A Supernatural cosplay won the Seattle Sherlock Con competition?! I still maintain that we would have won, if you had let me explain how to identify 243 different cigarette ashes, John.
You should have worn the hat, Sherlock.
Right. So I made it back from the Seattle Sherlock Con Monday in time to feed cats, clean the litter boxes, and dash off to my NaNoWriMo group meeting where I finally decided which Sherlock novella project I would work on and started roughing out the outline (only 7 days behind schedule).
Thank You to Everyone Who Donated or Bought a T-Shirt or Tote Bag
I met some lovely people at the Sherlock Convention and really appreciated the support, both verbal and tangible. We are completely out of both Small and 2XL quote t-shirts. Some folks had some smashing ideas for taking a Large t-shirt and recycling it into something they could use even though it was too big. Some of my favourite ideas was a pillow, a purse and a laptop case cover. I may play with those this winter.
I’ll be posting a big Thank You Shout Out tomorrow for as many of the lovely folks who assisted, said kind, words, and so forth at the SSC. I’ll also be getting up the promised PDF files for the complete set of Sherlock Quote (Artist) Trading Cards so that folks can download the sheets and print out their own set on business card stock. I’m glad so many folks enjoyed them.
Meanwhile, I’ve decided to try to add the rest of the non-Holmes Boys fan fiction to the PDF compilation Sherlock Cares Volume 1, that folks can download, and if they want to kick it old school, print out and turn into a physical zine. I’m also going to test my copy of Scrivener to see if I really can create an epub in multiple formats (including Kindle) with cover. I have a few of the “What Might We Deduce About His Heart?” double-sided mini-posters/fanzine covers left and will figure out something to do with them later this year. So be a little more patient with me on that (I have to catch up on being roughly 12,000 words behind on NaNoWriMo (not to mention those pesky things like paying bills).
Oh, and naturally, my copy of Sherlock: The Casebook arrived on Saturday while I was gone so I’m trying to not spend the day reading it instead of actually getting work done.
Someone had made a small tactical error. While it was true Sherlock Holmes had been told he wasn’t to attend his brother Mycroft’s tenth birthday party, no one had expressly stated that Sherlock wasn’t allowed to observe the party. Besides it was boring stuck in the nursery alone. And it wasn’t fair that he couldn’t come because he was only almost-three. All the other people at the party were old. Some of them were even older than Mummy and Father!
At the moment, Sherlock was hidden behind a curtain trying to keep absolutely still. He’d had to slip into the room that acted as both library and Father’s study because someone was coming down the hall. He’d barely managed to get behind the curtains before two older boys entered it as well. Before Sherlock could decide whether to show himself and demand what the boys were doing in there, taking the what his older brother called the offensive, the boys moved to the window next to him, flung it open, and began smoking.
Apparently, they only had the one cigarette because Sherlock could hear them pass it back and forth, taking long, deep sucks, then holding their breaths for several seconds before slowly releasing the smoke in the general direction of the open window. One of the boys coughed. Some of the smoke drifted to the small pocket behind the curtain tickling Sherlock’s nose. He thought the cigarette stank and he knew Mummy was not going to be happy about the smell in her curtains. Even Father never smoked in the library.
The boy who coughed shifted his weight. His shoe made a distinctive squeak as he said, “Dude, this is good shit.”
The other boy inhaled deeply, held his breath, and after a moment replied, “Yeah. I nicked it from my sister’s boyfriend.” The second boy had the trace of a Scottish accent and a high pitch to his voice.
“He’s going to be pissed when he finds it gone.” The first boy sounded bigger and older with a deeper pitch, and had a solidly upper-class accent.
“Not as pissed as when he finds his fifty quid is gone, too.”
Then both boys broke out into a fit of giggles. Sherlock was trying to hold his breath to avoid the stinky smoke when the library door opened and he heard his brother say, “You aren’t suppose to be in here and you definitely aren’t suppose to be smoking…” There was a pause as Mycroft sniffed before finishing with “…marijuana in here.”
