Sherlock looked over the bow of his violin. He was bored. Very bored. Watson was off at dinner with yet ANOTRHER woman, Mrs. Hudson was shopping with the maid. In short, there was no one to scandalize or annoy. With a sigh he placed the instrument on the table and reached for the cocaine. Watson would be angry. He smiled at the thought of the good doctor lecturing his and even going as far as to lock the drug in his desk, as he had done last time, before Sherlock simply bought more.
Deciding that this was a perfect time to annoy his friend, as well as test his acting abilities, he did not suck any of the drug into the syringe, but, instead simply stuck it into his arm in order to leave a mark. Leaning back, he awaited the other's return.
He picked up an old volume and read the first chapter before his alert senses notified his to the sound of the door opening and footsteps up the stairs. He fixed a vacant stare on his face, as Watson entered.
"Good God, Holmes!!! Don't tell me you're up to your detestable habits again!!!"
"Pass me my needle?"
"Holmes?"
"Hmmm?"
"No."
"Then I'll get it myself." He began to rise.
"Then you'll be finding another doctor as well as another room mate."
He sprung out of his chair. "Brilliant!!! Brilliant, my dear Watson!!! A truly unexpected response!!!"
"What exactly do you mean?" The poor doctor was stunned.
"Observe the full vial" He made an elaborate gesture to the item in question.
"You mean you-"
The detective placed his hand on the other's shoulder. "I assure you, my dear friend, you have completely erased the habit from me."
"Unfortunately, I have yet to erase your cruel sense of humor…"
"That's all me, not an artificial stimulant." He smirked. Watson grumbled something about snapping and glanced at his revolver, but decided it was too much effort for so lat in the evening.
"Well, goodnight then…"
"Goodnight, my dear doctor." There was something about his grin that reminded Watson of a cat playing with a mouse before it killed and ate it. He decided that it was normal for Holmes he went upstairs, deciding to REALLY think about marriage to this woman… and leaving.
Holmes sat back in his chair by the fire. He shared something with Napoleon, a sleep cycle. He slept, heavily, perhaps one night in four or five. Rising and deciding that he needed to pace, he reached for his pipe. He knew that Watson was seriously looking into marriage, he decided that he must have a little fun before his closest friend left him.
He replaced his unlit pipe on the rack and used every bit of stealth he possessed, to climb the stairs to Watson's room. He slowly opened the door. The doctor was fast asleep, as he had left nearly an hour ago. Holmes slipped into the room.
He observed the room in the dim light and his eyes focused on the nightstand. It was perfect. He first moved it to the other side of the bed. Then the bureau caught his attention. This was rotated 180 degrees. He looked up and saw the simple gas lights over the fireplace. Perfect.
He stalked down to the kitchen and 'borrowed' several pots and pans. These were all hung on said lights. Deciding that it was not enough, he retrieved his cosmetics kit. Using this, he applied some fake blood to his hands and left bloody handprints all over the room, and taking off his slipper, one bloody shoe print near the ceiling, for good measure.
He left the room and went down to his. H slept for a few peaceful hours, until the whole house shook with Watson's outraged screaming.
"HOOOOOOOOOLMES!!!"
He tried to pretend to be innocent, but the sight of the outraged doctor, holding a frying pan sent him into peals of silent laughter.
"Holmes, I swear!!! I WILL hurt you… maybe not now, but some day, when you think you're safe. I don't know how, and I don't know when, but I WILL get YOU…"
This only induced further laughter. This continued until a rather angry Mrs. Hudson climbed the stairs and rapped at the sitting room door. "Have either of you seen where half my pots and pans have gone?"
Watson's glare at Holmes said everything she needed to know. "What the HELL did you do NOW!?!"
Shocked at her tone, Homes stayed silent.
"He hung them around my room."
"OH! Mr. Holmes!!! Really! When my nephew was FIVE he didn't do such things!"
"Because he couldn't reach."
"Doctor Watson, I over heard you say something about hurting him. Well count me in…"
He almost felt ashamed. It was the sweet Mrs. Hudson that did it. He silently retrieved the pots and pans and righted the room. Huffing with irritation he walked to the Diogenes Club and spent the night at his brother's house.
When told the story, Mycroft seriously considered disowning him, but he had to chuckle a little too, at the footprint on the wall.
It was when Mrs. Hudson was cleaning that the method of revenge came to them. She was trying to dust while not disturb any of Holmes's things. She asked Watson to move it for her. They're eyes met and the idea sparked between them.
Later that day, Holmes returned home and found, to his annoyance, that Mrs. Hudson had been cleaning. Knowing that Watson wasn't likely to b willing to converse, he opened his violin case. It was gone. In its place was a sealed envelope. He opened it.
Dear Mr. Holmes,
If you ever want to see your violin again you will be in front of Charring Cross Station at three O'clock PM precisely, to receive further instruction.
The whole message had been cut out of a news paper. He sighed and didn't even bother to check the grate, because he knew the paper crumples in there would be full of holes. With a begrudging scowl, he checked his watch. There was just enough time to get there.
He stood in front of the station, positively seething. Whoever was to meet him, and he sincerely didn't believe Watson would be stupid enough to come in person, was late, by half an hour.
Forty-Five minutes late, his watch said. He looked across the street and down a little. There was a drug store… maybe if he just stopped in there for a little while…
"Ha!!! The pharmacist exclaimed when he asked for a seven percent solution. "Dr. Watson is an old friend of mine. He informed me you'd be coming! He also told me to tell you that under NO circumstances are you to indulge, or you'll never see it again and that you should see Stamford."
"But I've lost contact with him!"
"Watson says he knows and to have fun tracing him."
Holmes's eye twitched. "Good day then." He placed his hat on his head and let the store. "Damn him… damn him…" He muttered under his breath, all the way to Stamford's previous address. A little inquiry amongst the neighbor's maids gave him the new location of his friend. However, by the time he had acquired the knowledge, it was too late to call, especially on the grounds that they had lost contact. So, with fury in his veins, he hailed a cab and drove home fuming at his friend.
Dr. Watson was strangely absent that night. The detective sat down in his chair by the fire and smoked several pipes, trying to figure where this puzzle was going to end. Home? No, to obvious. Some random London location? No, too uncertain. Abroad? No! Too expensive! He grew increasingly frustrated as new ideas popped into his head, each more ridiculous than the last. Eventually he decided the doctor knew too much of his methods to be trusted to err, so he decided to see this problem out, both for something to do and to please his friend, however annoying he may be.
After a slight breakfast the next morning, he set out. Stamford was waiting for him.
"Ah, so you DID find your way here? Well then, allow me to give you your next clue…