Disclaimer: I do not own these characters-nor do I own any of the music in the playlist below. Both are intended for your entertainment pleasure. Please enjoy and REVEIW!
{ /playlist/I+Am+Sher+Locked/80842397 -accompanying playlist }
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Sherlock was not quite yet awake, sitting on the only sofa in 221b Baker St. that was out of arm's reach of somethign to throw.
John had been playing some estoteric jazz record for the better part of the morning-and while sherlock had nothing against jazz music of any kind; he'd slept like rubbish thenight before, and John hadn't brought him his pungent cup of assam and breakfast yet this morning. In short, NOISE BAD, QUIET GOOD was all the maestro's magnificent brain could fit together at that moment.
"Ah yes!" John sighed, carefully balancing a tea tray replete with various goodies on his way to where Sherlock sat on the couch.
"The sleeper has awoken!"
Sherlock offered only a grunt and furrowed brow for response.
"Don't get yer knickers in a knot-tea is served your majesty!" John groused as he poured his friend and flatmate a hot cuppa.
The needle gently skipped into the next track; Sherlock sipped his tea with a dour expression as saxophone whined from the speakers of the ancient record player in the corner. Above their melancholy moan; the hiss of hi hat and the molasses thickness of a woman's voice which sang:
/The Singing Sea
The talking Trees
Are silent in a noisy way...
The stars are bright, but shed no light
The world spins backwards every day.../
"What on earth are we listening to John?" Sherlock finally spoke; his tone was not unlike that of a petulant teenager.
"Not to mention that it's far too early in the day for whatever it may be!"
John's mouth pressed into a thin, flat line.
"Quarter past ten in the morning is not 'early' Sherlock, not to mention the record is a gift for you." John fished around in his pocket a moment before producing a small yellow slip of paper.
"I signed for it this morning. It was addressed to the flat, but when I opened it-this was inside." John handed the little slip to Sherlock, upon which simple typeface read:
Mr. Holmes,
I hope you find the record stimulating.
Sherlock launched himself from the couch most suddenly-beginning his feverish pacing of the salon in a flourish of blankets; his tea sloshing like a typhoon over the edges of his cup as he went.
John sat forward in his seat, examining his eccentric comrade.
"Any idea who sent it?"
Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks and gave John an enormous (if not a bit eerie) grin.
"I already know who sent it John. Isn't it obvious!? What I have not yet deduced is why, why send the record? What's so special about the record!?"
John stared back at Sherlock with a look betwixt incredulity and expectation.
"Honestly John, you don't know?"
John rolled his eyes.
"How long have you been this inattentive?"
"Dunno, how long have you been such a prat?" John quipped back.
"Ms. Irene Adler my dear Watson!" Sherlock hadn't bothered to hide his excitement.
John's face fell.
"Sherlock...I'm afraid that's just not possible." He asserted.
Thinking back to how he'd taken the news of Ms. Adler's 'death' the first time around; John feared how Sherlock might react now-not just to that blow, but the added pain of John's deception.
"Oh?" Sherlock had ceased his pacing and had begun inspecting the record's liner notes. "How's that?"
John took a deep breath.
"Because...because I lied to you Sherlock, I lied to you about-"
"Please John-I know about the little white 'witness protection program' lie my brother made you tell to spare my 'delicate feelings'." Sherlock stated flatly, John's mouth almost comically ajar.
"Miss Adler is very much alive, and now apparently in the habit of sending musical calling cards."
John moved quickly past pity and guilt onto anger and fury. Blood rushed to his face. Without a word he began clearing away the tea tray, making sure to snatch Sherlock's still warm cup from his grasp.
Too obdurate to tend to his flustered partner, Sherlock instead moved to the turntable, adjusting the needle back a few hairs widths to repeat the track that had been playing moments ago:
(Play Track "The Singing Sea")
/The Singing Sea
The talking Trees
Are silent in a noisy way...
The stars are bright, but shed no light
The world spins backwards every day...
A Rainbow Rat
A Checkered Cat
Go tail in tail along the road...
The mouse is pleased , the moon is cheese
The sun is shining hot and cold
A Golden Bird
Today I heard
Sitting upon a silver branch
His little song was very long...
