sherlock Holmes is incapable of understanding Chinese allusions:

"Oh, Vichy, I can accept it if your mother comes, but believe me, there are no sisters on your mother's side."

Ludwig, who was in dire straits, did not notice that Sherlock knew more about her family than she did.

She just covers her ears with a pillow irritably:

"...fall off."

"What did you say?"

Ludwig turned over:

"Periodic corpus luteum shedding, in layman's terms, is menstrual period... If you have any questions, please turn to the book or look up your phone."

Her tone is still bad:

"Then, please go out, or arrange another room for me... I have been here for five or six years, and I really don't want to be pressed like this."

For a minute behind him, Ludwig did not hear Sherlock's voice.

She thought Sherlock was gone, so she took the pillow down.

Then she heard Sherlock whisper, "Sorry... I forgot."

Ludwig didn't even want to say a word...forget?Le Shiwei only found out about her menstrual period when she happened to see her buying a sanitary strip, but Sherlock didn't know.

But what Sherlock remembered was that she did mention her menstrual period in the House of Cards cafe yesterday, and said "I expect to die of pain".

These memories were indeed in his mind... However, when he saw her face turning pale, breathing softly to ease the pain, but she pretended to be nothing, there was nothing left.

Nothing... nothing in his mind.

Nothing came to his mind.

His chip-like memory not only missed her conversation in the coffee house, but also stuck his medical knowledge at his fingertips.

This complete inability to control his own brain, he once said, would not allow it to happen a second time.

But now...how many times?

Sherlock leaned over and lay slowly beside her.

He put one arm around her waist, his tone was as indifferent as ever, but it was so clear in the sleepless morning light:

"I'm your partner. If even your friends can know about this kind of thing...it's nothing bad for me."

Ludwig didn't bother to take his hand away.

She curled up in Sherlock's arms, bent into a shrimp:

"I don't feel embarrassed, I just feel that I don't need to report it specifically... What's the use of saying it? It's impossible for my uterus to run on you, and the pain can't be relieved."

Sherlock was silent for a while:

"Whether it's from the perspective of identity or medical recuperation... Of course you should tell me that I know much more comprehensive medical knowledge than you."

"...you mean you have comprehensive medical knowledge in gynecology?"

"……except this."

Ludwig held Sherlock's hand...not a gentle return of course, she just wanted to hold Sherlock's hand away.

The current position...she was in pain and embarrassed.

"So, you don't understand this aspect, and it's mutual, like, if you had a wet dream one morning, you wouldn't send me a special text message to let me know...then correspondingly, I don't have to tell you you."

"..."

wet dream?His little girlfriend was incoherent in pain.

Sherlock paused, then hugged her tighter.

But this time, he was very careful not to touch her abdomen, but wrapped his hands around her shoulders, locking her slender body into his arms.

"I will... so you have to tell me accordingly."

His tone was still indifferent, and he couldn't hear too much emotion:

"Because if there is such a day, it must be because of you... You should take some responsibility for it."

Ludwig's current state, called, is flattering.

The reason is that just now, Sherlock brought her breakfast with his own hands.

Note that the focus is not on breakfast, but on: him, pro, hands.

Ludwig still vaguely remembered, seemingly a long, long time ago... No, just a week ago, when they were still living in Baker Street, Sherlock's breakfast was not brought to his mouth, he would not Go touch the state of the fork.

Sherlock puts breakfast on the bedside table:

"I'll stay at home in the afternoon."

"...Aren't you going to solve the case?"

His tone was calm: "Today, criminals in London collectively rest."

"... What a coincidence, they exchanged messages with each other on Twitter, and then you saw it by chance."

Ludwig silently picked up the fork with his left hand.

Although she was very inconvenient with one hand, she didn't ask Sherlock for help, but tried to fork the little cherry into her mouth with her left hand.

Sherlock opened his mouth: "You..."

Ludwig turned around: "What?"

Sherlock leaned on the sofa, holding her book in his hand, and turned his gaze back lightly.

"It's nothing."

But Ludwig couldn't help it:

"You can actually ask Old John, or other servants to serve it, and you serve it to me yourself... It always makes me feel that what I eat is the 'Last Supper'."

"..."

The book in Sherlock's hand was turning slowly... He seems to have suddenly become very interested in her notes recently.

He casually asked:

"You don't seem to have a good appetite... Do you still eat pork chops at noon?"

"I don't really want to eat."

"So, let's go to the Chinese restaurant in the East District? You like Chinese food."

"I don't really want to go."

Ludwig didn't eat anything at all, except for some fruits - seeing the exquisite desserts and Western food of the British, one would think of how unpalatable these seemingly gorgeous things are in essence.

Sherlock frowned when he took the plate down, but didn't say anything.

When he came back, Ludwig was already sitting on the bed reading a book.

So Mr. Holmes frowned again as he looked at Miss Ludwig's pale face and her jaw tensed with pain.

But he still didn't say anything.

He just took a medical book, half leaned on the other side of the bed, and read it quietly, with his slender legs resting on the white sheet, his posture was leisurely and casual, with a bit of laziness and an aristocratic accent .

He wore black cotton socks on his feet, and a pale ankle was exposed between the legs of the black suit trousers and the socks.

The sun rose from the hills, and the dappled spots of light fell on his fingers holding the book. His skin was the color of Caucasian arrogance, so white that it seemed to melt in the sun.

...The veins are filled with sunlight, not blood.

When he read, his fingers casually stroked the spine of the book, and when he thought, he gently stroked the white paper.

like-

Like, touching the skin of a lover.

……

Ludwig lowered his eyes and forced himself to focus on the exam materials in front of him.

The book in front of her is a collection of poems from various countries. Tsvetaeva's poems, through the traces of lead and ink, through 100 years, whispered in front of the mausoleum of love.

With sunlight in my veins—not blood—I am alone, with great love for my soul.

……

Ludwig stared blankly at those typefaces, only to feel that those ink-colored handwritten English had turned into beasts, barking their fangs and claws and clamoring on the pages.

In this way... at a loss and out of time.

She paused on this page for a long time, and finally, slowly, turned the page.