"This is completely ridiculous."
John stood with his arms folded over his chest, a bit of his stomach protruding underneath wearing a slight pout. He rubbed his knuckles anxiously, subconsciously. Sherlock watched this act with slight amusement as he leaned up against the doorway, flexing his toes.
"What is, doctor?"
Sherlock replied with a teasing hint of snark, knowing full well what John was referring to.
"I can't Sherlock, I just can't."
As John spoke, he waved his hand dismissively at Holmes as he sulked into the kitchen. He began to prepare some toast, opening up the bag and carefully examining two pieces of bread. His flatmate could be a bit...selective when it came to cuisine.
Sherlock called from the other room:
"John, this is the most interesting case that has come up in months. We are not turning it down because of your insecurities. Fifteen minutes till the next trolley."
"I'm not insecure. I just would rather not snog you, especially since it's been how many days since your last shower?"
Sherlock turned around, a little flustered.
"Useless, Watson why would I hold onto something like that? Meaningless information is your specialty."
John slammed the butter onto the counter.
"Like the time when you almost lost a case because you thought that having knowledge of how to open a dishwasher was useless?"
Sherlock popped his head into the room and whispered:
"Could it be that you bring that up every chance you get because of your crippling fear of being no help to my work?"
"Maybe I wish that I was no help, so I wouldn't feel guilty for walking out on you and your bloody insanity!"
John shouted in retort. He looked down at the two finished pieces of toast, complete with butter and blueberry jam and sighed.
"Have you eaten today?"
Silence in return.
John sighed deeper and began to look throughout the flat for his sulking roommate. He opened the door to the detective's bedroom (which was in ruins he might add) and found no such detective. He checked in the living room, the kitchen again, downstairs, outside-
"Sherlock, where the bloody hell have you gone?" John yelled, the boom reverberating through the flat.
He walked into his room only to hear the slam and lock of the door behind him.
Christ.
"I will unlock the door once you agree to accompany me, John."
John banged on the door, breathing heavy.
"Let. Me. Out."
"One word."
"Arsehole."
"Try again." Sherlock shouted, in an almost sing-song tune.
John huffed in silence for a little while; it was hopeless to resist. Once the madman had his mind set on something, he had little luck trying to change it.
"Fine."
"Fine?"
"Yes, Jesus Christ. I'll go."
Sherlock opened the door, hardly containing a large smirk.
"I'm glad you decided to reconsider, Doctor."
"Pull anything like that again and you won't have hands for locking."
Sherlock ignored the threat and threw John a bag.
"Your bag, Jamie Pierce."
John took a look at his faux ID and chuckled.
"Don't tell me you came up with this name."
Sherlock scowled and looked down at his own.
"A product of Mycroft and his cursed 'random name generator' sadly."
A smile crept across John's face.
"You're kidding."
"I wish I was."
The doctor walked over to where Sherlock stood and snatched his ID card out of his hand. Seconds later, he burst out into laughter.
Reggie Pierce
Sherlock stood aloof, with an outright sour expression on his face.
"I believe this is revenge as a result of my last five or so insults regarding his weight."
There were two quick honks that followed his statement.
"Ah, and there is our cab. Come along, James."
"Right behind you, Reggie."
Sherlock winced.
...
"I just...God. I can't stand being here anymore. It's so painful."
John listened to Mrs. Baker carefully, showing hints of sympathy. Holmes, on the other hand was tapping his foot impatiently and inspecting his surroundings. A stuffy office, John would call it. Chair that hadn't been dusted in at least seven months, mouse fecal matter in the corner, picture frame containing a photograph of a grinning couple and their son. About four years old at the time of the photograph. The frame had been well attended to, not a speck of any foreign substance to be found. A single sunflower, slightly wilted, lay under the picture.
"Rosemary, how well known is the death of your son in context to this retreat?" Sherlock chimed in, completely interrupting her current line of dialogue.
The woman began blubbering again - in response her husband entered the room and placed his hand on her shoulder protectively.
"Kyle left us when he was four, terrible accident. My poor Rosemary blames herself whenever she gets the chance. That was at least five or so years ago, only a few of our employees are aware of it. The long-timers. "
"Whom might these employees be?" Holmes inquired.
In preparation, John pulled out a small notebook and pen.