Which made me sad and start to laugh
My brother she
My Sister he
But there is only me in the family
When I grow up oh I'll go down...
The river to the Singing Sea /
"Complete and utter nonsense words!" John complained once the song had finsihed.
Sherlock payed him no mind-just sat staring, fingers laced beneath his nose.
"Not going to share are we?" John snapped. "I can never shut you up, but one record from Irene Adler-A 'DEAD WOMAN', and you can't manage a single syllable on how she's managed to send you a parcel from the afterlife."
"More like Seychelles..." Sherlock sighed, only feuling John's rage.
"BUT MYCROFT TOLD ME SHE WAS-"
:KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK:
The two paused their small domestic spat to answer the door. Mrs. hudson appeared in the open doorway-a satisfied smile on her aged face.
"Wot a charming girl you've found yo'self this time Jawn!" She chimed.
"She's waitin' on you downstairs luv!" She assured them, before shuffling off toward her own flat.
John and Sherlock looked at each other with suspicion.
"Did you start wooing that vapid yoga instructor with the little dogs?"
Sherlock's query was dripping with disgust.
"No." John replied, wounded-prompting both men to peek out of their flat at the leggy, Bardot-esque twenty-something at the bottom of the stairs.
At that precise moment Sherlock's phone erupted with a lewd
UNGH!
John's nose twitched.
"well, go on! What'd she text you?" he urged.
"There's no mistaking that ringtone."
If sherlock hadn't known any better he might've thought John was jealous.
::I thought John might keep Lana company::
UNGH!
:: American girl. LOVES veterans 3 ::
The young woman sauntered up the stairs in a cap-sleeve peplum dress the color of cotton candy and skyscraper tall Zanotti stilettos that Sherlock recognized as part of Ms. Adler's extensive wardrobe. Irene did have a tendency to lend out pieces to her favorite protegee-du-jour.
Sherlock sniffed the air; although the body chemistry was different, he could still tell it was equal parts Coco Mademoiselle and Ms. Dior Cherie; Irene's signature designer scent cocktail.
The girl was young, but not too young to be under the maribou-fringe-peignoir-wing of Ms. Adler. Her strawberry brown bouffant was perfectly coiffed;a Wilma Flintsone-sized string of pearls adorning her giraffe-slender neck.
John was making a valiant effort to secure his eyes safely within his skull once more when the young woman spoke:
"John?" Her sparkling blue bambi eyes fixed on Watson-the good Doctor had hardly noticed she was sporting an American accent.
"Do you want to change before we go to lunch? " She batted mascara lashes nonchalantly.
John looked from 'Lana' to Sherlock-then back again.
/UNGH!/
::He really should change, she made reservations at Marilave and that Jumper is shabby:::
Sherlock read the message with a smirk. John watched on, squirming with obvious anxiety.
"John, go get changed. Ms. Adler's been kind enough to consider your previous 'third wheel' complaints. Lana is here to bring you to lunch."
John smiled politely at the beautiful woman standing in their parlor-blithely clasping her bedazzled designer clutch in her sorbet-hue manicured fingers-then briskly swept Sherlock into the Kitchen for a quick tete-a-tete.
"Sherlock, tell me what is going on here!"
Sherlock's beaming visage hardened slightly-his mouth downturned into it's more typical horizontal trajectory.
"Not yet, John-I have to be certain myself before I tell you. But you'll be safe with Lana-and no doubt given your proclivities for big lips, busts, and American girls; quite entertained. "
"So you want me to go have a lunch date with one of Ms. Adler's high-end Prostitute playthings at one of the most posh gastronomic establishments in Britain while you may or may not be out getting yourself into trouble with a Megalomaniac Dominatrix." John snorted.
"Well, John-I expect you to change first."
There was a well placed Silence as John and Sherlock stared each other down.
"Fine!" It was John who finally spoke.
"But we're not going to Marileve." He announced in a voice loud enough for Lana to hear in the parlor.
Sherlock smiled, John rolled his eyes.
"I hope you like chips and curry Lana!" John called, making his way into the parlor.