“Piss off, you fat faggot! And take you’re stupid girlfriend with you,” the bigger boy with the squeaky shoes said.
“Really? A fat joke and a sexual epithet? That’s the best you can do?” Mycroft said calmly in that supercilious tone that drove Sherlock mad. Sherlock heard Mycroft and someone smaller cross the room. Mycroft continued, “As for stupid, smoking pot while the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police sits in the next room with a judge, two members of Parliament and a member of the Cabinet staff hardly reeks of superior intellect. You two, on the other hand, do reek of cannabis. You may want to wash before rejoining the party.”
Here the larger boy with the squeaky shoes said something Sherlock didn’t recognize. Judging from the feminine gasp, Sherlock figured it was something he should not say around Mummy or even Nanny, but might try to shock his brother. The smoking boys stomped off with Squeaky Shoes in the lead. As the door closed as loudly and firmly as any door in Mummy’s house was allowed to close, Lady Beatrice “Bunny” Wigglesworth asked, “Should I go get Daddy or someone?”
“No. It would upset Mummy if her party were ruined by… unpleasantness. Why don’t you run along and get a us good seats before the music starts?”
“I hope there’s dancing.”
There was a brief hesitation before Mycroft said, “I’ll be along in a moment. I just want to air out the room a bit.”
Bunny’s footsteps moved away and the door opened and closed once more. There was a beat and then Mycroft said, “Sherlock, you can come out now.”
Another in the young Holmes Brothers series of fanfic.
[Author’s Note: A big Thank You Shout-out to Anne Zanoni, professional copy editor extraordinaire, for sending me all of the corrections to my original post. I fear in school I suffered through all of the various changes in editing style from minimalist journalism to Southern “commas go where you would have a reader pause” technique, so the final result can be rather random. And then there’s my tendency to leave out words or leave in extra words while revising a sentence. *heavy sigh* Thank you, Anne, for your patience and hard work.]
I told you mess with me and I’d write you the longest, high-speed, deduction monolog in the history of television
When People Die They’re Taken To a Special Room
By J. H. Watson ~4,000 words
Sherlock Holmes shifted in his seat and swung his little legs, until his feet in his shiny new shoes kicked the chair in front of him. It made an interesting little “thonk” sound with a slight rasp as the sole slid back down from the wooden back. On the fourth kick, his older brother Mycroft said, “Stop it.”
“No.” Sherlock kicked the chair back again.
“Why should I?” Sherlock asked as he swung his foot out again.
“Because Mummy is looking this way at you and she’s frowning.”
Sherlock dropped his foot and cast a quick glance towards where his mother and father stood, listening to a rather older man with gray hair. Mummy raised an eyebrow at Sherlock and he sat up straight and slipped back against the seat so that he was effectively hidden by the bulk of his older brother. After a moment, Sherlock sighed, slumped a bit and said, “I’m bored.”
“It’s a funeral, Sherlock. It’s not being held for your entertainment. Now sit still and stop fidgeting.”
“Why didn’t we go to the cemetery and see his grave? Nanny says that some cemeteries are so crowded that sometimes when they dig a new grave they find parts of an old body. I might have found a bone or something. That would have been interesting at least.”
“Grandfather was cremated so there won’t be any grave.”
“People are taken to a special room and burned after they are dead.”
“Cool! Are we going to watch them burn Grandfather?”
Sherlock sighed and slumped further so that he was beginning to resemble a little boy melting off the chair. Mycroft sighed as well before saying, “Sit up straight.”
“There’s nothing to do!” Sherlock whined. He’d managed to draw out the last word in a manner that was usually written as “dooooooooooo” but banged his head against his chair back for emphasis causing him to end with an exclamation that turned it into “dooooooo-ow!”
Mycroft glanced at his two-not-quite-three-year-old baby brother. Mycroft was nine-going-on-forty and was actually rather fond of his brother — most of the time. Except now. When Sherlock was acting his age instead of his I.Q.
Mycroft tugged his brother up onto the chair sharply and said, “Look around you. What do you see?”
