I don't own Sherlock. My plot lines aren't nearly as clever.
If one were to stand in the near center of London, on the night of December 24, on a dimly decorated road named, Baker's Street, then that person (rest assured) would be very confused indeed. Because at precisely 23:05 (or 11:05 PM for all you American folk), one could vaguely make out two darkly dressed figures, barreling down the street, occasionally looking over their shoulders in an attempt to see if anyone, or anything was on their track.
All the people were in their homes, or flats, or visiting relatives for the holidays. The buses and taxi's had their night's off, for not one could be seen cruising down any road, picking up drunks or slowing for pedestrians. Dog walkers and coffee shop owners put away their aprons and leashes, leaving the whole street bare under the watch of a cluster of stars and a luminous strip of curved silver. In short, it would be very romantic…for anyone normal.
Both pairs of footsteps made barely markable tracks in the soft, thin layer of snow on the street. Both heavily panting, giving the indication that they had been running for at least the length of a mile, which would be correct. One, his long coat covering his tall figure, and flailing behind him dramatically as his arms seemed to glide across the scene. He could have been mistaken to be a slow motion figure from the way he moved. The other man, who was farther behind the first, was shorter and a bit less graceful, but could still move like the wind. Donning a darkly colored sweater and a pair of dimly faded jeans, he panted heavily trying to keep up with his lean partner.
These two men were no doubt, Sherlock Holmes, and Dr. John Watson.
Running down Baker's Street, they quickly flung open a door with the gold embellished characters reading 221B, and flew inside, slamming the entrance shut behind them.
"Sherlock, what…was…that?" John Watson said in between heavy breaths. He hadn't slept in two nights straight, and was, no doubt, extremely tired.
"I told you already, the smuggler was single, but the girl in the shop *gasp* claimed to be his current girlfriend *gasp* that would mean one of them was lying, which, after breaking into her flat—"
"No, no let me stop you right there *gasp* I mean what were we doing running from an extremely tall 15 year old teenager with a gun? I got shot at twice!"
"It wasn't my fault you were slow.."
John buried his face in his left hand, obviously annoyed. "You…machine…" He looked up at his flatmate and cracked a soft smile, soon they were both barely laughing in between slowing breaths. "Aren't you worried she'll find us? We're not exactly hard to find."
"I managed to get her off our track ages ago, and I also slipped her a note saying to meet her at the abandoned swimming pool, to 'finish the game'. She seemed very excited."
"How did you even manage to slip her a note? Wait—don't answer that. I don't even want to know."
"You underestimate me, John."
"Oh yeah, I underestimate you," the shorter man breathed sarcastically.
Just then, I thump could be heard from upstairs, along with a, 'You idiot, Anderson! Put that back! He'll know if anyone has been here…'. Clearly from a certain Detective Inspector Lestrade.
"For GOD Sakes!" Sherlock yelled as he pounded up the stairs two at a time, his mood immediately turning vile. John climbed up with him, reaching the top to find Sherlock breaking open the door in frustration, revealing a police team and a very surprised Anderson with a paper cut.
"What the HELL! What are you doing here! For the last time, I DIDN'T DO IT!" shouted Sherlock. Some of the team searching through his kitchen looked up at his outburst, but then shrugged it off as something a normal psychopath would do.
"Oh yeah, we know you didn't do it, we just wanted to sniff around for anything suspicious," Lestrade defended his position quite pathetically.
"Oh, this is another one of your drug busts, isn't it? Is this going to become another part of your routine whenever I take a case?"
"No, we just needed to—"
"To what? There is no evidence here, I'm not holding drugs, I am NOT A CRIMINAL. At least not in this case…"
John shot Sherlock a look of confusion, fury, and tiredness. Sherlock, just realizing that he hadn't slept in over four days and just ran about two miles in cold snow, stumbled slightly backwards out of dizziness and exhaustion, slamming into his shorter partner.
"Hey watch it, you idiot," John mumbled while pushing Sherlock away off of his aching foot. Lestrade seemed to be getting a kick out seeing this scene unfold before him. John shot Lestrade with a 'dont even think about it look' before explaining, "We just escaped a 15 year old girl with a handgun associated with the killer. We think she's the criminal's daughter judging by her hair and nose, and Sherlock somehow managed to pick up that their menstrual cycles were synchronized, don't ask him how."
Lestrade, obviously impressed on Sherlock's influence on the solider, shrugged,"Well that's all well and good, but not what we're here for." Before he could continue, Anderson interrupted,"You know, why don't we take him down to the police station for questioning? He bloody well deserves it, he's pissed off everyone here several times."
"Anderson, just because your peanut sized brain thinks your words make sense, that doesn't mean they do. Honestly, it's a wonder they haven't fired you already." Sherlock snapped.
"Oh piss off,"
"Anderson, quiet. Listen, we weren't really going to convict you of anything, Sherlock. We were looking for some body parts missing from the morgue. There was a mishap and two corpses were mixed up, the one whose body was cut up and supposedly given to you was supposed to be cremated for a family down in Hackbridge. We thought the best place to look was your flat."
Sherlock went whiter than he already was. He obviously knew exactly who Lestrade was talking about, and was using him for an experiment no doubt. The thought of losing one of his precious experiments was enough to make him furious, more so than he already was.
"So, you break into my flat, again, search through my experiments, again, only to insist that you take one away! I was using those body parts to measure the amount of snot after death depending on the cause. You can't just steal that away!" Sherlock insisted in a way resembling a child not getting to watch telly.
