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Detective Bell has been checking prisoner records with him for fifteen minutes before he speaks up. “You know I interviewed that DEA agent with the captain.”
Sherlock nods, but for a very long time. “I am aware.” There are stacks and stacks of files at his feet, in danger of toppling if he moves at all. Detective Bell is quiet for an extraordinarily long time. While Watson works with him in silence, few others are the same.
“I don't wanna beat around the bush,” says Detective Bell three file folders later.
“I daresay you aren't.”
“He said that—”
“I'm sure he said many things, few of which interest me.” Sherlock bites and adds, “If you keep making glib attempts to talk things through, I'm going to start confusing you with Watson, which would probably be disconcerting considering she is far superior in both credentials and hair-care routine.”
“My hair is shaved,” says Detective Bell, annoyed-amused. Then, “I googled her.”
“You would, of course.”
“Is that supposed to be insulting?”
“Take it as you wish.”
“As you wish,” he repeats, and groans when no further comment follows. “Come on. The Princess Bride?”
Sherlock taps the side of his head and throws a sheaf of paper to the floor. “Mind attic, you'll recall.”
“Yeah, that's still the dumbest thing I've ever heard come out of your mouth.”
“You say the nicest things,” Sherlock says, although he won't know that Sherlock is also quoting. Such is life.
They lapse into silence again, but only for a few moments. “I wanted you to know,” Detective Bell says haltingly. “That I know.”
Sherlock feels his muscles begin to ache from sitting still for so long. “Is it of some importance that you do?”
Detective Bell shrugs and then says, “No, I guess it's not.”
He's wearing the darkest of his grey suits, and a blue tie. Watson has informed Sherlock that he has no sense of fashion, but Sherlock thinks for the rest of the time they work together in silence that it's a rather fetching combination.