unfinished short story

Not written on this thing for a while. It's got very sophisticated while I've been away, when you compose your post it's like being on word, there's a whole choice of fonts and possibility to put up links. Think I'll keep it simple though.

Updates:
The last time I wrote I was living in a little town in France, which meant I could do a sort of travel-blog as I explored the area and learned about the Breton culture. Now I'm studying in Newcastle so there's nothing foreign and unknown to uncover, although sometimes with that weird local accent can seem a bit like a foreign tongue to my ears.

I dumped my french boyfriend because of our incompatability, and I'm pretty much content being on my own. I feel like that's the way it should always have been. I don't want to be tied to anyone.
I say content as in, not displeased with the way it turned out.
I'm not an altogether happy bunny, although I shouldn't moan, I am grateful for all the friends that I have, the old ones who let me know that they're there for me, and the new ones that I'm starting to meet up here, who I'm sure I'll get on to writing about.
I'm unhappy because of the death of my best friend, who I used to refer to as "M" on here. The closest and most lovely friend I had, I felt that our connection was such a deep and beautiful thing, like two live wires that come together and cause sparks and magic, we made each other laugh and cheered each other up. The grey monotony of life became painted with brighter colours when we were together. We struggled- him more than me, but I felt that we were travelling through life together, alongside one another, like climbers carrying each others backpacks when the other gets weary, and that was a pleasure and a support, and I miss it unbearably.

prepare yourself for... Sherlock Holmes based, mildy homo-romantic fan-fiction in which the main characters are based on my best friend and his boyfriend:

Sounds very creepy. I did tell M about this and he thought it was sweet and funny but I never got around to finishing it.
In the summer, I was bored and after having read a lot of Sherlock Holmes short stories I thought I knew the formula for them pretty well, so I set about writing an updated modern version of my own, in which Holmes and Watson are a couple and go about solving petty misdemeanors and mysteries. The mystery was supposed to be about a vain art student type who thinks someone is trying to sabotage her exhibition, and there was supposed to be some sort of twist, but we never got on to that- but I'll share the unfinished thing anyway.
ALSO note that I had NEVER MET my friend's boyfriend at the time of writing, I was painting his character from snippets of information and mostly my own imagination and so it shouldn't be considered that the character bears any real life likeness.
Don't take it too seriously, I was giggling as I was writing it, but I think it is quite a nice affectionate description of my sweet friend-

