Winter is an amusing season. Children mucking about in the snow, couples holding hands, people skating, rushing into cafes to escape the cold; doing normal people things. John sighed; he wished he was doing normal people things. Instead, he was stuck listening to Sherlock mutter endlessly about the case he was currently working on. They seemed to be your general muggings; money was taken, people died; nothing unusual. Or so it seemed.
"The victims are connected John, they all went to the same secondary school!" Sherlock was making progress, albeit slow by his usual standard. "Must be a hard one, joy" thought John.
"That's great Sherlock. So they're connected, now what?" John took the bait. He always did. It did not matter that he certainly did not care, it made Sherlock happy. Now that Mrs. Hudson refused to return the skull, alas poor Yorick… To have someone to use as a thought dart board delighted the detective.
"These are not simple muggings John, no, they are murders. Carefully thought out murders. We have gota serial killer on our hands," Sherlock seemed almost too pleased by this, "And, John,a serial killer means? An MO! He prefers to stab his victim, has to be a man, these marks are indicative of a strong hand. Could not be female. None of the wounds are the same though, so what is he using to stab them? Why even bother to kill them ? He only takes the cash on them, never the jewelry or the cellphones. So what is the purpose?" Not even waiting to hear any input John might have to add, Sherlock began to flip through his notes of the scenes and of the bodies.
John was used to this behaviour by now. Time and time again, Sherlock would become so engrossed in his case, it didn't matter who was around, Sherlock wouldn't notice them. He could be gone for hours, and Sherlock would be none the wiser, talking to thin air as though John was still there. It was sad really, thinking about it. How little John meant to Sherlock, even after having shared the flat for nearly two years. That didn't stop John from caring about the man,no if anything, it made him care more. He made sure Sherlock ate, slept, and even bathed during the most stimulating cases, which was never a pleasant sight. Try getting a moody and obsessed man that's a good four inches taller into a shower, and see how you fair.
One might even question why John put up with it all. The constant mood swings, body parts in the refrigerator, chemicals stored in the kitchen, angry mutterings, and the occasional violin symphony… at four in the morning. It would be insane to stay, if one only counted the negative aspects of living with Sherlock. If you counted the good bits, it was understandable why he stayed, besides the fact London was an expensive city to live in, and army pensions are small. Sherlock provided something John never thought in his wildest dream he would feel for another man. Love. Yes, our very own John Watson loves the elusive Sherlock Holmes. The man that thought it was socially acceptable to go into Buckingham Palace buck naked, had a hold on John's heart.
It hadn't happened over night, nor over the course of a few short weeks. It took time, and well, only time knows how these things turn out. It started with an appreciation for Sherlock's deductive skills and the rest is history. So, John would put up with these things because, despite all reason, he cherished the man and all his little (and big) oddities.
"I asked you a question John, you could at least answer it." John's reverie was broken by another outburst from Sherlock.
"Sorry, what was it? Got kind of lost there for a minute." A minute that felt like a years' worth of emotion hitting him at once.
"I asked, do not make me repeat this again, what could the murder weapon be. You're a doctor, look at these wounds, they aren't the same. What made them?"
At first glance, they looked like regular knife wounds. Upon closer inspection, each wound, on all four bodies, was different. No two were the same size, shape, or depth, if the notes that went along with each picture were anything to go by.
"Hmm, good question, prison-like shank maybe? Or maybe the man's got spikes for fingers. I don't know Sherlock." John sighed, for what felt like the umpteenth time that day. "Couldn't he just figure it out already? What do I know, he can't be stumped," John mused, slightly perturbed. If Sherlock couldn't figure it out, then no one would. Sherlock just kept muttering to himself, obviously displeased with that answer.
"If he can't figure it out, I'll be damned. But it best be soon, he's starting to drive me up the wall." Even the most patient of men can take so much, and John had been listening to this since nine that morning when Lestrade had called about the case. It now being past seven, his nerve was worn thin.
"Why don't you give it a break for a bit, have rest, and then look at it with fresh eyes?" John ventured. He may love the man, but that didn't mean he could stand the man's petulant sighs as the evidence didn't add up.