Sherlock Holmes looked down at his phone and frowned. “John, I need your phone.”
John Watson face expressed his exasperation as he got up and walked over to where Sherlock was sitting looking into scope in a lab at Bart’s Hospital. John fished his mobile out of his coat pocket and placed it in Sherlock’s demanding, out-stretched hand. “What do you do when I’m not here to loan you my phone?”
“Borrow Molly’s,” Sherlock said as he made one more adjustment to the scope before looking up and adding, “Or go up on the roof. I get perfect reception on the roof.”
“That could be dangerous.”
Sherlock made a derisive face as he finished typing his text and hitting send.
Watson said defensively, “You could fall off.”
Sherlock stared at his friend as he held out the phone in return
John blinked and added, “Or get struck by lightening.”
Sherlock held the stare and the right corner of his mouth curled in a derisive smirk. John snatched the phone from Sherlock’s hand. A blush crept up John’s face as he stuffed it back into his pocket. As he turned he muttered, “Or someone could push you off.”
Sherlock had returned to peering through his scope.”What did you say?”
“I’m just going to push off.”
Sherlock slid another slide in place as he said, “Right. You might try the ginger barmaid who paints.”
John turned back. “What?”
Sherlock was peering through scope making an adjustment as he replied, “At the pub. She’s interested in going out with you.”
“She deliberately turned around to look at your backside last night and smiled.”
John paused. “Right. Thanks.”
John left the lab. Sherlock smiled to himself. A few moments later he spotted something, quickly replaced the slide with another, made another adjustment, then sat up and pulled out his phone. He started to punch in something, stopped, looked at it and made face. “Damn! I’ve got to get another carrier.”
He stood up and collected his scarf and coat.
### End ###
Sorry. Another bit of niggling continuity issues that get to me is that in the Sherlock-Watson “cute meet” scene in A Study in Pink, Sherlock needs to borrow John’s phone because he can’t get a signal inside Bart’s, but after that he never seems to have any trouble. Especially in Reichenbach Falls when he can’t afford to have any interruption with his phone service because of the intricate timing of his final move with Moriarty. I’m mentally justifying it with some backstory that Sherlock changes his mobile carrier after the initial meet-up with John. It’s the simplest explanation…
Oh, alright, I’ll throw the slash/shippers a bone (no pun intended) and say that another alternative answer is that Sherlock looks John over and decides he wants to impress and connect so he pretends he can’t get service inside of Bart’s so he can borrow John’s phone because he’s already deduced that Stamford doesn’t have his. But I’ll let someone else write that story.
I think this calls for a dozen chocolate frosted Krispy Kremes.
I really wasn’t planning to write this today. I have no idea where it came from. You can’t exactly call it post-Reichenbach Fall (although I did tag it as such). But it’s definitely Reichenfeels.
I think it was the gray stratus clouds moving in today that got to me. And I’m really sorry I looked up information on the Krispy Kreme site (like Mycroft, I’m on a diet and even when I’m not, Krispy Kremes are deadly for me). Fortunately, the nearest Krispy Kreme is 80 miles away!
Anyway, if you enjoy, please feel free to comment or tweet, or something. Thanks!
It Was You
By J.H. Watson ~ 800 Words
Mycroft Holmes sat quietly in a chair designed and built for comfort in a room designed for long periods of comfortable, quiet sitting in the contemplative sanctuary afforded by the Diogenes Club. The club’s entire raison d’être, as the better educated diplomatic members would put it, or its purpose, as the rest of us would say, was to buffer its members from the hurly-burly, hustle and bustle of London’s ordinary residents. Mycroft Holmes knew he was decidedly not an ordinary resident, even for the Diogenes Club.
He glanced once around the room and made a mental note to have someone on his staff send flowers to Sir Smythe-Higgsbosun’s widow. Of course, she wouldn’t be a widow until the end of next week, but it was always better not to leave this things until the last moment. He also made a note to ensure that he had no investments in his portfolio connected with the any of the corporations controlled by the Right Honourable Charles Cœur-Défaillant who was planning to disappear with his latest mistress within the fortnight despite buying tickets to the National Theatre.