"Yes we can!" a muffled voice shouted from the kitchen, along with the breaking of glass.
"Anderson, shut it! Listen, Sherlock, I've got a restraining order and a signed document that gives the family the legal right to do what they wish with the body. We are taking it back and having it cremated, unless you think you're above the law." Lestrade demanded, becoming more irritated by the second.
"Considering the law is being handled by people like you I would say that I definitely hold the upper hand here…"
Not being able to take the rising argument any longer, John intervened, "Sherlock, stop. Get the body parts, now, before I collapse from exhaustion and can't stop you from getting into more trouble than you already are."
"But, my experiment—now I'll have to wait for someone else to die and start all over again," Sherlock protested, coming face to face with John, their noses only a few inches apart. Both could feel the other's light breath on their faces, trying to persuade the other to do what each of them wanted. Finally, Sherlock realizing he was outnumbered and too tired to deal with such trivial people, gave John a look a pure annoyance.
"You're impossible," he said, making sure he had the last word before taking off to his room where he supposedly kept the body parts Lestrade needed. John enjoyed a sense of pride before collapsing in his chair.
"Aww, look at you guys, I told you you're a couple wether you like it or not," the DI smirked at John, watching Sherlock's door slowly ease shut, "i mean, I've never seen anything so adorable,"
"For the last bloody time, I'm NOT GAY,"
"Yeah, sure."
"Piss off, Lestrade. What the hell is taking him so long? Some of us actually want to sleep." John pointed his direction on Sherlock's door, and lifted his body out of the chair to check on the consulting detective. Lestrade watched him go, his smirk only lifting on the corners of his mouth.
"Sherlock, Sherlock! Wake up you arse!" John practically shouted at the detective, no sound came out, not a stir, nothing. Sherlock Holmes was out cold, sleeping in his prayer position he used for thinking, which was also missing a hand. The other hand was hanging off of the bed, holding a hanger that off of which dangled a decaying nose, and a few small bags of snot. John couldn't help thinking, only Sherlock.
He tried unsuccessfully to tug the hanger from the tall male's tight grasp, but ended up with a scratch on his knuckle, and still no movement from the figure.
Exasperated, John resorted to the tedious task of trying to actually undo the fingers from the hanger through force. One by one, he started to pry the fingers off of the hanger, making sure not to actually break them, even though he desperately wanted to.
It felt strange, touching Sherlock's hand, feeling some sort of warmth that vanished as soon as he removed his tanned skin from Sherlock's pale skin. Although he would never admit it to anyone, it felt kind of nice. But these thoughts flew out the window as soon as John got a rather nasty cut from the edge of the hanger.
"Damn, how sharp are those wires?" he mumbled, slightly wincing, to no one in particular.
Even though he didn't really need it, the ex army doctor went to get a band-aid, knowing that his flatmate would probably not appreciate any blood that did not belong to a specimen or experiment staining the floor. He cleverly hid some band-aid's in Sherlocks room under his bed, where he knew Sherlock wouldn't look, or even look under most of the time.
They came in handy when one of John's dates got herself injured because of something extremely dangerous Sherlock forced them into, almost always having something to do with a case in which he 'needed' John's help for. Even though the relationship always diminished after that, it still helped John feel not entirely like an arse afterwards.
Crouching, John reached under the bed, grabbed the band-aids, and slowly sat on top of the covers Mrs. Hudson insisted on Sherlock getting, due to the normal state of his bed being 'unacceptable'. Being careful not to drip blood on them, John applied the band-aid so that it fit around his mild injury.
Suddenly, he felt a wave of weariness rush over him from becoming in contact with some sort of soft material. Trying, and failing, to get up, his arms gave out beneath him, and as soon as the doctor's head came together with the semi softness of a cheap mattress, he passed out cold as well, the force of his decline making his body slowly hover up and down, up and down…
"Alright, listen guys, either you have the body parts or you don—" the DI swung the door to Sherlock's room open, only to be met with a surprising sight. The piles of books and beakers and papers on the ground were to be expected, but not the two figures on the bed.
Before him he saw a Sherlock Holmes, long body fully clothed, shoes and all, extended until the end of the bed, feet slightly spread apart, head on a pillow, not moving at all. His one hand he rested vertically against his mouth, which was facing straight up towards the ceiling, while the other hand hung off the bed, pale fingers grazing the carpet. In that hand he held the body parts Lestrade had been looking for, swinging from a dark green hanger.
Next to him, John Watson lay, head at the end of the bed, directly across from Sherlock's black shoe, while his own feet, which didn't quite make it to the headboard, were across from Sherlock's face, the left one tilting in it's direction. His head faced Sherlock's shoe, making his nose touch the dark material ever so slightly, and John's right arm crossed over his own body, a hand unconsciously resting on the detective's ankle.
His slightly snoring figure was inches away from his flatmate's, and Lestrade thought it was the most ironic and cutest thing he had ever seen, not that he would ever use that word. The DI noticed that the whole room had the slightest scent of peppermint and cigarettes.
As he gazed at the two men, out like lights in the same bed, yet barely making any physical contact, he smiled softly, silently saying, "I told you so, John."
Then, without taking his eyes off of them, he shut the lights and called to his team, still searching for 'evidence' in the kitchen, "Alright guys, we're done here…"