Wow. My second completed story in less than a month. I think something may be wrong with me...
Please let me know what you think!
The usual disclaimer: BBC's Sherlock is not mine! Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is a genius (not I)!
P.S. As with all of my stuff, it's not beta-ed or brit-picked, so I'm sorry in advance. I also appreciate any insights or feedback on errors!
Enjoy!
Knyle B.
Rainy afternoons used to keep him inside, John thought absently. He glanced up at the gray, sobbing clouds for what must have been the hundredth time in under five minutes. Water poured into his eyes each time did, but he couldn't help sneaking looks at the spindly figure overhead. High up above, Sherlock was clinging to the side of the skeletal windmill whose base the doctor stood by.
When he could no longer see past the liquid in the way, he looked down again. Shifting his weight, he nudged a nearby stone with his foot. A squelching sound emitted from his soaked footwear with the shift. The doctor made a face. Everything he had on was wet through to his skin, never mind his waterproof jacket. Although, at least griping about that kept him distracted from his friend's efforts.
Having inadvertently reminded himself, John sighed. Why had he ever let Sherlock climb up the windmill in such bad weather? He really didn't want to think about how the brunet was coming down. He had been on edge for the last half hour while the impossible man was up there, kept occupied by the multitude of horrible scenarios his imagination conjured up about slippery metal and falling detectives.
Wishing he'd brought a proper medical kit instead of just the useful bits and pieces in his pockets—just in case—John snuck another look at his flatmate. Sherlock was a thin black strip against the roiling sky, contorting through the windmill's metal ribs with his head bent over the small, partially hidden box that he had clambered up the structure to inspect.
John couldn't remember what it was supposed to be. He'd thought the detective had babbled something about electromagnetic pulses and radio interference that morning, but the record wasn't very clear.
Most of the information that he'd tentatively marked as important had been lost in the interim between Sherlock's dizzying initial deductions about the location of the device and their hectic sprint through the rain to the windmill. He wasn't concerned.
Sherlock always knew what he needed to for a case. John was in charge of the rest: keeping them alive and healthy, handling the money and people, remembering to draw certain moral lines… all of which conspired against his ability to keep up with his friend's store of facts.
Besides, he really didn't care about windmill-mounted widgets and short-wave radio enthusiasts when he was getting soaked in the middle of a country farmer's back forty. Especially when that same farmer had already emptied a rifle barrel in their direction for trespassing the night before.
John shook his head ruefully and resisted the urge to rub his shoulder. Of course the person Sherlock picked to enrage on this case would be armed, and of course he'd find it necessary to drag John into the man's property in full view of his—hopefully empty—house.
It wasn't like a man who'd had a bullet in his shoulder would mind getting shot at, or anything.
Unable to see any longer because of the water pooling in his eyes, the doctor blinked and turned his face back to the ground. Whatever it was Sherlock was up to, he hoped he finished soon. The wind was picking up, and if the scrawny git didn't want to get blown off the tower, he would have to tie himself to it with the nonexistent rope that he didn't bring up with him even though John had practically stuffed it down that blasted coat.
At least there's no lightning, the blond told himself with forced optimism.
KRAKH-BOOM!
John sighed and slumped even further into his waterlogged jacket. Typical.
A brilliant, erratic saber of light flashed horizontally across the whole sky as he took a breath and squared his shoulders, squinting up at his oblivious friend. "Right, that's enough, Sherlock! Come down!"
The detective paid no heed. But for a slight twist to see the object holding his interest at a new angle, John's call got no response at all. The tall genius was too fixated on meddling with that stupid, day-ruining box to worry about getting electrocuted.
Glowering, John let him continue to fiddle with his discovery for approximately three seconds more, gathering his patience. Then a burst of thunder nearly knocked him off his feet, and he cursed and started for the closest support pole.
Steel. He sighed at its rain-spattered, gleaming surface. Naturally, when one of the biggest, blackest storms John had ever seen came around, Sherlock gravitated towards the tallest, most conducive thing to electricity in sight and attached himself to its top.
Plucking a stone from the mounds of gravel around the windmill's base, John stepped back and took careful aim, lobbing his missile just above his friend's head. It clanged off the metal a good foot above Sherlock's dripping curls.
Startled, Sherlock looked up. Thankfully, his surprise didn't hinder his grip. John hadn't been that worried. If need be, he would have been ready to try and catch his gangly friend, but he knew from experience that the detective could hold a microscope slide steady despite the largest of chemical explosions.
Blinking the water out of his eyes, the doctor refocused on the matter at hand. Sherlock was glaring down at him in questioning distaste. He looked positively owlish through his wind-whipped hair.
"Sherlock, come down!" the blond yelled, straining to make himself heard over the howling racket all around them. The detective's scowl didn't bother him in the least.
With a curt shake of his head, the senseless git bent back to his work. John set his teeth. He was on the verge of grabbing a bigger rock and picking a softer target than the last time when he realized that his flatmate had started talking to him.
John turned his head, trying to catch the words. It didn't sound like Sherlock was speaking any louder than his normal volume, which made it incredibly difficult to understand him. Shelving his irritation in favor of concentrating on his flatmate's low voice, John struggled to hear the wind-garbled sentences drifting down to him.
"Sending out—interfering—local frequencies…intermediate pulse—zoning…"
It was hopeless. Shaking his head, the doctor looked at the six-foot-something child playing above him in exasperation. Another bolt of white light arced overhead, its accompanying burst of noise following almost on top of it.
If Sherlock didn't come down to earth on his own, something was sure to send him. The fall would be over forty feet: definitely damaging and possibly fatal. If only he could just yank him down… John sighed, glaring at the dangerous metal monstrosity enabling Sherlock to stay out of reach.
And then he climbed it, too.
"What are you talking about?" he shouted as he neared his friend.
Sherlock eyed the shorter man approaching beneath him with some surprise. Once John had reached his feet, the doctor reached out to one of the other four poles that bore the windmill's weight and switched over, climbing the cross struts instead of the ladder rungs on Sherlock's pole until they were even.
Wet and bedraggled and not the least bit aware of it, John regarded the little metal addition to the windmill with interest. Sherlock had opened up its top hatch, exposing the wiring and circuitry within that was mostly sheltered from the downpour by the bottom of the windmill housing just above them. Since neither of them had been zapped yet, the blond assumed that his friend had detached the unit from its power source.
He nodded to it, raising his voice over another clap of thunder. "Well?"
Sherlock raised a haughty brow. It did not harmonize well with the darkened, wildly tossed hair plastered to his face and neck or the madly flailing collars of his jacket. He looked ridiculous. John did his utmost not to laugh in his face as the detective challenged, "Aren't you afraid of getting struck by lightning, doctor?"
"Sane people would be," John shot back, unperturbed. He settled his eyes back onto the box and shrugged. "Since I'm up here, do we need to do anything with it?"
Sherlock nodded, already back to attacking its supports. "You can carry it. I'll need it at the room for further study."
"Sure you will." John rolled his eyes and stuck a hand out, steadying the little parcel as it came loose. Noticing a few components that he recognized from his military days, he inquired meekly, "What is it again?"
Sherlock's eyes gleamed, accented by the streak of lightning that tore by so close to them that John could taste the ozone it created. Less than a hundred meters away, the slightly taller silo by the barn flashed and sparked as its lightning rode was put to use.
Whew. A few more to go!