Mycroft felt a gentle flutter over his heart. It was a silent signal from his mobile politely requesting his attention. He discreetly removed the dignified and tasteful phone from the pocket of his equally dignified suit jacket. Everything, and everyone, in the Diogenes Club appeared tasteful and dignified at all times. Mycroft peered at the screen.
The text read: u o me
Mycroft stared at it a moment as if expecting something more. He read the message again. Unnecessarily, but it gave him another moment to rapidly consider the mind of his brother, Sherlock, before taking any action.
Sherlock closed the article he’d been reading and restored the newsfeed on his phone as he said, “Well, John, that’s another assassin down.”
“Were you talking to me? My name’s Mohammed.”
Sherlock looked up sharply. John wasn’t there. Sherlock scanned the only person there. Single. College student. Education visa from Pakistan. Left-handed engineering major who would be lucky to get a Second at City University London. Dating an economics major far smarter than him and two years older. Slow developing kidney disease.
Sherlock shook his head. The man tossed the t-shirt he’d been folding into the basket, picked the basket up and left Sherlock alone in the laundromat. In was after two in the morning. Sherlock had chosen the time deliberately. He’d been surprised to find even Mohammed sharing the facilities with him.
Sherlock thought of John’s reaction to finding him doing his own laundry, let alone at a public laundromat. He smiled. Of course, it had been awhile since he’d had to deal with his own laundry. He’d forgotten exactly how tedious the task was.
At the thought of John Watson, an almost overwhelming craving for a cigarette washed through Sherlock. He walked over to the vending machines, shoved some coins into one, selected something chocolate. It didn’t really matter what, it wouldn’t be satisfying. Very little was satisfying right now.
Sherlock ate the chocolate candy automatically, tasting little. He considered coffee, but he hadn’t slept in several days and he knew he needed to sleep soon. He’d been getting careless, talking out loud more often. Talking to John.
Who wasn’t there.
But Sherlock hated sleeping. When he slept he dreamed and when he dreamed he saw John. Falling. Crumbling to the ground, a neat hole in the front and the back of his head a ragged, gaping hole. The occipital lobe gone along with large parts of the parietal and temporal and the blood flowing, flushing more brains onto the ground. And Sherlock stood there, looking down, automatically classifying the damage, the smoking gun in his hand.
The dryer beeped recalling Sherlock to his purpose. He took the clothes from the dryer and dumped them on the folding table. He looked at the pile.
John Watson would have taken one look at the jeans, t-shirts and hoodies and said, “Decided to give Spencer Hart a night off?”
Once more a smiled played at the corners of Sherlock’s lips. He fought the sentiment stirring in his chest, trying to soar in a rush of dopamine to his brain. Sentiment was a chemical defect found in the losing side. Love was a dangerous disadvantage.
But even more dangerous was lying to oneself.
In the honest moments, like this one, Sherlock knew he loved. He’d let Moriarty destroy everything but his friends. And Sherlock had even lost them, for now.
He was no stranger to being alone. He’d felt alone most of his life. Alone had been peaceful, detached, like floating above the chaos, looking down on ordinary people’s lives. He had learned to embrace detachment like a Buddhist monk.
Now alone felt like a huge, sucking vortex, a black hole threatening to pull Sherlock in, extinguishing all light, crush him in the darkness. With a start of surprise, Sherlock realized he was…lonely.
As he folded the last of his clothes, he explored the experience. Like a tongue drawn inexorably to a sore tooth, Sherlock probed the pain, recalling John in that first taxi ride to a crime scene, the moment of realization that John Watson had saved him from swallowing the poisoned pill, the lurch in his chest as John wrapped himself strapped in a Semtex vest around Moriarty, and all the other moments until the last.
But the point of all this was to prevent it from being the last. John was not dead and neither was he. And as soon as it was safe, he would let John know he was alive. In one last moment of open honesty, he thought, “Alive but not living.”
