Upside Down
Disclaimer - I don't own any of the characters...just the way the words are strung together.
Summary - When Sherlock Holmes called Joan Watson for help instead of his new "protege", she knew there must be something seriously wrong. (Spoiler alert...if you consider a photo instagrammed completely out of context a "spoiler").
A/N - It seems fitting that inspiration for a new fic finally hit...the week the show comes back on! Just a quick bit of ridiculousness based on an instagram.
She wasn't sure why she was even going. She had been free from his every beck-and-call for so long that it felt odd to go back now. Odder, still, that he called at all. The idea that his new "partner" couldn't do whatever menial task he had cooked up was both frustrating and, though she would never admit it out loud, comforting. Perhaps there was still a place for her in his life after all.
Walking up to the Brownstone, she could almost see a difference in the place. The bricks were the same, the front steps were identical, but somehow, the feeling had changed. It was no longer home, no longer the place she found refuge after a long day at work, no longer the light at the end of a long walk in the dark.
Reaching to open the door, she realized she had better knock; this wasn't her place of residence anymore and although Sherlock certainly would not show her the same courtesy, she felt she ought to for him.
"It's open!" Sherlock shouted from inside.
Smiling a bit at such typical Sherlockian behavior, she opened the door.
"You rang?" She called out from the foyer.
"Indeed." His voice was obviously strained, and coming from the front room. She followed the sound of his voice quickly, she wasn't sure she wanted to know why he didn't sound normal but she couldn't help but feel a pang of worry.
"What in the world…" Joan Watson had seen Sherlock do a lot of strange things in their time together, but this might have taken the cake.
In the middle of the front room, she discovered the detective, shirtless, and hanging. From his feet. He was attached to some sort of bar and it was a sight to behold. His blood-red face told a tale of prolonged distortion, and she couldn't help the laughter that began to rise into her throat.
"Joan Watson, had I realized you were going to react in such a way, I would have just waited for Kitty to return home." Strained as his voice was, she could hear a definitively hurt tone.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock," she reigned in her laughter as much as she could, "I really am. But, when you called me and sounded so nonchalant about needing 'a bit of assistance on a case'...I just never pictured this." She couldn't stop the laugh from breaking free, it was just too much.
"I assure you, Watson, that in the time it has taken you to arrive here and the time you've wasted guffawing at my discomfort, I have not only solved the case I initially called you about, but also three others. Now, if you please, I require assistance dislodging myself from this contraption." He practically spat the last sentence, clearly as unamused by the situation as Watson was amused by it.
"Ok, ok. Where...How exactly am I to assist you with this?" She adopted his formal and stilted tone in an attempt to diffuse the situation. It didn't work.
"Watson, I do not appreciate your tone. If I knew how to get down, I would have done so already! I was trying out a study technique I saw in an old medical journal, and as the techniques you showed me in the past had made a moderate difference in my productivity, I assumed this one would as well. I was...not correct." His arms crossed over his middle, muscles flexed in an attempt to raise his head slightly so the blood could flow away from his brain for a few moments.
"Clearly." Watson mumbled, still amused.
Walking around the contraption, she saw a pin at the top that connected the loops that held his feet aloft to the base.
"Alright, are you ready?" She asked, hand on the pin.
"I've been hanging upside down for nearly two hours, Watson. You act as if I need a parade and a signed photo of the Pope before coming down. Just do it." He closed his eyes, breathing heavily, readying himself for the swift descent.
Instead of pulling the pin right away, Watson went to the couch and grabbed several cushions. After placing them underneath Sherlock, she went back to the pin.
"Three...Two...One." As soon as the pin was pulled, the detective fell into a heap on top of the pillows. Watson quickly knelt down next to him; hanging upside down for a prolonged period of time is never good.
"Are you alright?" She asked, quietly. "Don't try to sit up just yet, lay flat instead. We don't want the blood to rush too fast away from your brain." All doctor.
"Thank you, Joan." He whispered as she helped him onto his back and slowly stretched his legs out straight in front of him.
"I don't mean to pry," she began, ever curious, "but where exactly is your actual assistant? Not that I'm not happy I got to see this.." she smiled, gesturing to the bar and the now starfished-out Sherlock.
"I sent her to the precinct to sit and wait for a case." He stated matter-of-factly, eyes still closed. "She was driving me mad."
"I see. And you couldn't call her to help you because…?"
"I didn't want her." He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, looking straight into hers. "I never really wanted her."
-fin