WARNING: This is a cancer fic.
Running as fast as he could, John followed Sherlock down the street, panting and laughing as he went. He caught up in no time, slamming the door of 221B closed behind them before leaning back against the wall, laughing still. Sherlock grinned at him, wide and filled with joy. Coughing a little, John wiped sweat from his brow and peeled off his damp coat.
"Did you see the way Anderson turned purple?" The doctor asked, clasping his hands on top of his head in an attempt to catch his breath after the long distance high-speed run they just partook in.
"Quite an alarming shade, though I must admit I did not expect him to go for Sergeant Donovan's firearm." Sherlock smirked, stripping off his own rain-soaked coat and scarf as he began the ascent upstairs.
"Sherlock, you caught him and Sally in the middle of snogging, at a crime scene, and declared it to the whole lot of Met that was there!" John trailed after his flatmate, heading straight for the kettle after hanging his jacket to dry. "Cuppa?" He asked, coughing a little.
"Please." Was all that came in response, seeing as Sherlock was face-down in the leather couch, no doubt bored now that they had gotten themselves kicked off a case before they even managed to lay an eye on the body.
Tapping his fingers against the counter, John eyed the fridge for the milk, luckily finding a half used pint hidden in the back behind a bowl of tongues. Within minutes, he was pressing a mug into the detective's hand while sipping cautiously at his own steaming tea. The two sat in silence for a good twenty minutes, John reading his book (some teen trash called 'New Moon', Sherlock noted idly) while Sherlock stared at the yellow smiley face on the wall, obviously considering the few places John could have hidden his gun. Certainly boredom was a reasonable motive to find it again.
"You should exercise more." Sherlock spoke up after another ten minutes, flicking his gaze at the doctor.
"Pardon?" John questioned, not even bothering to look over at his flatmate, guessing that he was making a stab at the small beer belly he was getting from having too many nights out with Stamford and Lestrade.
"It took you two minutes and forty two seconds longer than normal to catch your breath after a routine jog around London." Back to staring at the wall pattern, Sherlock kicked his feet impatiently, waiting for another murder or kidnapping (or maybe a bombing, this time).
"A routine jog around London?" He barked a laugh, setting down his mug and raising an eyebrow at the thin form of Sherlock. "We all can't be beanpoles with the fitness of an Olympic athlete, Sherlock! I'm not as young as I used to be, I can only run for my life at a certain speed without needing some oxygen."
Humming and shrugging off the conversation, Sherlock threw himself off of the couch and towards the kitchen, muttering to himself about the tongues that John had spotted earlier.
"Best not put any of those in the silverware drawer, like you did with those slices of leg muscle!" John called out, going back to reading and sincerely hoping that Sherlock would listen to him this time.
It turned out that Sherlock didn't listen to a word, and those tongues (in a strange green-brown goop that smelled an awful lot like syrup) ended up right beside the forks.
Choking on his tea, John slammed the drawer shut and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Dammit, Sherlock, I told you not to put the tongues in here two days ago!" He coughed, leaning against the counter with his mug right under his nose in hopes of getting rid of the disgusting smell the tongues were giving off.
"I only put them in yesterday, John," Sherlock rolled his eyes, typing away at John's computer with a speed that the doctor could never hope to replicate. "And if you don't mind, keep the drawer closed. They are supposed to be in complete darkness for three days before sitting on the windowsill for another two."
"Bloody hell," John groaned, grinding his teeth for a moment before setting down his cup and pushing himself towards the door. "I'm going out for a breather before the stench makes me sick. Can't you at least put out a deodorizer?"
Getting a displeased grunt in response, the doctor grabbed his jacket and headed down the stairs, aiming his feet towards the nearby park. He pulled the coat close, shivering slightly in the chilly air. If John had stopped Sherlock from loudly outing Anderson and Donovan, they would be working a case right about now (saying it even took that long), but no, he wanted to have a bit of a laugh at Anderson's expense after the man had called him Sherlock's pet. Again. And now Lestrade was so angry that he wasn't calling for any help on the case, claiming that they could solve it without any help from the consulting detective and his army doctor. They probably could, but it would take three times as long, he could bet.
By the time he reached the park, it was getting close to dark. John stalked past a group of smokers, holding back his coughs until he was a good few meters away before heading towards Sherlock's highest approved Chinese take-out place. It was good chance he could get the detective to eat, seeing as there were no pertinent experiments taking all his time or cases taking all his focus. Though, John did remark to himself, it was a Thursday, and Sherlock tended to stray away from the normal conventions (eating, sleeping, watching bad telly) on days that started with T.
"More like days ending in Y." He grumbled to himself, eying the bottom of the door handle. The most important part, Sherlock always told him, though he never saw the difference between it and any other.
After ordering and making his way back to 221B, John was near shivering, only saved by the grace of the warm food clutched to his chest.
"Ah, spring rolls," Sherlock greeted, taking the take out containers from his flatmate and pulling out silverware (from the drying rack beside the sink, John happily noticed). "Hurry and make tea, then." He insisted, plopping himself down into his chair and kicking his feet up onto John's.
Mumbling to himself the whole way, he did as requested, stealing one of the spring rolls from Sherlock's hungry grasp. John shoved Sherlock's feet out of the way, flipping on the telly to Doctor Who as he began to eat. He made sure not to comment on the way the detective was shoveling in food, knowing that as soon as the words left his mouth, the take out containers would be abandoned in a fit of stubbornness.
