AN: Hello readers!
This is technically a sequal to 'The Palm Branch Napper', which I would recommend you first.
Like the Palm Branch Napper, this is a collaborative effort between the wonder Nephynix and myself. Nephy writes Sherlock's parts and I write John's parts.
Please note, that we do write this on the spot, write off what the other has written, and generally make it up as we go along. We are also both Americans, so forgive us if we get some facts wrong, we are taking some creative liberties here. Please feel free to point out any errors and we'll fix them if we can.
Thanks for reading!
-Allie and Nephy
Chapter 1:
Sherlock stomps loudly into the flat, his coat soaking wet from the rain, his curls plastered to his forehead, a scowl painting his face.
Horrendous week. What with Molly, and then chasing after petty criminals…ugh. The tedium was killing him.
It would have been better if he was bored.
Shrugging off his coat, he doesn't even bother looking around the messier than usual flat, nor does he even acknowledge that John is not there. At the surgery. Irrelevant. Delete.
He tosses the jacket to the floor, not even caring that both Mrs. Hudson and John will get all over his case later. Actually, he would prefer it.
Ever since Molly got away…
Everything at 221B has been different.
And Sherlock hates it.
Sure, Molly and Jim both got away. So what! He didn't need to be coddled or treated any differently. Particularly by Martha.
Sherlock yanks out his violin and begins to abuse the instrument, playing out his furry, frustration, every emotion that he cannot withstand, attempting to delete it all.
John slips his arm into his coat sleeve. His shift at the surgery is over, but he's talking his time. He's not eager to return to Baker Street.
It's been a rough week. And John, always long suffering, doesn't know how much more he can take. Tensions are running high and he's already argued with Sherlock today.
Despite the talk Sherlock had with Mrs. Hudson, he's still frustrated with Molly's escape. Which makes him more irritable than normal. Both Mrs. Hudson and John have been trying to be extra careful around him, but that seems to upset him more.
"Everything alright John?" a voice breaks through John's thoughts.
He looks up and sees Sarah watching him with mild concern. He realizes he's been standing in the same spot, coat on, staring at the floor, for several minutes.
"Oh, yah. Everything's fine," he replies quickly, "Sorry, gotta dash." And then he leaves. He doesn't want to talk to Sarah right now.
He hurries outside and into the pouring rain. Of course it's raining, John thinks as he hails a cab.
He reaches the flat and struggles with the key in his cold fingers. He can hear Sherlock playing the violin as he slowly trudges up the stairs.
He hesitates at the door, before entering.
The flat's a mess, like it was this morning. John hangs up his coat, clears the pile of paper off his armchair, and sits down without greeting Sherlock.
Sherlock doesn't acknowledge John, too deep into his music, his mind racing at the pace of the violent notes. The storm is his time keeper. running through hundreds of files in his brain, deleting every scrap of irrelevant data.
Last time I ate.
Lestrades's boring cases.
Faster and faster the data is suppressed from his mind, clearing it. Helping him focus. Soon, all he is paying attention to is the notes on the violin, an original, yet very personal piece.
Soon the last note rings throughout the flat.
As if in response, a crash of thunder nearby echoes.
Sherlock stands there, limbs shaking from exhaustion…what he always feels after such a huge delete.
A necessary relief.
Cocaine would have worked better.
Irrelevant as to why he chose not to.
He turns to John, finally acknowledging his flatmate's presence.
"You're later than usual." He states, blunt as always, part of the black mood still hovering over him, but not as prevalent as earlier that morning.
A few excuses pop into John's head. Traffic, Sarah. But he doesn't say any of those things. They're all lies and Sherlock would know it.
"Yep," he replies tiredly, "The case you were working on…?" he trails off.
Sherlock doesn't respond, but the look on his face is enough of an answer for John.
"Not so good then."
They sit in silence.
John gives up on trying to have a conversation, gets up, makes a cup of tea and settles down to watch some tele. But there's nothing good on so he turns it off.
Finally, John can't stand the silence anymore.
"I'm sorry about this morning," he says.
Sherlock nods, the memory flashing in the forefront of his mind.
No matter how hard he could ever try, deleting anything John related is impossible for the Consulting Detective. He doesn't understand why…
And finds that he really doesn't want to delete anything about John.
"How was work today?" Sherlock asks, his form of forgiving his flatmate, and asking for forgiveness. What happened that morning really was his fault, after all.
John shrugs, "Alright. Nothing eventful." He's surprised by the question. Sherlock rarely asks him about work. But John knows its Sherlock's unique way of showing he's sorry and he appreciates it.
Sherlock stares at him, knowing there's more.
"Things have been weird with Sarah," John admits. He doesn't know why says it; he doesn't talk to Sherlock about his love life. "But it doesn't matter," he adds.
He glances around the flat, feeling a bit awkward.
Sherlock watches John for a moment as his flatmate's gaze around the apartment, trying to figure out if he's crossed a line. John rarely shares about Sarah.
He saves it to the back of his hard drive to think over later.
Because the tell-tale red and blue lights of Lestrade's police car are flashing in the window.
Sherlock's head snaps to look at the detective as he climbs the stairs into the flat.
"Sherlock." Lestrade says in relief.
Sherlock frowns at the older man.
"There's been a robbery—"
"Not interested."
"—At the Imperial War Museum."