The Unfinished Story:
It was a fine afternoon in late September and J was reclining in his favourite chair. The small apartment on Smiths Street had been theirs but six months, but already they had made it homely, a den of cushions and sofas and neat Ikea bookshelves loaded with novels, and case files.
In the adjacent kitchen, M was rolling out the pastry for a vegetarian pie. J had been a meat-eater for years, convinced of the necessity of meat as a part of a healthy diet, but since their co-habitation, M's delicious home cooking was winning him round.
M sang along to a Catatonia greatest hits album as he worked. Today he was good humoured, as was often his way he sensed intuitively when business was coming to Smiths Street.
For three weeks now the house had been quiet, business slow, but it did have the advantage of allowing the pair time to stroll in the late summer sunshine through the park, as  had often been impossible when the caseload left J sleepless and irritable.
M was the younger of the pair. He was slightly built with nervous pale blue eyes and a shock of black hair which would stand on end inquisitively if left untamed. He was at times quiet, and flung by the powers of his uncontrollable humours into introspective depression, but he compensated for this with his equal tendency to cheer.
His good moods would take him out of the house, drinking, dancing and cavorting. He had many friends, although few who knew the intricacies of his character.
J, private detective, was more steadfast and serious, a good five years his partner's senior. He possessed extraordinary skills of reasoning and an infallible logic which led to his huge success in business. Together they were Disney Private Detection [lol!] an unshakeable team.
J, stockily built, blonde, muscly and of undeniable classical good looks. He had at one time been a wine merchant who specialised in supplying restaurants with only the best quality French wines. He had, however, made his fortune selling champagne marketed as a high end luxury product, to rich Chinese businessmen for ten times it's European value.
He had a fine nose in more ways than one (for a fine Roman nose it was). J, with his perpetually full wine rack, had only a taste for the finer things in life, and he was frequently trying to impress this refinement upon his young business partner in the hope of instilling within him a reverence and preference for refinement. However in vain, for M preferred cheap vodka, and was more than satisfied with imitation Lambrini (that British drink so often aquainted with teenagers intoxicating themselves in public parks)
"Your tea's ready," said M, and J took the plate from him with an affectionate smile. Since their co-habitation and the foundation of their joint business venture, his life had brightened up considerably.Whenever he saw the boy lounging around the flat, sleeping, picking at food, writing letters, anything, his heart was overcome with warmth and tenderness.
Sometimes, in moments of weakness, he would gaze upon him, as unawares, M was performing some everyday chore with that expression of extreme concentration so characteristic of him upon his fine and pretty face, and he would feel emotion rising in his throat. The insatiable urge to tell the boy he loved him. Sometimes he gave in and the words came out despite him, and once said they saturated the room with awkwardness.
Perhaps it was simply fear of being alone that bound him so tightly to this other human being, perhaps the need to feel that his life had some meaning besides the daily chore of keeping himself alive and in good health. He needed someone else to live for.
His ruminations were disturbed by a knock at the door, followed by the distinctive chime of the doorbell tearing through the quiet.
J settled deeper into his chair, crossed his legs, took his pipe from it's stand on the coffee table [lol!] for it was reserved only for moments such as these when presenting himself with an air of gravitas was necessary, and lit some strawberry flavoured tobacco.
Hastily, M cleared away the remains of the vegetarian pie and hurried to the door. Guests had to climb a flight of steps to access the top floor flat, and a distinctive, dragging noise could be heard, like a great snake pulling it's body weight up the stairs.
Always cautious, M peeped through the spyhole and saw the concave version of a hideous green elf.
"Oh my God," he said and opened the door.
"Pray, come in Madame," said J with the indulgence and charm for which he was famed, and little regard for her unusual appearance. He indicated the chair opposite him.
The girl slowly approached, her elaborate and yet raggy satin ballgown trailing across the floor like a dog might drag a broken limb. With the grace of a princess, of one who has become accustomed to having her own way, she settled into the plush cushions and glared at the detective with a sparkling and unwavering brown eye. Her hair was a birds' nest, dark brown and matted and piled high like some sort of down-and-out Marie Antoinette. Most startling of all was the facepaint, white like a sick geisha with thick lime green and dark brown eyemakeup and ivy coloured, pursed little lips.
She held out a gloved little hand, "R" she said. M, as always, had a polite smile ready, but behind his twinkling blue eyes a sarcastic remark was lurking. J served her sugared mint tea from an arab style, ornate, metal teapot, and then all settled down around the coffee table to bear witness to her recital.
J's flavoured tobacco sent clouds of strawberry smoke pluming into the air which mingled with the girl's overwhelming scent of patchouli and incence.
"As you probably know," she began, sipping her tea, "I am an artist and a musician and take my work very seriously. Tonight is an important night. It's the bi-annual biennale [wtf!] taking place at the university and I've come to you because I've heard good things about you from my friends, whom your services have greatly helped in the past,"
Her bejewelled fingers clinked on the little china teacup as she raised it to her curt little mouth. A green imprint was left behind where her lips had made contact.
"Tonight I am to perform a performance art piece infront of the big names of the art world and I think I have high chances of being recognised and maybe even winning a prize. I've been doing a lot of networking and online promotion and I think my name is finally starting to have a resonance."
She paused for dramatic effect.
M's lips were pursed and poised for some unsaid retort. He didn't think much of these arty types who lived off the wealth of their parents, convincing themselves that their "talent" and the meaningfulness and importance of their creative endeavours merited them respect. Nothing but sophisticated scroungers, he though. Looking at this specimin with all her costume and frills made his stomach lurch. An excess of outward pomp to compensate inner vacuosity. Her sweet, high-pitch, well-spoken little-girl voice grated on his nerves.
He rose to pour himself a shot of J's brandy.
J on the other hand was using his great powers of observance to scrutinise the girl......