Title: Frozen Peas and A Cup of Tea
Author: Cait (addyke)
Disclaimer: The world of Sherlock Holmes was created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and BBC-sponsored fanboys Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss created 'Sherlock'. I am making no money whatsoever from this.
Let's Write Sherlock Challenge 1 Prompt: After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then…
"Baker Street." Sherlock told the taxi driver as he slid carefully into the back of the cab.
"Sherlock, you are kidding me!" John sat beside him and leant over to knock on the perplex divider. "University College Hospital. A&E department, please."
"I'm fine, John." Sherlock protested, but John noticed the wince of pain that proved he was anything but. "Baker Street."
"Mind up your bloody minds, will ye?" The driver said, turning around to confront his indecisive passengers "Jesus Christ, what happen to you?"
Sherlock tried to glare at him but with a bloody nose and his left eye starting to swell shut, it didn't have its usual threatening effect.
"Baker Street."
"You sure you don't want the hospital?"
"Do I really have to make myself clear? Baker Street." Sherlock sighed. He was not in the mood to deal with this.
"Right, right. It's a forty quid spoiling charge if you get blood on the seats, mind." The driver muttered as he pulled off.
Sherlock tried to reach into his pocket to get his mobile but found it too painful, so he rested his head against the window, hoping that John didn't notice. He did.
"You need medical attention, Sherlock." John said, hoping that he could get his friend to see sense.
Sherlock kept looking out the window. "The last time I checked, you had a medical degree."
"The last time I checked, I didn't have x-ray vision." John said.
"John, please shut up. I've a headache." Sherlock said, closing his eyes.
"I'm not surprised considering you nearly had your head kicked in tonight. I see it didn't knock some sense into you."
They sat in silence for a few minutes; Sherlock, his eyes still closed, trying to hide his discomfort, with John watching him, alert for any deterioration in Sherlock's condition.
It was supposed to be a simple plan to solve a simple case. Sherlock had been hired to retrieve a stolen flash drive - the sort of case that he would have normally turned down flat. Only when their client revealed that the thief was Barbara Gruner that suddenly Sherlock showed an interest.
Barbara Gruner, as well as specialising in particularly brutal corporate espionage with a sideline in blackmail, had a part to play in the sudden death of a prominent businessman in Vienna. At least, according to Sherlock's theories anyway - official reports stated the man had died in a tragic accident.
Sherlock believed he was dealing with a murderer. A murderer with an interest in Chinese antiquities.
Which is how John ended up pretending to be an antiques dealer ("What do I know about antiques, Sherlock? What am I supposed to sell her - a lucky cat?!") and using his charms to provide a distraction. ("Just say what you normally say to women, John.")
Sherlock meanwhile used this opportunity to break into Gruner's study and find the flash drive, as well as search her computer for evidence of her other crimes.
That was the plan anyway. And it was going well. Right up until Sherlock was sneaking out of the building and ran straight into Gruner's security team.
Security team was their official title. As Sherlock was trying to fight five of them off on his own, it was very clear that they were nothing more than hired goons. Sherlock prided himself on his fighting skills but in this situation, even he had to admit he was at a disadvantage.
John excused himself from Gruner's company before she realised that he knew absolutely nothing about Ming ceramics only to find Sherlock staggering by the recycling bins, holding a handkerchief to his heavily bleeding nose.
"Is he bleeding on my seats back there?" The taxi driver asked as the cab waited at a set of traffic lights.
"I think he's fine - thanks for your concern." John said, before shaking Sherlock's shoulder to check he really was fine.
Sherlock just groaned, partly in irritation but mostly in pain.
"Don't you be falling asleep on me. I'm still not sure you haven't a head injury."
"I do not have a head injury." Sherlock muttered.
"I don't know. That thick skull of yours isn't as thick as you think."
"Please stop your inane prattle, John."
"Excuse me. I'm only worried you might die on me."
"Stop exaggerating."
The taxi pulled into Baker Street, the driver glad to be rid of his surly and bleeding passenger. John paid him, assuring him there was no blood on the seats as Sherlock gingerly slid out and hobbled up the steps to their front door. He tried to reach into his pocket for his keys but John had caught up with him and let them in.
Sherlock leant heavily on the walls, no longer hiding the amount of pain he was in. He managed to knock over the table in the hallway.
"Sshh Sherlock! You'll wake Mrs Hudson!" John whispered but as a light was turned on behind the frosted door, it is clear that the warning was too late.
"Boys, what's this racket all about?" Mrs Hudson asked as she came into the hall, pulling her dressing gown tight around her.
"Sorry, Mrs Hudson." John said.
