Sixth Sense
John's head snapped up from the glowing screen before him, his fingers freezing above the keys. Yes, those were the all familiar quick, light thumps. He must be in a particular hurry taking the stairs…six thumps that meant he was all out sprinting, three steps at a time.
A slight smile tugged his lips, Sherlock was rubbing off on him… but it was mostly the soldier in him, kept on high alert by his flat mate's never ending… traps…experiments…paramilitary expeditions…little wars…
His thoughts were interrupted when the door to their flat flew open. 'Look who's bright eyed and bushy tailed today,' he thought.
Aloud, "Sherlock," neutral, calm, collected.
The man addressed nodded absently crossing the room in quick strides. Black gloves came off long pale fingers, one dropping near the door catching between the door and the lintel when he absently kicked it closed in his wake, the other landed in Sherlock's customary place on the couch.
Shiny black shoes were toed off, one about three steps into the apartment the other once Sherlock had thrown himself into his black leather armchair across from John. That left two black socked feet swinging over one arm of the chair, a dark tousled head flung dramatically back over the other. A sharp glance left John relatively sure the hyperactive detective would stay in place, and out of anything too dangerous for the next several minutes. The long fingers steepled, tapping his full lower lip said something was on his mind. His usually pale cheeks were flushed with blood, probably from sprinting up the stairs. Dropping eyes, blue as the Adriatic, bluer than any of the gray green surf seen on this side of the channel, he quickly wrapped up his sentence, saved, closed, cast wary eyes to the chair opposite, and found it alarmingly brunette free.
Rising warily he set his laptop in his abandoned chair scanning the room. No Sherlock. Ears, sharp enough to catch the sounds of enemy footsteps shifting granules of sand…no Sherlock. Adrenaline coursed through his blood making sharp reflexes sharper. He smelled blood.
He was in the door of the kitchen before the thought had even fully registered.
His voice came out flat, "Sherlock, why are you warming blood in our teapot?"
Sherlock waved him away impatiently he seemed to be studying something in the teapot with unusual intensity. With well practiced patience John waited to be acknowledged. He remained in the doorway knowing better than to enter Sherlock's lab, better known as the kitchen, without permission or dire need bordering on Sherlock bleeding out on the floor.
"Time?" Sherlock barked.
"6:23:44" John replied automatically.
John's pale brows rose slightly when Sherlock turned pouring the scarlet liquid out over the floor in a long trail around the table.
He crouched watching the splattered blood. To John's surprise the blood dried to a gummy consistency as they watched.
"Time!" Sherlock shouted
"6:29:04, Sherlock, that's not normal. What did you do?"
"High blood alcohol," Sherlock muttered cryptically.
"What?"
"The victim was drunk enough to fuel a Molotov Cocktail when her throat was slashed. I calculated time of death using the time normal blood dries to this consistency. The victim was only dead for five and a half minutes before the police found her body. We assumed it had been half an hour, no trains in or out, no one to hear her scream, at 12:40 AM the tube would have been swarming with late nighters…" Sherlock's explanation trailed into silence as he strode from the room.
John sighed and grabbed the half empty teapot
A thermometer stuck haphazardly into the top read 37°C, normal human blood temperature. Washing it in the sink as calmly as if it were nothing but tea John ran over the interaction once more in his mind… it was too…safe… blood from the fridge, purchased from the local blood bank, a thermometer, a watch…where were the toxic chemicals, broken laws, exploding pots?
"SHERLOCK!" he roared dropping the teapot with a metallic clang into the sink as he strode out of the kitchen neatly avoiding the puddles of blood.
The detective barely spared him a glance from his sprawl on the couch, "Yes, John?" he sounded singularly careless.
John closed his eyes momentarily, "Blood banks do not collect blood from inebriated individuals."
"Nope,"
"Where have you been all day?" John challenged.
"With Molly," Sherlock responded, and John could have sworn he saw the still flushed detective giggle.
"How much did you drink?"
"Till I passed out."
