"John, have you seen my luminol stock solution?"
John glanced up from his laptop and rubbed his forehead, mentally searching the flat. After several second's thought, he shook his head.
"Sorry, no. I haven't. It's got to be sitting around in that mess somewhere, Sherlock." He gestured toward the kitchen table, its surface completely and permanently obscured by beakers, crucibles, and Erlenmeyer flasks.
"No, it's not," Sherlock returned, shortly. "I distinctly remember putting it down—ah." He stooped to snatch up a small bottle with an expression of deep satisfaction. "Finally."
John snorted and allowed himself to slip back into work, this being his latest case blog.
"Oh for God's sake," Sherlock barked, jolting John from his musings. "My last sterile alcohol pad's dried out. John, would you—"
"No."
"I need one!"
"No," John repeated, exasperated. "No, Sherlock. Here's a proposition: why don't you walk yourself down to the pharmacy and get it?"
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, their feline slant becoming more pronounced. "Never mind, I'll do without it." With an irritable twitch, he spun on his heel and strode back to the kitchen.
"What exactly are you trying to do, anyway?" John closed his laptop with a small snap and leaned back in his over-stuffed armchair, utterly content. No amount of Sherlock's demands would induce him leave to this spot.
"The answer should be perfectly obvious." Sherlock bent over the table, mixing up a chemical concentration, his oversized goggles preventing John from taking seriously anything the detective had to say.
"Yeah, well—it's not. Would you mind not leaving me to deduce the answer on my own? It's not exactly confidential, is it?"
Sherlock straightened, removing his goggles and lifting a mundane looking black shirt from a kitchen chair. "This, John, is a shirt with possible traces of blood, though undetectable at the moment due to the faulty nature of the naked eye, and also due to the colour of the shirt."
"Because it's dark?"
"Obviously." Sherlock lifted the shirt to his nose and glowered darkly. "Isn't it hateful? I'm wasting invaluable time, John. I could be harassing Anderson right now."
"So, what're you doing to it?"
"The luminol stock reaction is used by forensics to detect traces of blood at crime scenes. I mix luminol powder with hydrogen peroxide and hydroxide. The luminol solution is sprayed where blood might possibly be found, and the iron from the hemoglobin in the blood serves as a catalyst for the chemiluminescence reaction that causes luminol to glow, so a blue glow is produced when the solution is sprayed where there is blood. Only a tiny amount of iron is required to catalyze the reaction; unfortunately, the blue glow lasts only for about thirty seconds before it fades, which gives me only half a minute to search for the victim's plasma."
"That's—that's…wow. More than I ever wanted to know about chemistry, Sherlock."
"Honestly, John, it's primary school stuff. You should know this!"
John grinned and propped his elbows on his knees. "So you were the geek that spent all his time shut up in the school science lab, then?"
"Shut up." Sherlock's brows furrowed as they always did when he felt acutely embarrassed.
He jerked back to his experiment, whilst John went back to smirking, unable to refrain himself from making use of this infrequent mortification on Sherlock's part. He rubbed his forehead again, aware of a burgeoning headache. He wondered if he might be getting a cold.
"Sherlock, do we have any aspirin—"
"Would you mind shutting up until I get this potassium ferricyanide off my fingers?"
"Of course, yes. We wouldn't want that, would we?" John muttered the latter sentence under his breath.
"I heard that."
"Sorry, I didn't know you were actually listening."
Sherlock grimaced, caught out. He was carefully dripping clear liquid into a test tube when the solution burst into spontaneous flames—though not before dissolving into brilliant white dust.
The alabaster powder erupted and settled neatly in Sherlock's dark curls. He might have just aged forty years.
"Jesus, Sherlock…" John trailed off, absorbing the image; Sherlock with greying hair, goggles, and a glower.
"Wrong compound," said Sherlock.
"Sorry, what?"
"It was the wrong compound." Sherlock shook his head wildly, putting John in mind of wet dog. "Yes, it should have been iron, not copper. God, that was exceedingly stupid." He looked around at his flat mate, his mouth set in a thin line. "What."
John's face had slowly split into a grin. "Come on, have a sense of humor! I feel like I've just met your grandfather."
Sherlock wrenched off his goggles and threw them unceremoniously onto the sofa. "Stop being an idiot, John."
"I can't," gasped John, now convulsed with mirth. "I'm looking at one. A proper one."
Sherlock stared at John, and John stared back. In the next moment, both the detective and the doctor had lapsed into irrepressible chuckles.
"I look like a nutter, don't I?" Sherlock groaned, yet still smiling.
"It's a big improvement," John laughed. "And now I know I have something to look forward to in future years."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but John saw the amusement dancing in them. There was a knock at the door, and John strode over to open it. Mrs. Hudson flitted in, looking anxiously about. "Oh, boys, I thought I heard a noise…" she faded off, staring open-mouthed at the state of Sherlock's hair. "Is this to do with one of your bloody experiments?" she berated. "For a moment I thought I'd have to run to the shop and buy you anti-dandruff shampoo."
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, but I believe that won't be necessary." Sherlock flashed her a genuine smile, and she laughed.
"Are you quite sure you're alright?"
"I'm brilliant," said Sherlock. John nearly chuckled, wondering if the implied double meaning was merely a figment of his imagination.
And with that, Sherlock Holmes went back to his iron compounds with even pausing for a mirror.
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-Spark Writer-