"Remind me why we have to stay in these woods again, Sherlock?" John grumbled irritably at the grinning detective up ahead.
"To catch the killer, John! What else? Why can't you show some enthusiasm? According to my memory, you were quite the enthusiastic one when I first saw you this morning," Sherlock replied loftily.
"Of course I was! But that was before you dragged me out of my house to do this. I already told you I was having a date with Mary this weekend, you arse!" John responded hotly.
Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "Irrelevant."
John scowled at the detective. He'd already premeditated a small outing with Mary beforehand - a quaint meal at a diner that had recently opened up - and had been regarding the thought with much anticipation. Life with Sherlock was hectic and involved little time for personal activities, so John had been hoping he'd at least be allowed a quiet, normal afternoon with his wife amongst a lifetime fraught with chasing criminals and getting shot at.
Unfortunately, it seemed fate had other ideas. Sherlock had waltzed into his home whilst John had been in the middle of getting ready for he and Mary's lunch date and insisted that he come with him to see the resolution of their current case through. John's protestations could not thwart the enthusiastic detective and, with Mary's blessing and encouragement for him to have fun with the case, he'd grudgingly allowed himself to be pulled from his weekend plans to camp out with the world's most irritating detective in the middle of the hottest season of the year.
He was filled in with the details of this very case on the way. A serial killer was on the prowl in these woods, acting under the cover of night to exploit his murderous intent on lone campers. 2 bodies had already been discovered by New Scotland Yard; two relatively young males, mutilated beyond recognition. Sherlock had concocted this plan to camp out in the woods in range of the killer's comfort zone in hopes to draw him out and resolve the case. The hot climate, Sherlock said, was also a privilege in this scenario; not many people would want to camp out in the woods on days as sweltering as this, which left him and John possibly the only people to take residence in the forest. The chances of the killer choosing them as his next victims, therefore, would be much higher than if it was not hot and the woods were teeming with active campers.
High chances or not, John wasn't particularly looking forward to spending the night in the woods in such stifling weather.
"This location should suffice," Sherlock declared suddenly as they reached a clearing, jolting John from his thoughts. " John, set the tents up as I scout the area. OH, and please do get the firewood too. Don't find the need to worry if I don't get back before 7. He works at Midnight."
"Alright; fine," John sighed, slinging his backpack off his shoulders to stow at his feet. After fetching out his rolled-up tent in preparation to set it up, he glanced around the clearing Sherlock had decided to occupy, brow furrowing in confusion at the absence of Sherlock's luggage or camping necessities.
"Sherlock?" he inquired after the detective, "where's your tent?"
Sherlock glanced back at him, annoyed and a trifle bewildered. "How should I know, John? I don't concern myself with trivial things like camping supplies and the whereabouts of my tent. Shouldn't you know, since you're the one to pack things?"
John froze incredulously, processing the statement and the horrifying ramifications that it implied. He straightened up slowly, his abashed gaze falling upon the bewildered detective standing amidst the clearing. He couldn't have...no, Sherlock couldn't be as absentminded as to have not packed a bloody tent when they were going camping, would he? Surely the deductive genius wouldn't be THAT ignorant when it came to basic, menial tasks like that?
"Sherlock," John said slowly, "don't tell me you didn't pack a bloody tent when we are going camping."
The detective cocked a wry eyebrow. "Of course not, John; I thought you were doing that."
"Oh for-" John was dangerously close to upending a table in his frustration with the detective if there was a table present to be upended. As it was, he just threw up his hands in vexation, stopping short yet again once he took in the fact that Sherlock, it seemed, hadn't appeared to have brought ANYTHING with him to the forest. No backpack, no luggage...oh for god's sake, did the git know how to do ANYTHING himself?
"You didn't bring anything with you, did you?" John retorted in frustration, scrubbing a hand across his face as he asked the question he already knew the answer to.
Sherlock glanced around, his posture still retaining his usual air of indifference. "No," he replied nonchalantly, confirming the irate doctor's suspicions.
John heaved an exaggerated sigh, glaring daggers at the impassive detective. "Sherlock, you had better go and do whatever it was you were doing before I kill you right now."
"Oh please, killing me? That's so two years ago." And with a flourish of his coat, he fled the scene.
oOo
"Keep your elbow to yourself, Sherlock!" John scowled, shoving the detective away from him.
" Oh for God's sake, John. Can't you see that I'm trying to think here? If you don't stop talking or moving around, my plan will never work, and I don't plan on going anywhere until I catch this criminal."
"You're the idiot that didn't bring his tent!" John chastised, glowering intensely at the detective sprawled alongside him. In consequence for not bringing a separate tent, the two men had no other alternative than to camp out in the same tent. The tent capacity was insufficient , however; and sharing the space with such an infuriatingly tall individual like Sherlock led to all types of personal space issues. As much as John was tired and sought after sleep, he really didn't think he would be able to doze off with Sherlock's elbow jabbing his gut. "If you really have to think, then - just lie down and do it quietly and - " John tugged viciously at their shared pillow, "-stop hogging my pillow!"
