So I am convinced that there is not enough Merlin Holmes fics in this world, so I wrote one. I hope you like it. Just so you know ages, Sherlock is 30 and Merlin is 21. I don't know how old Sherlock or Merlin actually are in the shows, but this is just what i'm going with. So have fun. Oh wait, in case you didn't figure it out, I don't own any of these shows.
John was just sitting down for his afternoon tea when he heard a knock on the door. Visitors were common at 221B, and though John enjoyed the people and the investigation that were sure to follow, he did appreciate a little time to himself. It really wasn't that much to ask. With a sigh John put down his tea cup and hefted himself out of the comfortable chair, grabbing his cane before walking down the stairs.
The young man standing in front of the door at the bottom of John's stairs seemed quite familiar. Perhaps it was the dark brown almost black curled hair that looked ruffled and untameable or maybe the pale grey eyes, but the most prominent features were the high cheek bones, which looked like they could cut glass, that reminded him, strangely, of Sherlock. He had the look of what a typical client would look like except for the fact that he lacked the typical worry troubling look in most people's eyes. He dressed a little peculiar for his age as well. A long brown trench coat over a grey sweater and a red scarf wrapped around his neck gave the impression of an old man rather than a young university student.
John realized that he had been standing there for quite a while.
"Why don't you come in?" John asked, failing to compensate for the awkwardness of leaving the boy standing there for so long. "Are you looking for Sherlock?" He said, glancing back over his shoulder to look at the boy now following him up the stairs.
"Yes, unfortunately," The boy said with a slight smirk rolling on his lips. That seemed strange to John. Why would he come here if he didn't want to talk to Sherlock. The boy did have a certain strangeness to him, so John just ignored it.
They had reached the living room, which of course was a mess. John had been trying to convince Sherlock to clean it, thinking it was unprofessional, but John didn't want to face the consequences of touching Sherlocks stuff nor would Sherlock actually clean it himself. John wasn't surprised to see Sherlock laying on the couch, long limbs curled up so they could fit. Now starring at Sherlock, he noticed that the boy and Sherlock also shared the same tall, lanky build as well.
Sherlock must have heard them on the stairs and simply had chosen not to get up.
"So, whats your problem? This better be good. I don't particularly have time right now ," Sherlock said from his position on the couch, looking the exact opposite of busy.
The boy stared at Sherlock as if he had seen a ghost. Any form of happiness or welcome
had completely vanished from his face. John sat down, sighing. Sherlock had a habit of making a lot of enemies, and John often found himself in the middle of these enemies and Sherlock, often in the middle of his living room as well. What Sherlock had done to anger this man, well barely a man considering he looked about 20, John wasn't sure.
"Well, you see the problem, unfortunately, is you," The boy said in a surprisingly calm voice compared to his angered expression. This would have been a good sign to anyone else, but John had learned from dealing with Sherlock that the calmer the voice, the faster you run.
Sherlock looked at the boy, having moved his body to a sitting position. Something flashed in Sherlock's eyes, causing him to hesitate before saying, " I don't recall ever meeting you, so I'm afraid you must have misplaced your blame."
The boys angered expression turned to one of loss. "No you wouldn't." His voice was soft, as if remembering something. "That's not Important. However, what is important is that you're going to get a call in about... um... oh 3 hours and 20 minutes," He said looking down at his watch. "and I need you not to answer it." The boy had a slight, aggravating smirk on his face.
John was growing slightly irritated. This boy shows up, disturbs his afternoon tea, demands that they don't answer a simple call, and he hasn't even given them his name.
"Now, hold on a second. We don't even know your name," John said, knowing his frustration showed through in his voice. The nameless boy turned on his heals in his peculiar black shoes and moved out of the doorway of their living room.
"That's not important," He called out. His footsteps retreated down the stairs. Sherlock quite quickly got up from his seat, nearly running down the steps behind the boy. Two pairs of footsteps stopped on the stairs. There was a short silence before one pair of steps started running, unevenly, down the rest of the stairs, and the sound of the door swinging shut followed. John wasn't sure what happened, but he was positive of one thing; It was Sherlock's fault. It was always Sherlock's fault.
Did you like it? Hate it? I know its a little short, but the next chapter will be longer. Please review and I'm always open to criticism. I know it's not good, so please help me make it better. So bye, It's been real.