a/n: Hello sweeties! Review & just know I'm not as clever as Sherlock or the Doctor.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or the Doctor, sadly enough. The ones who own them do.
•
••
•••
••
•
It was midnight in the city of London. The golden glow of the city lights shined, and the honking of cab drivers was a distant familiarity to all the English living there or nearby. Humidity hung in the night air but the December temperature was still cold and frosty. Rain threatened to fall from the clouds above, and soon.
The Thames River was strangely calm despite the slight wind, and up close it seemed as if the water went completely still.
There is a flicker of movement on the surface of the water, as if a brown trout skittered to the top, then hurried back down to the depths. But no, the rippling continued on. It was as if something was trying to escape.
A hand emerges from the water, pale and ghastly-looking. It stretches its fingers out towards the sky, reaching. The index finger twitches slightly. As quick as it came, the hand suddenly falls limp and splashes back into the river water.
Thames River is once again flowing along. And nobody noticed the oxygen bubbles slowly fading away.
•
••
•
The flat of 221b Baker Street was peaceful at the moment. At least, the most peaceful it could get. They had just solved a four-day case, a string of murders finally sorted out and picked through to the very last detail.
John Watson had the pleasure of waking up that morning to a long, hot shower, a cup of tea, and actually having time to read the newspaper. The problem was, was that Sherlock hadn't slept even a minute last night. He had been in the bloody kitchen doing some kind of experiment that John would rather not know about.
John sipped on his tea leisurely, stealing a glance at Sherlock who was spread out on the sofa. His long legs draping over each other, arms above his head, with his eyes fixated on the ceiling above him. It was a little scary to see Sherlock like this – it meant he was bored. And anyone knew that a bored Sherlock was not good. Not a good thing at all.
"Sherlock?"
Only his mouth muscles moved as he replied with a faint and slightly annoyed. "Hmm?"
"Why don't you…do something? Go to the lab. Annoy Lestrade." John said, folding up the newspaper in his hands and setting it on the small table beside him. "Anything but just sitting there silent."
A small smile curled onto the consulting detectives lips. "I'm thinking, John."
"Exactly." John stood up. He hooked his finger in his cup's handle and sauntered into the kitchen. John really didn't want a case to come up today, at least not until he had fully recovered from the last one. His sleep schedule hadn't quite adjusted to Sherlock's yet – along with his eating habits. He shook his head. That man. Setting the cup in the sink, the army doctor glanced around the kitchen. Nothing looked out of place, nothing different. Jars with random body parts and liquids were set on the counter, the table was cluttered with miscellaneous junk, and the fridge probably still had the same objects in it. Sherlock must have just been playing with his normal toys until the break of dawn.
Returning to the living room, John found Sherlock in the same place. John glanced around the flat, and then gave a small sigh. "Well I'm going out."
"Out? To where?" Sherlock murmured curiously.
"Grocery shopping, perhaps."
"Perhaps, yes."
What in the world was that supposed to mean? A split second of silence, then John regained his thoughts and took his coat off of the rack. "Please don't blow the place up while I'm gone. Or shoot the walls. Or flood the kitchen." The list could go on forever. It was like telling a three-year old not to touch the shiny objects right before his eyes.
Before John could get out the door though, Sherlock's phone buzzed, signaling a text. They both knew what that meant. He looked over his shoulder as Sherlock studied the screen of his phone, brows furrowed. It was obviously Lestrade.
"Well?" John asked. Sherlock stood up, stuffing his cellphone into the pocket of his pants. He stepped up on the coffee table, then back onto the floor and grabbed the newspaper John had just been 'reading'.
"John?" Sherlock said. "Did you see anything unusual in here? A murder, a drowning, any-" he went silent, and then threw the paper carelessly over his shoulder. "Of course it wouldn't be in the paper. That means Lestrade just found out about the girl."
"Sherlock you're muttering to yourself again." John commented. But he went on mumbling.
"Which means it's more serious than just a drowning, perhaps. Maybe it was a murder. Or maybe the girl committed suicide." John watched as Sherlock slipped his elegant arms into the sleeves of his coat, picking up his scarf. Now he looked at John and smiled. "Grocery shopping can wait, John. We have a case."
John sighed. "Obviously."
