I know everyone says "This is my first Sherlock fic." But it really is! Most likely my last as well cause I get enough of a fix reading all the other stories people have written! Hope it measures up.
An A/U nestled in between "A Scandal in Belgravia" and "The Hounds of Baskerville" which I may have expanded the time lapse to fit this story.
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. All original characters and plot are the property of the author. No copyright infringement is intended.
Super sorry about all my grammar/punctuation, if you're into that please message me corrections :D.
A deafening roar broke out over the concentrated crowd tiered in the stadium. The icy rain that poured down from the open sky failed to dampen the ferocious spirit of the match attendees. They only seemed to acclaim all the more passionately.
Two spectators, obviously out of place, stood, or tried to stand in the midst of the jostling. The taller one, dark haired and slender looked around discombobulated and he leaned over, trying to call something into his companion's ear.
What? The sandy blonde haired man mouthed back to him.
"I SAID, WHAT ARE WE DOING HERE AGAIN JOHN!?"
The words were barely distinguishable over the commotion.
"YOU SAID YOU WANTED TO SEE WHERE IT HAPPENED SHERLOCK!" Exclaimed John Watson hoarsely.
Another crescendo in the cheering marked another exciting moment in the game below that the detective and doctor had managed to miss. At that point, a large, shorn headed bloke next to Sherlock stumbled sousedly into him, pushing him into John who stepped on the foot of the wily eyed adolescent next to him. The already frantic supporter took this as an invitation to participate in a friendly football brawl and shoved Watson back the way he had come, shouting indiscernible profanities. The following event provided all agitated parties an outlet for their energy.
After throwing the last punch, Sherlock dragged a disheveled John up by the shoulder, motioning for him to follow him out of the stands and away from the crumpled bodies around them.
In a slightly more calm environment, the two caught their breath in the concourse surrounding the stadium. A few passersby eyed them, grinning and sniggering.
John pulled out a handkerchief from his coat, mopping at his burst lip and flinching as he moved his sore jaw. He had fine lines pressed into his face of a man who had seen hardship and suffering yet there was a soft generosity and optimism that had withstood it all. Still, when called for, he could draw up proper feisty.
Sherlock dabbed at the small trickle of blood coming from a cut above his eye and dusted off his black trench. With high and raw cheekbones and broad eyebrows his face held but one expression usually: uninterested. Perhaps he may swing to bothered and in extreme cases, irritated. Other emotions were rare indeed and in his opinion, inefficient.
"Well, that was an absolute waste of a drab afternoon. I could have been at home watching crap telly." He decided flatly.
The rain dripped off his dark locks.
Still a little ruffled, John let his nerves spill out.
"Well I'm so sorry if I was trying to help you with this case that's been bothering you for three weeks." His sarcasm aired.
"The stadium was empty John. This is hardly the same circumstances. Might as well be in Sharga. I get the feeling you just wanted to come see the game you've put a little down on."
John's flush of anger withered to guilt and he looked away.
"My very first time…" He mumbled, earning a correcting look from Sherlock. "...in a long time but how that's any of your bloody business…What is Sharga?!"
The noise was still exceptional but at least they could hear each other which facilitated their normal bickering.
"Besides, they've already closed the bloody case and sent the accused, sorry, the confessed, to await trial at that mental hospital. So why worry about it?" John finished, examining a tear in his trousers.
"Whom we are going to see tomorrow by the way." Holmes threw in casually.
This brought up John's head.
"What? No. No Sherlock. You know I don't like those places. You go and I'll have a night in."
"It's a hospital John, you're a doctor. I thought you would feel right at home?"
Watson shuddered. "No. Mental bins have never been for me."
Sherlock let it go at that, he knew his faithful friend would concede to his curiosity eventually with the right incentive.
Straightening up, Sherlock redirected. "Well, now that we know the commonwealth are in good hands. Let's go home. I'm starving."
Sherlock sat, violin and bow in hand as he stared into the dying fire in the modest fireplace at 221 B Baker St.. John had gone to bed ages ago, leaving him with only his monstrously elaborate thoughts.