"Don't be stupid John, if I stop now I'll lose this thought. If only the weapon was clear, then I'd have him. Shut up and be useful, give me your phone."
"You already have it; I gave it to you over an hour ago."
"Did you? Ahh right, here it is."
John looked on, annoyed, yet slightly amused. Leave it to Sherlock to forget the phone he had tucked into the pocket of his trousers. Even the worlds only consulting detective could misplace things. He IS only human.
John decided to settle in for the long haul, with a book and a nice hot cup of tea. Sherlock would be up all night, it would be useless for him to try and sleep. He would only be woken up by his rabid flatmate either figuring out the case, or demanding John accompany him to apprehend the culprit, whomever that might be.
The book could only distract him for so long, as Sherlock had begun to stab the poor ham in the fridge with various house hold items. This was highly unusual, as the victims of such treatment normally came from the cadavers of St. Bart's morgue.
"Sherlock…? SHERLOCK! What in the bloody hell are you doing to the poor ham? We could have eaten that…" This was too far, even for John's standard. Not the food, he just bought that. Which is highly unfair, it looked so delicious. Alas, it now had a candle holder and one of the bars from the bed frame sticking from its sides.
"It has to be something readily available, comes in many sizes. But something you could carry without being noticed. It's not a wooden stake; there were no traces of organic material in the wounds. What could it BE?!" Shamelessly, he began to stab the ham again, now with a knitting needle, probably nicked from Mrs. Hudson. Various other items were strewn about, somehow collected without John noticing. A fork, a shockingly sharp looking letter opener, a serving spoon… serving spoon?
"A serving spoon, really? As if that is inconspicuous."
"Shut up John, I'm thinking. You're becoming as nagging as Anderson, I've almost got it!" Sherlock shouted, anger rising.
"Oh, am I annoying you? Want me to turn around too?" John retorted, not really expecting an answer.
"Yes, that would be quite helpful, actually. You areright though, if the murderer were using any of these he would have been noticed by now." Sherlock then shoved every item he had collected onto the floor, and began rifling through the drawers of the kitchen.
"I will not turn around, are you serious?" John took a step closer to Sherlock. Enough was enough.
"Of course I am John, do turn around, that dumb struck look you've got is putting me off," he stepped towards John, as if to physically turn him around. This would just not do.
"I will not turn around. I live here Sherlock, for god's sake you can't order me around like I'm one of the techies." John took another step closer, now almost at the point of invading the bubble that generally surrounded Sherlock. Sherlock kept on ranting, about how distracting John was being, his voice rising in a crescendo, never ceasing in his deductions. Patience ebbing, John knew, he only had one shot to do this right, to shut the taller man up. Five seconds could change it all, and he was going to take those five seconds. It was now or never, as thoughts raced through his mind. The words of the past stuck out and pulled his attention in a million different directions as he came to his final decision.
Five- "I think you should know I consider myself married to my work…"
Four- "There is no usual in this case,"
Three-"We get all sorts round here"
Two-"Should I be expecting a happy announcement by the end of the week?"
"Listen. What I said before, John, I meant it. I don't have friends. I've just got one."
John craned his neck upwards, and swiftly planted a firm kiss on the suddenly startled dark haired man's lips, which effectively shut him up. He pulled back, ready to stammer out some sort of apology, when to his surprise, a smile broke out across the face of the man standing before him.
"Icicles- of course. It all makes sense now. Thank you, John."
"Wha.. What? Is that all you've got to say..?"
"Don't look crestfallen John," retorted Sherlock, slyly kissing John, "You thought I didn't notice? Do try not to stare if you ever find yourself interested in someone else. It was rather obvious." Sherlock smiled, a rather genuine smile, visibly enjoying watching John squirm.
"You are an ass, you know that, right?
"Yes, and you like my ass, are you done now?"
John smiled; this was the kind of banter he could get used to. Sadly, with Sherlock, 'normal' people things would have to be taken off the list of things to do. And John was OK with that.