Fishing in the Thames (Sherlock BBC fanfic)
Set before 'The state of people's wedding rings'
Dedicated to the person who asked (like Sherlock) – you make my day!
'I should have expected this,' John mused as he stretched out flat over the edge of the embankment and threw one end of his coat into the water. Really, the way Sherlock pranced about as if he was ten foot tall and bullet proof was bound to catch up with him one day.
Still stiff from the aftermath of The Pool, John gritted his teeth as Sherlock caught the jacket sleeve closest to him and started to pull. Ordinarily, John wouldn't have bothered ruining his coat in such a fashion, but Sherlock had just been belted on the head and John wasn't sure he trusted his partner to know which way was up, let alone which way to dry land. A familiar voice shouted in the middle distance and John caught Sherlock's hand just as Lestrade arrived to help with the actual pulling him in over the side.
"What do you think, Lestrade – is it regulation size?" John panted as he pulled himself up onto his knees rather shakily and caught hold of Sherlock so he could evaluate him. The thin genius was spluttering and performing his best impersonation of an eel – which was fitting, now John thought about it – but John took no prisoners when it came to the practice of his profession and he had his flatmate pinned in a semi-professional wrestling hold before he'd had time to really get his bearings.
"… wasting time!" Sherlock's protests were mostly muffled which was good for those in the vicinity who objected to the use of profanity, but that part came through very clearly. Fortunately John had an answer for that one.
"The sooner you stay still, the sooner I'll let you go! Your stubbornness is wasting more time than a simple medical check would! Now hold still!"
Once his flatmate stopped fighting, John checked the usual neurological markers, pronounced himself satisfied and rolled to the side, watching with something akin to awe as Sherlock practically levitated upright and took off. He wouldn't have been surprised to see one of those clouds of dust, in the shape of Sherlock's outline, slowly dissipating in the wind, the man had moved so quickly. Lestrade was only a metre or so behind, so John didn't feel too guilty about not leaping up and following straight away, needing to catch his breath and sort out the cramp in his leg from where he'd been tensing against Sherlock's squirms.
He had his and Sherlock's coats and draped them over his arm – holding the sopping garments out slightly and glad he'd thought to put his phone in his jeans pocket. Something occurred to him and he went fishing through Sherlock's pockets, sighing when he came up with Sherlock's phone. After the Pool, Sherlock had been forced to replace his phone – the other one not surviving its swim in said pull. He'd bought the newest version of his original model, but had not been too happy with it, as there had been a slight rearrangement of the features and software that he was used to. It had been the cause of several highly amusing spelling errors when it came to sending texts and Sherlock had gotten into the habit of sending anything that he absolutely didn't want misunderstood from John's phone. John didn't mind – he never had. It was all part of the 'what's mine is mine and what's yours is also mine' attitude they'd both fallen into. While some things were sacred – like Sherlock's violin and John's official medical bag – most things were communal.
John looked at the phone and heaved a sigh, remembering what a palaver it had been to find a new one. Sherlock had hated the whole process of going out to buy a new phone, having to register his old number against it again and explain what had happened to his previous phone. The network hadn't been too impressed with his excuses, until he'd brought his medical records and the police report in to prove he wasn't lying. He'd complained and moaned every step of the way, and John thought that part of the problem had been that John himself hadn't been in any fit state at the time to accompany him or help him out.
"You alright, Dr Watson?" Sally Donovan's voice broke into his musings and John looked up. He'd completely lost sight of Sherlock and Lestrade at this point and hoped that the DI had managed to keep up with his partner.
"Yeah," John nodded, making a decision. It was a bit whimsical, but that was ok, "See you around, Sally."
He pulled his own phone out of his jeans and texted Lestrade, asking him to pass on to Sherlock that John would meet him back at Baker Street. Then he summoned a cab and got in the back, directing it towards the dry cleaners that Sherlock favoured.
&%&%&%&
Sherlock pounced the moment that John pushed the door to the flat open, drawing him inside and looking him over anxiously.
"I hurt your leg," the taller man muttered, "Your limp is worse than it was this morning."
"It's fine, Sherlock," John batted away the hands that were trying to pull him to the couch, the bag in his hand swinging around and banging into the both of them as he tried to come in and Sherlock tried to take care of him in his kindly meant but rather dictatorial manner.
They ended up struggling in front of the couch before losing their balance. Sherlock twisted quickly so that he took the brunt of the impact, John landing sprawled over him, the bag tumbling to the floor.
"Bloody hell," John opined from Sherlock's armpit, "Would you settle down, you great gangling goon?"
"You're never cross with me when you alliterate," Sherlock pointed out smugly, "What's in the bag?"
"You can't deduce it?" John asked, propping his arms across Sherlock's chest comfortably and resting his chin on them. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Before he could speak though, John reached out and put a finger on the thin man's lips.
"It's your wedding ring," he informed his makeshift mattress; "Since you're serious about us being married – and I have a skull to prove it – I thought I should reciprocate. Now let me up, please."
Sherlock let him up, though John stayed beside him on the couch as a favour to the other man. He'd learned that Sherlock got rather anxious if he felt that John was at less than his best health and not in direct arms reach. Sherlock retrieved the bag and delved into it, fishing out the phone in its box.
He opened the box eagerly and pulled his new gadget out, fingers running over the brushed metal casing, turning it over and over before turning to John with a smile.
"There's no engraving," he didn't sound disappointed, but John felt that he should defend that decision. The shop had actually offered a same day engraving service, for no extra cost.
"Moriarty is still out there. I assumed we didn't want to give him any further ammunition," John shrugged, "Besides… everything I could think of was too sentimental. You don't do sentimental; if the phone is to stand a chance of lasting I figured it would be best to leave it un-adorned."
"Well reasoned," Sherlock nodded, and started rummaging for the charger and accessories in the box, clearly intending to set it up now, "Now all I have to do is get the number changed again…"
He didn't sound too enthused by the idea and from the looks he was shooting John, the doctor was sure that task was about to be allocated to his shoulders.
"No you don't," John sighed, "I contacted Mycroft. He buggered the phone network for you – it's your usual number. Thank god for Mycroft, eh? I don't think I could have dealt again with the drama that went on the last time you replaced your phone."
"Hmm," Sherlock pretended not to notice the reprimand in that last sentence, devoting himself instead to plugging the phone in and turning it on.
John grinned and went to make tea, failing to mention that Mycroft had required a small favour from Sherlock in exchange for the trick with the phone number. He was sure the elder brother would inform the younger of that in his own good time…
END
Disclaimer – characters and setting as depicted in Sherlock BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.