"That woman is not as old as she appears, it's obvious! And that child in the gas mask, he's obviously related to her, he follows her wherever she goes!" Sherlock commented, waving his fork at the screen, bits of noodles handing from it still.
"You've seen this one before, Sherlock, the second part too, you already know how it ends." John smiled a little, watching his friend just as much as he was watching the Ninth Doctor (he did manage to catch every single second that Captain Jack Harkness was on screen, though).
"Even more reason we should turn this off. Do reruns really entertain you, John?" The man asked incredulously, dropping his empty spring roll container on the floor and wrinkling his nose, frowning at the fact that there was no more.
"When you shut up and don't comment on how ridiculous it all is, yes, actually." Grinning now, John chuckled at the way his flatmate pouted at the telly. Another cough came to him, but he passed it off as food in his throat. John was just shocked to see Sherlock grab another container.
The nice night at home didn't last long. Before the two of them even finished the episode of Doctor Who, Lestrade was busting into the flat with a frantic sense of urgency.
"There's another murder, Sherlock, we need you," The Detective Inspector sighed, hesitating at the doorway. "Regents Park."
"Boating Lake?" Sherlock asked, shoving away the Chinese food like he was embarrassed to be seen eating. He got to his feet, already bee lining towards his coat and scarf.
"Didn't make it that far, lady was found near the college." Lestrade sighed, watching John clamber up to his feet and chase after Sherlock, the group of them already heading towards the street. Sherlock bypassed the police car that the DI had driven, making his way by foot. John groaned, wishing for once that they could take a cab instead of running. He refused to admit that aloud though, knowing his partner would scold him for even considering a slower form of travel just because it was more convenient.
When they finally made it to the park, they headed straight for Regent's college, where Sherlock and Anderson were in a hissing fight.
"Lestrade asked me to come, so it is quite clear that I am needed!" The consulting detective growled, flashing his teeth at the forensics 'specialist'.
"If you or your little-" He hesitated, glancing at John, clearly remembering what happened the last time he had called the doctor 'pet'. "-friend contaminate the body, I'll make sure DI Lestrade never works with you again!"
"Really, Anderson, do not make vague threats that you have absolutely no control over. You've tried that before, or have you forgotten?" Sherlock rolled his eyes, pushing past the man and holding up the police tape for himself and his flatmate.
The instant he was on the other side of the tape, his mind went full-focus on the bloody scene in front of him. A young girl, approximately twenty-four year of age, student at the London School of Film, undergraduate in performing arts, photography habit, had been chased from the school towards the lake, where she had been viciously cut down with a blade of some sort. Sherlock recited all of this to the DI, grumbling under his breath as he pointed out the specifics.
"You can see the trail of blood, there, and over there," He pointed, tracing out the trail with his fingers. "She had been taking photographs of the park, you can see the indents of the camera on her fingers, see? On the way back to the school, she had been attacked, obvious by the defensive wounds on her forearms. The woman lifted her arms in an attempt to cover and protect her face. She threw the camera at him; you can see it back there where the first spots of blood are. After that, she ran towards the lake, probably aiming to round the school and go towards the bridge."
Scanning the area, Sherlock paced and muttered to himself; eyes narrowed and focused on the body.
"I can't tell what weapon it is," John spoke up, kneeling by the body and frowning at the wounds covering the petite blond girl. "A blade, bigger than a regular knife and smooth edged, it looks like."
Running a list of weapons through his mind, Sherlock sorted through all the possibilities and narrowed down the results to one likely subject.
"Machete," Snapping his eyes open, Sherlock rounded on the corpse and got as close as he possibly could without touching it. "A dull machete, at that." He sniffed the wounds, humming with intrigue.
"A machete?" Lestrade repeated, frowning at the odd weapon choice.
"Yes! One that has also split coconuts, if the aroma is anything to go by," Sherlock turned, frowning at his flatmate as he began to cough, thinking he had said something inappropriate. He didn't, it seemed, though John was coughing still and trying to clear his throat. "Give him water." He said impatiently, waving his hand towards his doctor before turning back to the crime scene.
There was no time for him to think about the odd coughs coming from his flatmate, he had to figure out the motive and suspect behind this attack. Before there was a third, Lestrade would insist if he took his focus off the case for even a moment.
"It's someone at the college," He finally said, three minutes later, sparing a glance for the DI and doctor. "A fellow student. He's murdering the woman who turned him down. The man is in his thirties, awkward and probably acts like a stalker. He pursues women who are much too attractive for him, and he collects weapons that are mainly use in the Caribbean. Five ten, with a birth defect in the left leg that causes him to limp."
Lestrade nodded, writing down all of the information and pressing at his temple as if he were getting a headache.
"Thanks for coming Sherlock-" He started, not even getting out the full sentence before the two were off and heading back towards 221B.
"Come, John, the tongues should be ready for the next step in the experiment, and your assistance will be needed while I pickle them." Sherlock said, beckoning the doctor with him as he hurried away from the crime scene, not bothering to stop when Lestrade called after him to confirm that he had gotten all of the information correct.
Lestrade sighed, watching them go, shaking his head and motioning for Anderson to get to work with the body.
"He's going to be the death of Watson." He muttered, watching Sherlock speed down the street while John jogged to catch up.
A/N - So while I'm writing the easy-to-read, fluffy "Wonderland", here's the (soon-to-be) angsty fic I've been working on. Please review/favorite/alert, whatever. It makes me feel all fluffy inside when I get email notices.