Some other night owl entered the laundromat and gave Sherlock the once over and a brief nod. Homeless. Alcoholic. Looking for a relatively dry, warm, safe place to kip. Sherlock threw the last garment in his backpack, drew the hoodie further over his face, and stepped out into the night — alone.
Did I remember to logoff on my computer before I left the flat?
Okay, yes, I’m a computer nerd, but I could not help noticing all of the times Sherlock merely closes his laptop or opens his laptop and starts working *without logging off or on.* This is particularly annoying in Reichenbach Falls when he knows all the bad guys are after him. Let’s not even talk about John wanting to get a little of his own back.
Alright, let’s talk about that. Check back tomorrow for the flash fanfic.
It’s Password Protected
by J. H. Watson ~ 1,800 words
“Oh, you’re back early. I estimated it’d be at least the pudding before your date claimed she had a headache.”
John Watson sighed. He counted on just one date that wasn’t ruined by his flatmate. “I thought you were working at Bart’s tonight.”
“The patient didn’t die. Thrown my entire schedule off.”
Sherlock Holmes had his back to John and hadn’t looked up from whatever he was reading on his computer screen. John figured he might as well get the worst over. “Sherlock, I’d like you to meet my date. Mary, I’d like you to meet my flatmate and colleague, Sherlock Holmes.”
The young woman said, “Pleased to meet you.”
Sherlock turned around and looked her up and down and cocked an eyebrow. He radiated disapproval.
Mary added, “Glad to see you like our products.” She gestured towards the MacBook Pro Sherlock had been working on. “Let me know if you have any problems.”
“I can help.”
“I doubt that.”
John stepped in, giving Sherlock a warning look. “Mary works at the Apple Store, Sherlock. She’s an Apple Genius.”
Sherlock made a noise that was somewhere between a snort and a snigger, but definitely derisive. This was made clear by the face he pulled and the way he rolled his eyes. Mary smiled and said, “You don’t like the job title?”
Sherlock stood up and walked forward so he was looming over the far shorter woman. He replied, “It hardly takes a genius to work in tech support.”
Mary didn’t take a step back, but simply looked up and said, “Well, I didn’t choose the job title.”
“But you chose the job.”
“Does it make you feel like a genius explaining to the technologically illiterate how to charge their iPods?”
“Does it make you feel like a genius to abuse dead bodies?” Mary peered around Sherlock to look pointedly at his computer.
He stepped back and slapped his laptop closed and replied, “It’s scientific research.”
“Is that what they call it these days? I guess ‘necrophilia’ is a bit dodgy on the CV.”
John stepped in and said, “Let me just grab that coat and we’ll grab some dinner.”
Sherlock said, “Good idea. There’s nothing in the fridge except for that tongue. And I plan to dissect it tomorrow.”
Mycroft Holmes was trying very hard to pretend that he didn’t feel like a complete boob in his riding clothes sitting atop a stocky pony who looked equally uncomfortable. It had not helped that his little brother, Sherlock, giggled uncontrollably whenever he saw Mycroft in the riding habit.
Mummy, of course, looked like perfection in her riding attire. She was slim, lithe, poised, and there was something about the way she held the riding crop, the small gestures she made with it, the way she occasionally twisted the leather in her gloved hands, that caught not only Mycroft’s attention, but the attention of some of the other boys, particularly the older ones. Certainly the other men in attendance followed her with their eyes.
Most of the other women were also slender and poised, but lacked the quiet confidence, the je nais se quoi as Mycroft’s French tutor put it, that Mummy possessed. Mycroft had heard his father say that Mummy had “an aura of power.” Mycroft had decided that it was good thing to have so he was secretly practicing cultivating it. The cultivation might have gone a bit better without his weedy little brother asking him why he looked like he was constipated.
At the moment, Mycroft felt strongly that the only aura he had, or would ever have where sport was concerned, was the funk of boredom — and sweat. A rivulet crept down his cheek from under his helmet. He fought an urge to wipe it away with his coat sleeve.
