Sherlock Unlocked
(or, The Chinfinite Sides of the World's Only Consulting Detective)
*NOTHING IS MINE
**NOTHING AT ALL
***BUT I DO OWN THEM IN MY MIND
****NOT IN REAL LIFE THOUGH
So my friend and I were talking about Sherlock over Facebook chat, and we came up with several variations of Sherlock: sleepy Sherlock, confused in the morning Sherlock, drunk Sherlock… you get the idea. Well, anyway, this is dedicated to Anna and Sophie, my fellow Sherlockians and fanfic writers.
Sherlock, what's in your mouth?
"Sherlock, what is that in your mouth?"
"Nnnnnum."
"What?"
There was a soft smack of tongue, unsticking itself from the colorful wad of the chewy stuff, as Sherlock struggled to reply.
"Gum, Watson. Spearmint, to be precise. Five sticks of it, too. They run out of flavor surprisingly fast. Maybe I should run an experiment to create gum with longer lasting flavor…"
His right cheek was bulging with a giant lump of the pale green sweet, and his voice was oddly contorted, as was his face. He looked like a demented chipmunk, noted John, and he couldn't help but burst out laughing at the sight.
"Sherlock, you should see your face!"
John could hardly breathe. Sherlock's brows were drawn, a confused wrinkle atop his nose, and he looked, for all the world, like a child who just didn't understand what was going on.
Sherlock, you need your clothes.
It was one of those rare nights that Sherlock actually slept in his own bed, instead of drooping over the sofa, or tucked in bed with John. He liked to sleep without clothes on (hey, a Scandal in Belgravia- Sherlock naked, and holding a blanket around himself), and since he was in his own room, he was as bare as the day he was born.
The tall man blinked awake, blinded and disoriented in the bright afternoon sun, streaming in through the window, creating an evil rectangle of light on Sherlock's face. Wake up, puny mortal- I won't let you sleep- wake up! It rang in his sleepy head, cackling madly.
He sure as heck couldn't go back to sleep.
The ex-army medic was preparing his (and Sherlock's) morning cups of tea (well, afternoon for him, morning for Sherlock). John was tired after last night's wild chase through the darkened alleyways of the midnight city, hounding the killer who was behind the several odd deaths this past week. Sherlock hadn't slept for a full six days, instead staying awake on coffee and nothing else, intent on capturing the killer. It was easy forcing the detective into bed, after such a long time going without rest. He could hear a soft shuffling noise behind him, and turned, gazing into the steam wafting up from his tea.
"Ah, Sherlock, nice of you to join me. You slept for sixteen hours, did you know that? You should really sleep more during cases- just a few couple hour naps would-"
He stopped talking, as his eyes landed on a drowsy Sherlock, taking in the sight of the unclothed man in all his naked glory, who was unaware of his current state and was currently rubbing his half-lidded eyes with a fist.
A dressing gown flew across the room and landed neatly over Sherlock's head, covering his torso and his waist, and a pajama-clad John stalked out of the room, speechless and sporting a pair of bright red ears.
Sherlock grinned under the cloth.
I don't understand, John.
"-and they call themselves detectives, for goodness sakes! Didn't even notice the blood under the nails or the missing earring in her mouth-so simple- textbook, really."
Sherlock's long fingers, gleaming dully in the orange glow of the fire, pulled at the bow, tugging random notes held sustained in the comfortable room from his beloved violin.
"Sherlock, you're doing it again."
"Am I? I hadn't noticed. How long was it this time?"
"Not that long- only a couple hours since the first half of your sentence. Frankly, I don't get how you fall into these deep trances all the time."
A soft clicking and rustling came from where John was sitting. Curious, he lifted his previously closed eyes to the doctor. He blinked in surprise. John was knitting.
"Yes, Sherlock?"
"You're knitting."
"Glad to see your powers of observation haven't dulled, Sherlock. A man can knit, you know. It's just not common. Besides, I need a scarf. It's getting cold."
Sherlock stared at the thick, graceful fingers, sliding and tucking the strands of yarn over the wooden sticks, slowly adding another line of loops to the dark blue scarf.
"Want to learn?" John held the thing in his hands, slightly toward the observer.
"I GIVE UP! I DON'T UNDERSTAND THIS, JOHN!"
Sherlock had been fumbling with the stuff for the better part of an hour, and John's patient instructions weren't making sense. The sudden bellow made John startle, his warm fingers jerking over his student's, trying to get them in the right position. But as much as Sherlock enjoyed the comfortable heaviness of his hands, he couldn't stand being so useless. John grinned, and moved to his own seat, and continued to work on the scarf.
Sherlock followed him with his eyes, content to watch. He didn't notice the thick bundle of knots encircling his fingers until several minutes had passed.
"Jaaawn…my hands are tied."
John, you look cold.
The two had been standing at the scene for two hours, much longer than expected, and John was shaking in his oatmeal jumper, while Sherlock was pacing around the corpse, warm in his ever- present scarf, leather gloves, and long black coat.
"Do you see this, John? Most interesting, the way the victim is lying- as if holding something- but what? What do you think, John?"
He turned to the shorter man, and immediately noticed his friend's shivers.
Sherlock swiftly unbuttoned his coat, and moved to drape the left side over John, ignoring the stares of Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson.
"You looked cold."
This is how you do it, John.
John grumbled unintelligibly from his position in front of Sherlock, his chin ached, and his shoulders were getting tired. He said so to Sherlock, and the taller man simply laughed and said this was revenge for teaching him (or trying to) how to knit.
"Alright, Sherlock. I give up. Learning to play the violin is simply impossible."
"Like this, John."
He curled his thin fingers around John's hand, and the other hand rested on the violin, pressing the doctor's digits to the strings. A swift pull on the bow and a note hung in the air, trembling like the million flecks of dust dancing in the window's light. His chest was pressed to John's back and shoulders and he could feel the sharp intake of breath as the doctor inhaled.
John laughed weakly, and let go, stumbling over a muttered excuse about having to call Harry as he left the room.
Sherlock smiled serenely, and started to play.
Sherlock, don't- don't do that.
Sherlock was pouting, pouting adorably, while one hand was held toward John. His pink lower lip was thrust out, ladylike in its delicacy.
"Pleeeease, John? Pleeeease?"
John sighed and pressed one of his precious, expensive chocolates into the waiting palm, wincing as it was deposited unceremoniously into an open mouth.
Damn, he had this down to an art.
Please review! More adorable Sherlock to come! Suggestions are welcome!