Post The Great Game ( 1.3)
John was scowling.
Yet somehow the unusually fierce expression on the face of the ex-soldier wasn't quite having the right affect. In fact it looked quite ridiculous coupled with the white bandaged wrapped around his temples. The fact that his wrist was splinted as it rested on the bed that he was sitting by didn't help his case either. Neither did the smatterings of cuts and bruises that covered any exposed skin.
The bed that he was sitting at was currently inhabited by the man at which this scowl was directed.
The world's only consulting detective.
A rather injured consulting detective.
Who happened to be grinning madly.
And bouncing in a rather enthusiastic way.
Surprise surprise.
The fact that his face was marred by scratches and he had a neat line of stitches above his left eyebrow only added to an unbiased observer's assumption that the man was a lunatic.
And they wouldn't be far wrong in Dr Watson's expert opinion. Said lunatic had just nearly got them killed.
Well, maybe it wasn't Sherlock's fault. Maybe it was his. He was an army man, and he had let himself get captured after all.
His scowl intensified, unnoticed by the patient in bed 382.
Hang it.
He was going to blame it on the psychopath who supplied the bomb. Not the highly functioning sociopath that shot it.
No matter how tempted he was.
Said sociopath was still bouncing, earning worrying glances from passing nurses.
"The game is set; Moriarty has well and truly set the game..."
"He TRIED, and nearly damn succeeded, to blow us up." snapped John
"Irrelevant." said Sherlock indifferently
"Irrelevant, huh." murmured John to himself as Sherlock pointedly ignored him "I'm glad that you think that life and general safety are irrelevant."
He tried to fold his arms over his chest as he sat back in his chair, but yet again it failed due to the splint.
"John, be quiet. I need to think – Moriarty is a danger that needs to be addressed." said Sherlock as he steepled his fingers in front of his face
"You don't say." muttered John, thoroughly put out by now.
"Yes I do say." said Sherlock, finally having stopped bouncing "And I'm right. I'm always right."
John sighed, resisting the urge to argue the point. No one was always right, and Sherlock was no exception. He was wrong about Harry, amongst other things. Other things that included Moriarty. Moriarty was not a game.
"Sherlock, I think you're wearing down the good doctor's patience." Mycroft's aristocratic voice sounded from the doorway. He leant against the frame, the ever present umbrella in hand.
"Oh do be quiet Mycroft, I'm thinking." Now Sherlock was scowling
"You were very careless, Sherlock." reprimanded Mycroft "You've upset Mummy terribly, and you know shocks aren't good for her nerves."
Sherlock threw his hands up in frustration, nearly jerking the IV out of his arm.
"For God's sake Mycroft, now is not a time to be worrying about Mummy!" he cried "We have Moriarty to deal with!"
John held his breath in the futile hope that Sherlock might take the whole thing more seriously than a kid with the newest video or computer - or whatever it was these days – game.
"Moriarty is a lot more fun than Mummy." he continued.
Promptly, and predictably, said hope was well and truly shattered.
"Really Sherlock, at least try to pretend that you care about Mummy – you know how upset she gets when you ignore her." Mycroft continued as if Sherlock hadn't said anything.
John was growing more frustrated by the minute. He felt cramped, closed in, suffocated in the hospital room. And the Holmes siblings' bickering wasn't making it any easier.
"But Moriarty..."
"Leave Moriarty to the professionals Sherlock"
"So some idiot can be won over and corrupt the whole system? I don't thi..."
"Those on this case cannot be corrupted Sherlock – have a little faith..."
"Faith? FAITH? With you as their head I could hardly have faith!"
"You just need to rest and not worry Mummy. I'll take care of..."
"No you won't. Moriarty made it personal with me. Therefore I'll..."
"I hardly see how your 'Science of Deduction' can be applied from a hospital bed, Sherlock."
"Then I'll discharge myself –NURSE!"
"For heaven's sake Sherlock, you're in no fit state..."
"I'll be the judge of that...NURSE!"
John rose to his feet slowly.
"Actually, I'll be the judge of that." he said with a veneer of calm, below which he simmered angrily. "Sherlock, you're staying. Mycroft, get out. You're enabling him, winding him up and making everything God damn difficult for anyone in the vicinity."
Mycroft gave a small nod, before bowing out of the room without farewells.
"John..." whined Sherlock.
"Don't 'John' me in that tone of voice Sherlock – I read your chart. You need to stay here – you've just had surgery to stem internal bleeding – you can't go off gallivanting round London in your usual manner. You'll beat Moriarty to the punch and kill yourself before he can." John was firm.
In many ways Sherlock was like a child – majority of the time if you told him not to do something, he'd go and do it, just because it made life that much more interesting. But there were those rare occasions where a logical argument would actually win through, and he'd listen.
Didn't stop him from sulking though.
John mentally told himself to focus on the positives. Even though a sulking Sherlock was a destructive Sherlock.
A nurse walked in, disrupting the comfortable silence the two comrades had fallen into.
"Time for another dosage of your meds Mr. Holmes." she said, her voice as starched as her uniform, as she inserted a needle into his IV.
"Yes, yes." muttered Sherlock sourly.
He waited for her to leave the room.
He turned to John.
"John can I borrow your phone?"
John grimaced.
"I would if it hadn't been damaged by the blast." he said morosely at the prospect of having to buy a new phone.
Sherlock gave a dramatic sigh.
"Any chance of a cup of tea then?" he asked hopefully
Watson stifled the acidic comment he felt like passing, and stood with a sigh, wordlessly leaving the room.
Note to self – A bed ridden Sherlock Holmes is a child dictator in the making, despite his age.
Focus on the positives, he told himself.
They were both alive, maybe a bit worse for wear, but alive all the same.
And something he was eternally grateful for.
A.N.
And thus is concluded my first chapter of Sherlocky goodness.
Reviews, feedbacks, even alerts to let me know what you think would be much appreciated.
You all know the drill.
No rotten vegetables though, please.
Kylara-Jade
xxx