He thought of many things at once, sometimes simultaneously, sometimes skipping from one to the next then back and then onto something totally unrelated. The circuits in his brain endeavoring to make connections, categorize and store useful ideas and memories. But it never stopped, even when he closed his eyes to escape the constant feed of information. There were so many things to perceive, so much data to take in. The visual, sound, smell, taste and touch. All telling unnoticed stories. Then came process; to make accurate assumptions. Connections that somehow his brain would retain and easily recall when triggered.
It was only rarely in a dream, sometimes as he played the violin or when he could achieve a deep enough trance that he could sit in peaceful nothing. In a void that would allow him to rest and experience stillness.
Preoccupation. Mysteries and conundrums eased the brainstorm, focused it and directed it away from more troubling thoughts and memories.
John had said the football murder case (he had irritatingly blogged it as "the homicidal hoodlum") was completed and Sherlock was moaning about it because it had been too easy to solve. There had been nothing to solve. The suspect had called the police himself and when they had arrived at the empty stadium he was just sitting there looking pleased as punch next to the body. He confessed everything down to how he had laid into the victim with a folding chair just because the man was a reporter who had written a particularly harsh article about his beloved home club. The wounds of the victim were blunt force to the head but something had not been right. Even Molly had said the killing wound had not quite been as congruent with the angle the chair must have been swung from as she'd have liked. However there was enough damage done that she couldn't support her instinct. There was enough consistent with the shape of the supposed weapon that she had to write it up as a match. Oh yes the perpetrator, Ian Cook had been there. But between the information the bungling police and the bias media had gathered, it had left Sherlock unsatisfied.
In all the time he had had to explore the possibilities since, he had not been able to resolve it. Really, Sherlock was vexed at his lack of focus, which surprised him because his usually unrelenting focus was one of the more wearisome attributes he possessed.
There had been a lull in any interesting cases and so he was forced to look into ones he would normally dismiss as too fickle or resort to studying subjects that may or may not come in handy in future investigations. He'd spent hours in the kitchen at his crude lab set up, desperate for information to feed his starving brain. He had chosen mushrooms. Studying the toxicity and rate of absorption of different poisonous agaricales.
The carbon stain from the unintentional fire on the wall and the shadow still on the ceiling were a reminder of a slight miscalculation in his equation which he had drawn on the refrigerator with a marker. John had taken his lab notebook clear into the front room where it was completely inconvenient for Sherlock to be bothered to fetch it.
It should be simple, working out such a basic formula. But he couldn't get his complete efforts behind it. John had diagnosed him with a sort of emotional low or some rubbish.
He just wished there would be a cleverly executed, no pun intended, murder or crime of any sort come up. It wasn't just solving a puzzle, it was the thrill of the hunt and the sweet peril that may perhaps accompany it.
A pang of guilt about his lack of sympathy arose from somewhere, somewhere suppressed and forgotten in his conscious. These occurrences were uncomfortable and unwanted. Even the positive emotions. How did John describe sentiment? 'Warm and fuzzy'? Maybe that was Ms. Hudson. It didn't matter. In his experience, especially in his earlier years, particular emotions had proven to him to be useless, restricting and disappointing.
Now he sat, still contemplating the heat of the flames and the longevity of the warmth of the bricks after the fire would perish. Such information should surely come in handy at some point.
Casting his eye around he saw a jam-filled biscuit sitting on the lamp stand by him and he grabbed it and took a bite. His face wrinkled up as he spit out the barely chewed piece. Judging by the crumbly consistency and potent stale taste, it must have been there for weeks. Ridiculous.
He stood up and positioned his violin under his chin and walked to the window, playing a quick pack of sharp notes to soothe the beast of boredom inside him.
The relentless rain had now turned to snow that slowed its descent onto Baker Street. Sherlock watched the falling flakes appear and disappear in the light of the street lamps and he stopped playing. The first inkling of a possible theory forming as the fire continued to burn behind him into the deep, January night.
Really feeling this out to see if I should keep posting! It's all finished in my head but I want to know if anyone else enjoys it! Please let me know!