"Eh...Jacob Murray is one of em. He cuts our lawn and such. Here every other day to water the plants. Insists on doing it himself, hates anything machine-like. He's getting a bit batty, but we let him stick around anyways. Been good to our family. Old man, almost blind in one eye."
John quickly scribbled in his notepad, repeatedly looking back up at Mr. Baker.
"Jamie, you don't have to write down every word the man says."
John gave Sherlock a dirty look and turned back to the man.
"Continue, please."
"Jane Evans has been with us for about ten years or so, she's our head chef. Makes a great meat pie. Helped us buy our first house. Eh...she has a couple little ones of her own I think."
Holmes raised his eyebrows.
"Could we move this along a bit quicker?" Sherlock asked, dripping with cynicism.
"There's Robert Litchfield too. Bit of an oddball. He's the fixer-upper and custodian for our business. Cleans up after the messes that our guests leave behind, fixes leaky pipes, that sorta thing. Don't know him too well, bit secretive he is."
"Is that all?" Holmes snapped.
"Yes."
"Lovely. Room key?"
Kevin Baker handed the room key to the detective and pulled him aside quietly.
"Rose and I are the only people here who know that you're outsiders. To their knowledge, you're just a couple of men here for a good time. I'm also going to give you a few other keys that open the closets and kitchen and such. No door out of bounds for you two. Just don't get caught, dunno how they would react if they thought we was suspecting them for something like this."
He handed them a few other keys.
"She thinks it's his ghost or something, it's tearing her apart. Find out what you can."
The two detectives nodded silently and exited the office speedily.
"Who on God's Earth would torture that woman? Hasn't she suffered enough?"
"Obviously the perpetrator is attempting to use fear tactics to frighten the Bakers into giving up their business. Though I'm not sure how effective prancing around with a puppet of their dead son is going to be."
"She thinks it's a ghost."
"Of course she does, only idiots believe in ghosts."
John sighed.
"Which room is ours again?"
"Room 27."
As they walked, they passed by a couple giggling and holding hands. She nuzzled his shoulder with her nose and laughed.
As soon as they began to pass by, John bit his lip and turned towards Sherlock.
"Reg... love, your eyes look even prettier in the sunlight. Did you know?"
Sherlock turned back to look at the doctor, his eyes blown wide open. His mouth formed a small o.
"That's quite gay."
John quickly gripped the detective's hand, a little too tightly. Sherlock winced in embarrassment.
"Well we are quite gay, aren't we love dove?"
The detective coughed.
"Yes, I suppose we are James."
The woman stopped and smiled at the pair, eyeing their matching gold rings.
"How long have you two been a married?"
Sherlock quickly responded with a terse "One year and three months. Come along dear." and tugged John along towards #27.
As soon as they entered the room, they both exhaled. John threw his bag onto the heart-shaped king sized bed and began to unpack.
Everything about the bedroom stunk of romance. A red carpet, candles scattered, bloody flower petals on the bed. It was a little much.
"We're going to have to be a bit more convincing around the employees, Reg."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Clearly. Perhaps next time you'll be clever enough to call me something more convincing."
"Perhaps next time you won't wince every-time I touch you." John retorted.
Sherlock cleared his throat and began to walk towards John with determination in his eyes. He awkwardly outstretched his arms and before the doctor could figure out what he was doing, he enveloped him in a bony embrace. They fell onto the bed together and John looked around like a wild and confused animal.
"What the bloody hell do you think you're-"
He was cut off with lips touching his own and he gasped and froze, unsure of how to respond. He closed his eyes and cautiously placed his hands on the detective's shoulders. His lips were soft, his face was even softer and his smell...God he smelled like something he just couldn't use words to explain. Like an orchard. Just as quickly as it began, the smells and touch of Sherlock Holmes were ripped away. When John opened his eyes, "Reggie" was facing him.
"Did I flinch?"
John gaped in shock, unable to form words for what felt like hours. Finally, he was able to muster an "I don't think so". He couldn't rip his eyes away from the blue eyed madman.
Sherlock smiled with contentment. "Ah. Good. Well that solves that problem. Come along James, our appointment for our massage and facial awaits."
The detective stood up and whipped his head towards John with glee:
"I have a plan".