Grey days made John feel guilty. In Afghanistan, he had fantasized about the thickness of clouds in London's smog and the color of the puddles in London's gutters. He had felt a fondness for skies like tarnished silver that deepened with every blazing blue day. Now he was back, and rain was a pain in the arse again.
Sherlock was looking at a wrecked cab. He had already licked the steering wheel. John was looking at Sherlock. Everything was monotone to him. White skin, black hair, grey sky. The cool promise of rain hung in that sky. John felt sticky under his jacket.
"Actions are random events, John," Sherlock preached. "Random collisions of people, places, things, ideas."
John reached his foot out to nudge the cab's scrunched front. "Boom," he agreed, not too seriously.
"That was a test, John." Sherlock's voice bit dryly. "You failed. Do try to conquer your small-minded habits. Simple, deductible reasons link everything. And thus the extraordinary emerges from the ordinary. Rather like a daisy chain of disaster." Sherlock whipped around, coat flaring. "Lestrade!" he called. "It was the steering wheel; the deliriant was administered topically!"
John trudged after him, having been brought along for no "simple, deductible reason" that he could fathom. Sergeant Donavan sidled up.
"Are you going to prophesy my Sherlock-related doom again?" he asked. "Because I'm really not in the mood at the moment."
She held up her hands. The gesture of innocence looked more like a push. "You know, Doctor, you may be on his good side now, but it won't last."
John half shook his head, half smiled, and half made the broken noise of a laugh. "Sergeant, how long have you known Sherlock?"
She sensed a trick. "A few years now."
"And you still think he has a good side?" John's rueful smile broke free.
"You're still alive, aren't you?"
He snorted. "I haven't exactly been coddled." They stopped next to Sherlock, who was explaining the process of building up his tolerance of common drugs and poisons with small doses. It was an outright lie— he was as high as a kite.
"Why do you do this then, Doctor Watson?" She spread her arms, encircling all the evils.
"Have you ever been needed by someone you loved, Sally?"
She blushed. The sudden hot intimacy of the 'l' word and her first name had taken her aback. "Yes."
"Yeah, well." John was exhausted. The greyness of the day had gnawed away at him. "That must be nice."
A hand tightened around John's bicep. "Take me home, John," Sherlock commanded in a low voice. He leaned in with wild eyes, and added sotto voce, "Before the goblins eat my toes."
"Right then." John nodded goodbye to the Yarders. His eyes flicked over Sergeant Donavan, embarrassment having caught up to him. "Come along, Sherlock."
No one noticed that Sherlock's steps were three inches higher than average.
Quite extraordinary.
Fin
