My first Sherlock fanfic, but probably not the last. Hope you like it :)
Disclaimer: I own the memory of some of these events, but unfortunately not the characters.
Four Varieties Of Mustard
It was 2.43am.
The flat was completely dark, save the single lamp in the bathroom. It stood on a tiny, ornate table next to the large, free-standing bath in the centre of the room.
A tall, lean man wearing only a black trilby hat and a pair of formal black trousers lay in the bath, smoking a long, thin cigarette.
The man in the bath blew out a lungful of smoke which smelt of tobacco, cinnamon and burnt cloves. He sat up to pick up an opened bottle of red wine off the floor. He raised the bottle to his chapped lips and took a long gulp, and then slid back down into the cool water, resting the bottle upon his raised knee. He took another drag from his cigarette, staring into space.
The door to the flat banged open."Sherlock?"
Sherlock glared up at the ceiling, before replacing the bottle upon the floor by one of the bath's clawed feet.
"Lestrade called. Wants to know why you haven't been answering your mobile. He didn't sound worried, just curious." John continued to talk to the detective despite the one-sidedness of the conversation. He was rummaging in the fridge. "What's this meant to be?"
"Guacamole," Sherlock replied, taking a deep drag from his cigarette.
"You forgot to put in the avocado."
"I know," said Sherlock, matter-of-factly, "but it was going off."
"Marvellous." John paused, and Sherlock could hear him rustling through the contents of the kitchen. "We have... three -no, four- varieties of mustard, half a tin of baked beans, an egg, peanut butter, half a jar of olives, balsamic vinegar, pesto, thirteen bottles of beer, grapefruit juice, half a chocolate cake..."
He moved onto the cupboards. "A tin of tuna. Another two jars of mustard. Beans. Three more cartons of grapefruit juice. Teabags. Coffee. Herbal tea. Sugar. A bottle of whiskey."
He dared to look in the freezer. "Ice-cream. Two bottles of vodka."
"This is bloody awful!" He wandered into the bathroom, carrying a bottle of beer. "What are you doing?"
"It's your turn to go shopping," announced Sherlock, staring up at the ceiling.
"Is not."
"Then we shall continue to graze on the condiments."
"I often wonder how you survived by yourself before I moved in," John mused, cracking open his bottle, and sitting down in the wooden chair next to the bath.
Sherlock fixed him with a steady look. "What makes you think that I survived by myself?"
"Your presence?"
Sherlock snorted. "Mycroft."
"Ah."
"He would show up once a week to throw away my milk and bread, and restock my tins. Thursdays, 6.10pm." Sherlock dropped the butt of his cigarette into the bath water, and immediately lit another.
"Makes sense."
"Of course it doesn't."
"Why are you smoking again?" John inquired.
"Three-patch problems are hard to break," replied Sherlock, reaching blindly for the bottle of wine again. "Anyway, Lestrade?"
"An abduction, apparently."
"Details, John."
"The girlfriend of a restaurant owner-"
"No."
John stared at him in utter confusion. "What?"
"You heard me."
"I heard, but I don't understand."
"He's behind on his illegal loan, of course. The abduction is a false claim to get the money, and get rid of the loan shark. Honestly, John..."
"Right."
Sherlock tilted his head back against the edge of the bath, staring up at the ceiling. "Any more cases?"
"If you would answer Lestrade's calls, maybe you wouldn't be so bored."
"My phone was in the other room."
John raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "Of course."
"Speaking of which..."
"No," said John.
Sherlock sat upright again, looking surprised. "I haven't finished yet."
"You don't need to. You want me to go and fetch your phone. I am not a Labrador."
"I never claimed anything of the sort. The simple fact is that I am currently in the bath-"
"And you have been for..." John tested the temperature of the bathwater with his hand, "... most of the day, judging by the temperature of the water, and the wrinkliness of your fingertips."
"It's an experiment," Sherlock insisted.
"Everything for you is an experiment."
"Your problem being?" He took a drag from his cigarette.
"That you can't be bothered to walk seven steps in order to get your phone."
Sherlock shrugged. "Fine. I'll wrinkle and eat mustard."
His phone beeped with a new text in the other room.
"Mycroft will wonder why I'm not opening my texts soon, and come over. Maybe he'll be more sympathetic."
"I'm sure."
Sherlock stared longingly at the table in the living room, on which his mobile lay, the screen lit up.
"If you're the intrigued, then go and get it," John advised.
"I'm not intrigued; I'm enjoying my relaxing bath."
John snorted, and finished his bottle. "I'll leave you to it, then." He stood up to leave the bathroom.
"John, while you're up and getting another-"
"No. No, I'm not getting it." He sat down again firmly.
"John, you want another bottle of beer."
"One will suffice. I am content."
"Are you, though? Really?" Sherlock unleashed his wide, curious eyes upon the good doctor.
"I can assure you that I am." John picked up the magazine at the top of the pile next to the sink, and began to read.
"John?"
Pause.
"John?"
…
"John, I'm going to get my phone from the living room. Would you like a beer while I'm up?"
"If you're going that way," said John, breezily, without taking his eyes from the page.
Sherlock set his cigarette on his lip, and raised his arms out of the water to allow him to hoist himself out of the bath.
He stepped out; his drenched black trousers dripping onto the worn bathmat. He dropped his cigarette into the bath, and steadied himself using the sink for support.
"My legs seem to be affected," he observed, moving his toes experimentally.
"Hmm."
"I doubt I'll make it to the living room." He took an uncertain step. "I may have to crawl." He swayed dangerously. "John, lend me your arm."
With a heavy sigh, John stood, and allowed Sherlock to put his weight on his shoulders.
Looking oddly like they were involved in a three-legged race, they manouvered their way through to the living room, where Sherlock gracefully collapsed onto the sofa.
"John, be a good chap and fetch the blanket from my bed, else I fear I may get hypothermia."
"It would be your own fault. And I thought you offered me a beer?"
"In the fridge; do help yourself. You live here, you know, I shouldn't treat you like a guest." Sherlock reached blindly for his phone; his hand a pale spider on the low coffee table. He read the text with disdain, and replaced it. "John, please, the blanket – my toes have gone."
Reluctantly, John fetched the blanket, his own beer, and the magazine he had been reading. He turned the light on, and Sherlock made a loud noise of complaint. In retaliation, John deposited the blanket directly onto the detective's face.
At last, John settled down into his armchair, and reopened the old magazine, quite content.
Three minutes later, and Sherlock had grown bored of staring aimlessly at the ceiling.
"Tea would be nice, John."
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