The other boys and girls wore their inherently silly riding outfits on their slender, taunt frames with a certain nonchalance. They appeared fit, trim, sporty, secure and relaxed. They were veritable poster children for affluence and influence.
Mycroft suspected he looked more like Lady Beatrice “Bunny” Wigglesworth, the plump, pallid younger daughter of the Earl of Hamilton. Bunny never looked liked she was wearing her riding clothes so much as they were wearing her — and she didn’t fit.
Bunny was the only member of a polo mad family who was actually afraid of all things equine, including her squat, little pony. She always looked as miserable as Mycroft felt. The two were invariably paired at the end of the line up and usually ignored by the others.
Mycroft wasn’t afraid of horses, but he didn’t like them much. He didn’t wish them any particular ill. He was perfectly willing to live and let live provided their lives did not connect with his. And he saw no reason why he should torture one for an hour or more twice a week when he could be spending the time on something valuable like reading the Financial Times or John LeCarré. But Mummy was very pleased that he was Bunny’s partner and encouraged Mycroft to be “helpful” and kind.
He didn’t actually need the encouragement. He rather liked Bunny and she was quite possibly the only friend Mycroft had — or might ever have.
Which would have surprised everyone else if they had known, because Bunny was what the adults euphemistically called “intellectually challenged” and the other students simply called dumb. Mycroft, on the other hand was called “intellectually gifted” by the adults and a “know-it-all” by the other children. “Know-it-all” was the kindest and politest term used, usually because there were adults present.
What no one else seemed to understand was that Bunny was always trying her best. She worked at understanding things. And she really appreciated someone taking the time to explain things to her. The other people Mycroft met didn’t seem to even try to use their brains. It drove him mad. Mummy said his brains were his secret weapon and he could use them to get whatever he wanted.
So far his brains hadn’t gotten Mycroft out of the riding lessons.
Apparently, Sherlock hasn’t noticed the boot black on the eyepieces yet, John
Let’s face it, John Watson would be perfectly within his rights to get a little of his own back…
Check back a little later on and there should be a new bit of flash fic for this one.
Right. Took a little longer than expected. Unexpected sunshine.
By J.H. Watson ~950 words
John Watson wandered through the kitchen in his bathrobe and slippers, dabbing at his freshly shaved face with a towel. His flatmate, Sherlock Holmes, was peering into the microscope that took up a large portion of the kitchen table. The rest of the table was covered with books, papers and assorted scientific and chemical paraphernalia. John’s lip twitched at a corner as he passed Sherlock’s back.
Sherlock said, “John, please do not not touch my equipment without my permission.”
“I’m familiar with the ‘boot black on the eyepieces’ form of hazing.”
John picked up the paper and sat in his chair. “Seb and his buddies at uni teach it to you?”
Sherlock continued to look into his scope. “No. My preparatory school classmates.”
John turned the page of the paper before saying, “Started young?”
“They had the excuse of being children. You are being merely childish.”
John turned another page. “I was referring to you. What did you do? Nicked all of their lunch money? Changed all of their grades? Exposed them to the bubonic plague to study the results?”
Sherlock sighed and finally looked up from his scope. The area around his eyes were red from apparent scrubbing. “I’ve apologized. It was not my intent to inconvenience you.”
John tossed his newspaper to the floor and stood up to face Sherlock. “Inconvenience me? I was humiliated in front of my date and about 100 other people in one of the poshest restaurants in London!”
“She wasn’t going to have sex with you anyway.”
“How— That’s not the point!” John took a deep breath and bit back whatever he was about to say. Sherlock tilted his head and stared at him with a questioning look. Quietly, John continued, “We’ve discussed this, Sherlock. You are not to use me, or anything of mine, without my knowledge.”
Sherlock stood up and started heading towards the hall.
John said, “You may want to grab some kitchen roll if you’re heading for the bathroom or your room.”
“Petroleum jelly on the knobs?”