"Why?"
Sherlock rolled his grey blue eyes expressively, "Obviously so Molly could draw my blood,"
John was edging closer to his flatmate, "Yes, obviously… what that doesn't explain is why she let you traverse London alone, just after passing out from acute alcohol intoxication."
Yep, his ears were most definitely not playing tricks on him, Sherlock had just giggled at him.
"You're funny when you speak medical and Molly doesn't know I'm here. I just took my blood from the fridge and left. I hold my alcohol really well."
John leaned down over his friend smelling his breath…vodka…and lots of it. How had he missed that before?
"Would I be correct to assume you ate nothing so as to ensure the highest blood alcohol levels possible?"
"You would, my good doctor," Sherlock responded in a posh aristocratic tone.
John shook his head slowly and walked into the kitchen.
The fridge yielded little edible, but questionable Chinese leftovers and jam.
Snagging the jar, and a carton of orange juice hiding behind what appeared to be a container of pickled pig's feet John smeared the strawberry preserve onto several pieces of semi-stale toast throwing these onto a plate. Then he poured a tall glass of OJ. He took a quick sip to ensure it was still good. Sherlock had left it out on the counter earlier in the week. Assured he was relatively unlikely to give his flat mate food poisoning John grabbed the meager offerings and returned to the inebriated detective so uncharacteristically loose limbed on the couch.
"Sit up Sherlock, you need to get sugar and carbs in you. You should know how unhealthy it is to drink on an empty stomach." He chided sitting at the foot of the couch.
Sherlock sat up with almost startling swiftness scooting down to sit beside him. Apparently, alcohol made him giggly and hyper…and cuddly John noted as Sherlock draped himself over John's back resting his chin on his shoulder as he studied John's offering. One, quick hand darted under John's arm snagging a piece of toast from the plate. John heard the stale bread crunch three times as Sherlock practically inhaled the food. The second, third and fourth slice disappeared in a similar manner. John had a bemused smile on his face as he watched the normally fastidious Sherlock chug OJ. Absently John brushed crumbs off his shoulder grinning at the satisfied expression on Sherlock's usually impassive features.
"No food all day?"
"Skipped dinner last night too," Sherlock qualified wrapping himself back around John's back his long arms snaking around his waist.
"You're a cuddly drunk."
"Hmm… it's why I generally don't drink this much."
"Why did you leave the morgue? I don't care how well you hold your liquor. You should have stayed until Molly could bring you home."
Sherlock was silent and John turned to look at him, frosted green eyes slid down and to the side to meet the aqua ones inches away. He shook his head minutely, "If I got cuddly with Molly it would hurt her feelings later," He admitted in a low voice.
John grimaced slightly. Sherlock was right, the girl far too obsessed, "Well… I'm glad you realized it would be unkind to her."
"Hn," Sherlock grunted before tucking his cheek against the back of John's neck.
"You're nicer to cuddle with anyways," he ignored John's low exclamation of surprise continuing, "less squirmy."
John shook his head with an exasperated sigh and lifted his hand to ruffle Sherlock's dark hair. He could feel the other man's warm breath on the back of his neck, and suppressed a shiver.
"And I'd never get the wrong idea, right Sherlock?" he half joked.
There was no response and turning his head John saw that Sherlock's eyes had slid closed. He was asleep. With a rueful smile John began to rise. The sleeping man holding him made a sound of grumbled discontent, his arms tightening to weld John to his side as his head slid down to rest between his shoulder blades.
John smiled wider and settled back into the couch, content to let his flat mate sleep off his binge.
Wow... this started humorus and got slightly melancholy...don't know how that happened. Still only friendship, but there's an unaknowledged wisfulness between them... kinda... not really. No they're just friends closer than brothers. that's it! (^^ in denial)
Anyway, here's another of my John/Sherlock snapshots. Remember, reviews entice me to put more of the scenes running around in my mind down on paper for all y'all to see. Therefore, feed my muse.
Disclaimer: I don't own it... sighs