I've been feeling lately that all my Sherlock fics have been ending with the poor little Watson suffering in one way or another. So, I decided to take a different approach and have John doted on.
While Sherlock suffers.
Enjoy!
Chapter One
People on the streets were pausing in their daily activities to stare nervously up at the windows of the second story flat in 221 Baker Street where the sounds of raised voices were violently shaking the glass of its windows. Inside the flat an angry argument raged on between one Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson.
"Everything Sherlock? Why did it have to be /everything I owned/?"
"It wasn't everything. Here."
"Oh! Wonderful! I have a sock. Not a pair mind you. Just the one!" John threw the offending piece of fabric onto the remains of his chair. "How exactly did you accomplish this, Sherlock? Our chairs are right beside each other how did you manage to hit only mine?"
"Flamethrowers are finicky. It's hardly my fault-"
"I told you not to use chemical, fire, or shrapnel based weapons without supervision, Sherlock! We've been over this!"
"I'm not a child, John!"
Ring, ring
"Why the hell were you using it in my room anyway?"
Ring, ring
"You're room has the better lighting!"
Ring, ring"
SHUT UP!" Sherlock and John shouted in unison towards their front door.
"Oo oo," Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway. "Don't you boys hear your doorbell?"
Sherlock glanced at his friend. "John."
A vein appeared and threatened to explode in John's neck as he stepped passed Mrs. Hudson. He could be heard muttering promises of pain under his breath the entire way down the stairs.
"Is everything alright? You're making an awful racket up here."
"It's fine, Mrs. Hudson. John and I are just having a... disagreement."
John reappeared in the doorway a moment later, followed by a weeping woman in her mid-fifty's. "Sherlock, this is Mrs. Miller. She says she has a case for you."
Sherlock stared at the distraught woman with an excited hungry look in his eyes. A maniacal smile spread over his face. "Brilliant."
After everyone was settled with a mug of steaming tea in their hand, Mrs. Miller passed Sherlock a photograph of a young man in a football uniform. "That's my son, Timothy." She sniffed. "Just celebrated his twenty-fourth birthday last month."
"And now he's dead. Why come to me? I'm a detective not a necromancer."
John glared at Sherlock while Mrs. Miller let out a horrified sob. When she had collected herself, she continued. "The police say they have nothing further to go on. They say his case has gone cold."
"And you don't believe them?"
"Well..." The grieving mother looked, guiltily at the two men. "I believe they've done everything they can. But that's not good enough." She blew her nose and sighed. "My daughter, she's a lawyer here in London; she told about what it is you can do. Money really isn't a problem."
John leaned forward in his chair. "How did your son die, Mrs. Miller?"
"He was- he was stabbed... seven times."
The sounds of Mrs. Miller's harsh sobs were drowned out by the irritated groan of the great detective.
"That's it? Just stabbed? No poisoning, or suspiciously missing body parts?"
Mrs. Miller frowned in confusion. "No."
"Was the body at least disposed of interestingly?"
"That's the worst part." She sniffed, "His body was found in the hayloft of a local farm. The Brown's, lovely couple. He was naked, there was no identification on him whatsoever. I had to go in and ID my child's body."
Sherlock tutted. "He probably got into an argument with another local, which in turn got out of hand and lead to his untimely demise. The killer then panicked and dumped the body. Which is, simply put, dull, boring and not worth my time. Good day Mrs. Miller, I'd stay at a hotel tonight. That boyfriend your daughter forgot to mention is coming by tonight, an unplanned visit from her mother might not go over well."
There was a long moment of tense silence. "Sherlock."
John shot their guest a smile before relaying the rest of his message to Sherlock through facial expression alone. You're driving me insane. Take the damn case.
But John-
Take it or the next murder you'll be solving will be your own.
Oh for crying out loud. Fine!
Sherlock sighed. "I've been told I'll take your case."
Mrs. Miller blinked. "You'll help?"
Sherlock looked pleadingly at John, who answered for the overgrown child. "Yes, Mrs. Miller, we'll be happy to help."