Sherlock huffed irritably. "You were in the army, John; shouldn't you be used to sleeping in a cramped space?"
"Yes; and I'm not interested in repeating the experience. Scoot a bit over there, will you?" John nudged at the detective's side with his foot, thoroughly disgruntled. " Oh, and by the way, no matter how cramped it was at the army, we all had our own pillows! Give it back to me, Sherlock!" John spoke, slowly raising his voice while increasing force in tugging his pillow back.
"Shut up! I hear somebody coming." Sherlock half whispered-half shouted to John while clamping his own hand over John's mouth. "Get a grip on your gun and pretend to sleep, John."whispered Sherlock into John's ear while lowering himself back to the ground slowly making sure not to make any sudden movements to startle the criminal walking slowly towards them.
As the criminal approached slowly, Sherlock texted Lestrade the coordinates of their current location and waited patiently for the killer to come. John, on the other hand, was trying his best to keep silent despite Sherlock's constant jabs towards his abdomen whenever he moved his hands - damn the stuffy confines of the tent! - and struggled to suppress the urge to squirm uncomfortably from the action. It proved difficult when Sherlock, preoccupied with the advancement of the criminal, had completely stilled in his vigilance with his elbow shoved into John's side. After several tense moments John - mostly due to his heightened irritability and his goddamned sensitivity and ticklishness - could no longer withhold the urge.
"Damn it, Sherlock!" John shouted in his frustration, shoving Sherlock's elbow away from him so forcefully the entire tent seemed to wobble. "Jesus, keep your bloody elbows to yourself!"
Sherlock glanced back at him, affronted by the outburst, whilst the silhouette of the criminal cast against the wall of their tent grew still. For the few, precious seconds that followed all was silent, and the silvery glow of the moon filtered through the opening slit of their tent in a pale, white sliver against the undisturbed darkness.
And then, abruptly, the night was alive with a flurry of activity.
The shadow of the killer retracted immediately, the heavy rustle of grass and leaves signifying his rapid footfalls. With a curse and a vehement glance backward at John, Sherlock leapt to his feet, sprinting through the flaps of the tent's opening in swift pursuit. The doctor returned a sheepish glance before running out after the detective, scolding himself internally for allowing such a dangerous criminal to escape their clutches. If he got away, Sherlock would never let him live this down!
The chase continued well into the forest, with the crime-fighting duo hot on the heels of the fleeing outlaw. It wasn't exactly John's idea of spending a weekend night, dashing through the forest with his high-functioning, sociopathic best friend on the trail of a dangerous murderer. The pursuit through the shadowed canopy of the woods was a difficult one, with John more often than not losing sight of the criminal, but Sherlock must have acclimated himself to chases through dark regions because his eyes had never once fell away from his prey. The man was fleet-footed and clearly desperate to avoid capture, and John, wheezing from the exertion of running through the uneven forest grounds for who-knows-how-long, was beginning to lose hope that they'd be able to catch him.
The man vanished into an overgrown bush, swiftly followed by Sherlock and John - before they were assaulted by a multitude of intense, white shafts of artificial light.
"For God's sake, Geoffrey, you're late. I texted you the coordinates 20 minutes ago when you were just 2 kilometers away." Sherlock stated, watching the convoy of New Scotland Yard corner the suspect, equipped with flashlights and firearms against the gloom of midnight. The silver-haired detective inspector was clearly outlined against the starless veil of twilight, looking rather irked by Sherlock's comment - but whether it was because of the 'late' accusation or the erroneous name was anyone's guess.
John watched the officers of New Scotland Yard bustle the culprit into custody, relieved that he would not be able to terrorize more lone campers. The consulting detective and doctor surveyed the hustle-and-bustle of the Yarders as the apprehended the criminal without comment - that is, until Sally Donovan materialized from the gloom, eyes roaming their outfits before smirking sardonically. "Nice pajamas."
John flushed, finally realizing the state of their apparel - the chase through the woods had been unprecedented, meaning that both he and Sherlock were both still clad in the - now noticeably more rumpled - shirts and sweatpants that they'd decided to wear as pajamas for the night. Not exactly the appropriate garments after helping New Scotland Yard to apprehend a criminal.
Sherlock remained as blase as ever, turning away from the scene. "Come along, John," he declared simply, tugging on John's sleeve, "we don't have to be around when they catch the criminal, and its tedious just watching them do it. Might as well just return to our tent and call it a day."
John grumbled and grudgingly obliged, not exactly looking forward to once again sharing the limited tent space with the annoyingly lanky and tall Sherlock Holmes. Any attempt at sleeping would probably be nothing short of a nightmare...
...which proved itself the next day when John woke up in the early stages of the morning, squashed against the far corners of the tent, as Sherlock lavished himself with John's stolen pillow and a majority of the tent space.
FIN~
Thank you all for reading! This fanfiction was done in collaboration with my cousin. She wrote Sherlock, while I wrote John. This is the first Sherlock fanfiction we've ever written and we're both relatively new to the fandom, so please don't hate if the characters are OOC! (which they probably are; sorry ;_;)
Once again, thank you for reading, and please review! :D