Sherlock stepped back and grabbed some sheets and then disappeared. John went to the kitchen and poured himself some tea. From the bathroom there was a loud cry, followed by a rather choice string of expletives. John raised his voice and called out, “Sorry. Forgot about the cling film on the toilet bowl. Hope it didn’t ruin your suit.”
John couldn’t make out the subsequent comments, but he heard the door slam as he settled back into his chair. He smiled to himself as he picked up the paper and continued reading.
The next morning John came down to find Mycroft Holmes in conversation with his brother. Sherlock had his back to his brother, fussing with something around the coffee machine.
“This is important, Sherlock.”
John said, “Morning, boys. Arguing about who gets to play with the army today?”
Sherlock turned around with a cup of coffee in his hands. As he stepped towards John, Mycroft started coughing. Sherlock said, “John, good morning. Have a cup of coffee.”
John looked at the proffered cup suspiciously. “You don’t make coffee.”
“Not often. But I made it for you today.”
Mycroft was still coughing. He reached over and took the cup from the saucer and drank it in a gulp. Then he made a face of distaste and turned to Sherlock and said, “That’s awful! No wonder you don’t make the coffee.”
Sherlock looked at his brother. His face twitched. “That was for John.”
“Well, he should consider himself lucky.” Mycroft’s phone signaled. He looked at the screen and said, “I have to take this. We’ll talk more later, Sherlock.” As he passed John he said, “Good morning, John. Don’t drink the coffee.”
John blinked. It was a beat before he could say, “Right. Uh…” Mycroft was already heading down the stairs and out the door.
John turned back to Sherlock. Sherlock wore his innocent face. John said, “His tongue and lips were blue.”
Sherlock burst out giggling.
“Methylene blue?” John asked. He raised his eyebrows.
Sherlock nodded. John held his countenance for a beat and then started giggling as well. “It’s not funny. You can’t go around dosing people with chemicals. What if he was on medication or had a reaction?”
“He isn’t and he won’t.”
“He’s an important government official.”
Sherlock nodded. “Very important. He’s off to meet the prime minister.”
John held Sherlock’s gaze for a moment in sheer horror at the scene playing out in his mind. Then they both burst out laughing. They fell onto the sofa and laughed until John’s sides hurt. Each time they started to quiet down, they caught each other’s glance and started again.
Finally, John, between trying to catch his breath, said, “It was meant for me.”
“My favourite suit is at the dry cleaners. I had to say I was holding a child on my lap.”
John smirked. Then he fought for control of his face, working to wipe the smile off of it. No good. He said, “How long do you think until someone dares to tell him he’s blue?”
Sherlock’s phone rang. He glanced at it. “Apparently, ten minutes. Probably the prime minister.”
Sherlock looked at John. This set them both off giggling again.
“He’s going to pee blue for days,” Sherlock offered.
Trying to catch his breath, John said, “I suppose we’d better call a truce before innocent people are hurt.”
“My brother is hardly innocent.”
“Okay, call it collateral damage. Imagine if it had been Mrs. Hudson.”
Sherlock stared out as if contemplating the outcome. Quietly, he replied, “Agreed.”
It’s funny what you remember, John Watson thought as he put down his cup of coffee. He pulled out his wallet and signaled for his check. When the waitress merely waved a lazy hand and continued chatting with the tall man who’d ordered the coffee, John tossed a note on the table and left.
He’d been fine. He’d been fine for days. Until he heard a posh baritone order a cup of coffee black, with two sugars. John pressed his lips together and blinked telling himself it was the biting, bitter wind that made his eyes sting and well up. He walked on, his hands jammed into the pockets of his black jacket, his shoulders hunched, against the cold he told himself again. It’s just that I’m cold.
It seemed like lately John was always cold.
## End ##
I swear this started out to be a comedy… I have no idea what happened. I think I had an attack of the Reichenfeels.
But seriously given how Sherlock takes his coffee and the fact that the one thing he raided from Mrs. Hudson’s fridge was a icing covered tart, I think it’s safe to say that Sherlock has a sweet-tooth. So I’m thinking John (or Molly) could do a bit of neuropsychology here…