She gasped as she caught sight of Sherlock's beaten face. "Sherlock, what have you done to yourself now?"
"I assure you that I did not do this to myself, Mrs Hudson." Sherlock said as he grabbed hold of the bannister and started to drag himself up the seventeen steps.
"Things went a bit…" John explained.
"I see." Mrs Hudson watched as Sherlock struggled up the stairs. "Shouldn't he go to the hospital?"
John shook his head and laughed. "You try telling him that."
"Stubborn. He's so… stubborn!" Mrs Hudson said. "You go and sort him out - I'll come up and give you a hand."
"No, no - we'll be fine." John protested. "You go back to bed."
"I'm already up, dear." Mrs Hudson said, going back into her own flat.
John found Sherlock struggling with his coat, which added weight to his provisional diagnosis of fractured ribs.
John helped him out of it, his jacket as well.
"Undo your shirt, Sherlock." He said, searching under a pile of paper behind his chair for his medical bag. "If you're not going to go to A&E, you'll at least let me have an look at you."
Sherlock hissed as he undid his shirt buttons ('Definitely fractured ribs,' John thought) and sat down on the sofa. He then ignored John as he palpated his chest, wincing as his fingers pressed into the forming bruises.
Mrs Hudson came into the room and immediately pressed a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a tea towel to Sherlock's swollen left eye.
"There you go, dear." She tutted. "That's going to be a lovely shade in the morning."
"Phone, John." Sherlock demanded. John ignored him and continued his examination.
"My phone, John." Sherlock demanded again.
"Miss de Merville can wait until the morning, Sherlock. Now, sit still."
"Our client may be able to wait until the morning, John, but I need to contact Lestrade now."
"I'll make a cup of tea then, boys." Mrs Hudson said, heading into the kitchen and clucking her tongue at the state of it. Sherlock took the frozen peas off his face.
"It can wait, Sherlock." John said, retrieving his stethoscope from his bag.
"It can't. I've got the evidence to prove that Barbara Gruner was behind the Vienna murder." Sherlock tried to emphasise his point with his hands but the movement jarred his chest. "I need to tell Lestrade now so he can inform those idiots at Interpol if they stand a chance of issuing a warrant for her arrest before she disappears."
"No. You need to stay still and let me check you over since you are refusing to go to the hospital." John placed the bell of his stethoscope on Sherlock's back without bothering to warm it first and suppressing a laugh when Sherlock jumped a little.
"I think you got off lucky this time." John announced, starting to pay attention to the wounds on Sherlock's face. "You're lucky they just decided to beat the crap out of you instead killing you."
"Lucky?" Sherlock scoffed.
"Unless you're trying to get killed?"
"You're exaggerating again, John." Sherlock hissed again as John prodded at a prominent bruise on Sherlock's cheekbone. "And anyway, there are risks in my profession. Surely you understand that."
"There is a difference between risks and having a death wish, Sherlock." John grabbed an antiseptic wipe to clean a cut on his forehead. "It just would be a real pity for the world's only consulting detective to die in a fight with some hired thugs."
"My phone, John? Please." Sherlock asked, effectively ending what was turning into a lecture.
John grabbed Sherlock's coat and retrieved Sherlock's phone from the pocket. He hesitated for a moment before handing it to him.
Sherlock grabbed the phone and started to send off a series of his usual rapid fire texts, readjusting his position every few seconds to get more comfortable.
John smiled to himself - the blows to the head obviously hadn't affected Sherlock that much. He started to clear up the empty packets as Mrs Hudson came back into the living room and placed a steaming mug into his hands.
"Oh lovely! Thanks Mrs H."
She placed another mug on the coffee table in front of Sherlock and pressed the frozen peas back to his eye.
"Mrs Hudson, do you mind?!" Sherlock tried to push her arm out of his way but she held it fast.
"Sherlock, you gave me a big scare tonight!" She fussed over him. "So you are going to let us look after you."
"I do not need looking after." Sherlock protested, putting his mobile down. John noticed from his shallow breathing that he was still in quite considerable pain and went to get him some painkillers.
"You silly boy!" Mrs Hudson ruffled Sherlock's hair gently. "Of course you do!"
John handed him some painkillers which Sherlock swallowed dry.
He smiled at John. "So - did Barbara Gruner buy one of your lucky cats?"
John just burst out laughing. Sherlock joined in but quickly stopped.
"Ouch!"
"I wouldn't laugh at the moment." John advised, taking a long sip of tea. "Not until your ribs are healed."
Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin, the pain doing little to dampen his growing feeling of contentment.
Case solved.