The Devil's Root
John Watson shifted the bag of groceries from his right hand to his left in order to open the front door of 221B Baker Street. He was damp from a sudden drizzle and irritable at having had to go out in the first place
He shifted the grocery bag again as he entered the building and began to climb up the stairs toward the flat he shared with the world's only consulting detective. Rounding the corner into their shared rooms, he mumbled absently under his breath about the "pompous git" who "couldn't be bothered to pick up a carton of milk after leaving the last one sitting on the mantelpiece. For five days."
John set the bag down on one of the few clear spaces on the kitchen table and began to empty its contents. The tea went into the tin above the cup rack, the crisps went into the empty stockpot in the back of the cupboard where Sherlock wasn't likely to find them, and the milk went into the…
Just in front of the refrigerator, John stepped on something that gave a loud crunch. He looked down and saw shards of glass, several of which had been ground to dust under his boot. There were larger pieces in the floor beyond the refrigerator and in front of the sink. He checked the kitchen window, but the panes were intact. Looking farther to his right, John saw a large pool of what looked like bright red blood spreading from the edge of the floor to beneath the cluttered table.
"Sherlock?" called John, not quite alarmed. There was no answer. He called a second time, but there was still no response. "Sherlock!" he called again, this time with greater urgency. When he received no answer, he tossed the milk carton onto the counter and dashed out of the kitchen.
"Sherlock, answer me!" he yelled as he ran down the hall. A dozen horrific scenarios played out in his mind as he desperately searched the flat. He knew Sherlock had more than a few enemies, most of whom would have no trouble at all bringing harm to the detective. Had one of them broken into the flat and hurt or, John gulped hard at the thought, murdered Sherlock? A worse thought then occurred to him and made his blood run cold. Was the murderer still in the flat? Was he waiting for him? John stopped in his tracks by the bathroom door. He could see a movement of shadow under the door. Someone was in the bathroom. John took a quiet step back and grabbed the first large thing he could find. Steeling himself, he rushed forward and flung open the bathroom door.
Sherlock was seated on the edge of the tub with a bloodstained flannel wrapped around his right hand.
"Oh good, you're here," he said flatly. "I was going to text you, but I'm rubbish at texting with only my left hand. What are you doing with that femur?"
"Wh—what? You're…are you…what happened?" sputtered John.
Sherlock looked at his friend, confused for a moment. "Oh, this?" he said, indicating his wrapped hand. "I had a bit of an accident. Apparently beakers don't respond well to being put into the microwave. It shattered right in my hand. I think I've stopped the bleeding, but I need you to stitch me up. You still haven't answered my question about what you're doing with Old Mrs. Darvish's leg bone."
John let the long bone slip from his fingers and fall with a clatter to the floor. He plopped down beside Sherlock on the side of the tub and put his head in his hands.
"I thought…I thought…"
"You thought? You thought what?" asked Sherlock, annoyed. "Really John, you must be more specific. I'm brilliant, yes, but I can't read your mind. Most of the time. No, I take that back. I usually know exactly what you're thinking. However, when you just sit there babbling-"
"I thought you had been murdered!" John shouted, interrupting Sherlock's monologue.
The detective looked taken aback. "Why would you think that?"
John looked at his friend incredulously. "Because there is a large pool of blood all over the bloody kitchen floor!" he exclaimed.
"Oh, now you're just being redundant," scoffed Sherlock. "If there is blood all over the floor, of course it's bloody."
"You know what I mean, you arrogant arse. I thought someone had come in and tried to murder you!"
"And you were coming in here with Mrs. Darvish's femur to finish the job? Well bravo for me and my choice of flat-mates. Are you going to stitch me, or are you just going to sit there with your mouth bobbing open like a stupid goldfish?"
John shook his head and shakily stood to fetch his medical bag. "You are impossible," he told his friend. "Absolutely impossible."
"Yes, yes," said Sherlock. "That's what I've been told. Did you remember to get milk?"
"What are you working on?" Sherlock asked later that same morning as John clacked away at the keyboard of his laptop.
"I'm blogging," answered John, not looking up.
"About?" asked the detective.
"The case of that poor ginger fellow who got duped by those comic book thieves who were tunneling from his cellar into the vault next door."
It had been an odd case. The thieves had convinced the red-haired man he was part of a secret society in order to get him out of his shop so they could break into the vault and steal a collection of rare comic books.
"I still find it hard to believe that a silly cartoon book can be worth so much money," grumbled Sherlock.
John wanted to argue with Sherlock about rarity and collectability and how comic books were much more than "cartoons," but he knew it would be of little use where Sherlock was concerned. He still hadn't managed to completely convince him that Pluto was no longer a planet.
"What are you calling this one?" Sherlock questioned.
John smiled. "I've called it The Red-headed League of Extraordinary Gentlemen." He sat back in his chair, obviously pleased with himself. Sherlock groaned.
"Are people still reading that ridiculous thing-" Sherlock's rant was interrupted by his phone alerting him to a text message. He whipped it out of his pocket and looked at the message on the screen.
-Something very interesting at the morgue. Come and see. MH
Sherlock frowned and typed back.
-Show me now. SH
The response came in the form of a picture just a few moments later: a dead body with no visible wounds, perfectly normal as far as dead bodies go, except for its face. The face was contorted and frozen into an expression of sheer horror. Sherlock smiled and sent another message.
-On my way. SH
A/N:
You have asked for more and I am delivering. This will be a multi-chapter fic, and I'll try to settle into a regular update pattern. We'll just have to see how well my Muse cooperates.
We have John (Yay)! I hope to have all the faves in this one, at least a little bit. Let me now who you want to see and I'll try to get them in.
As always, comments are always cherished and adored like favorite children. Let me know what's on your lovely little minds!
Happy reading!
Fanny
Playlist:
Moon Ghost Waltz- Michael Hoppe
America- Imagine Dragons
I'll Take You There- David Bowie