P.F.O. - A Sherlock fanfic
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. All recognisable characters/plots belong to the BBC. Oh and I don't know if Steri-strips are a registered product or not, but either way I don't own the name. Nor do I own the copyright to Sylvanian families, although I do have the caravan.
Dedicated to my parents, 'cause they're awesome. And to my brothers and future sisters-in-law, because I don't see enough of them.
Summary: Lestrade's confused, Sherlock's indisposed and John's plotting. And what does P.F.O. mean?
"Sherlock, we really need you for this one, we're running out of time!"
"No, I'm indisposed. Figure it out for yourself, it's stupidly simple. Or simply stupid, take your pick."
Lestrade could actually hear the eye-roll over the phone. He took a deep breath and tried again.
"Sherlock, I am standing in an extremely dodgy area of the Docklands in a bloody monsoon wearing waders covered in blood and pigs' intestines. Would you PLEASE, for the sake of whichever deity you refute the least, grow up and get down here."
"No."
"...I'll call John."
"And he'll back me up. As I said, I am in-dis-posed! Now go back to 'work' and leave me in peace."
*Click*
"...Sherlock? Sherlock, you there? God damn it."
He took another deep breath and hit speed dial 4. A.K.A. John's mobile.
*ring...ring...ring*
"John?"
"Oh, hi Greg. What is it this time?"
"Docklands. Murder. Some sort of ritual killing we think, lots of animal guts and random symbols. We think there are at least 5 victims but we're still counting. We need Sherlock on this, we think he could strike again."
"Ah, sounds grisly."
"Yeah. Sherlock's being difficult again. Any way you could swing him coming down here?"
"Ah. No. Sorry. He's indisposed."
"There's that word again. Is this some sort of code for 'We're in bed'? Because we're all grown ups. You can just say it."
"Greg. Do you seriously think either of us would answer our mobiles duri-... when we were in bed?"
"Ok. Point. But is there any way he could become disposed? Before I contract hypothermia would be nice."
"Nope. He can't leave the house, it was his birthday yesterday and he celebrated by P.F.O. Good luck with the case. Let us know how it goes, yeah? Bye."
*click*
"What?" Lestrade sighed as a green-faced constable told him that they'd confirmed two more bodies. Lestrade heaved a sigh and turned back to the warehouse/crime scene. It was gonna be a loooong day.
Several hours and a couple of severed hands later, Lestrade was finally back at his office and at his wit's end. This case was so convoluted that he didn't think even the killer fully knew what was going on. He glanced at the stack of evidence reports, then at the clock. Better let the wife know he wasn't going make it home for dinner. Of all the cases that Sherlock had refused to help on, this was by far the one where he was most needed. John too, to be honest. Greg's own medical knowledge was hardly up to the task of piecing together this 'meat puzzle' and he would have appreciated the army doctor's advice.
After ringing his wife, he fired off a quick text to Sherlock, laced with a smattering of threats and a few grovelling compliments. Now was not the time to have an over-abundance of pride. After about half an hour of reading Anderson's preliminary findings' report, Sherlock replied to say he would consult on the proviso that Lestrade came to Baker Street with the evidence. Greg counted it as a small miracle and packed up the reports.
Twenty minutes later found Greg clambering out of a taxi with a box and an accordion file. As he climbed the stairs to 221b, Lestrade began to wonder what could possibly 'indispose' Sherlock Holmes. Everything from boredom to a hangover to a relapse flashed through his mind as he reached the thirteenth and final stair.
"Hello Greg. Cup of tea?" John called from the kitchen.
"Please. I've been on duty for 18 hours."
"With you in a minute. Have a seat; feel free to dump Sherlock's junk on the floor."
"It's not junkJohn. It is a vitally important experiment to determine whether the mould on a strawberry yoghurt grows to the same colour and consistency and at the same rate as that which grows on a banana yoghurt. A man's guilt depends on it."
Lestrade jumped at the sound of Sherlock's disembodied voice floating down the stairs from the direction of their bedroom.
"Of course, Sherlock. I'll just finish this tea and then you can come down. Here you go Greg."
"Thanks. Is he on the naughty step?"
"Hmm? Oh, no. He just needs my help to get down the stairs. Back in a sec."
With that John bounded up the stairs. A few seconds later, Lestrade heard Sherlock mumbling something about plebeian, embarrassing and 'all John's fault', accompanied by various thuds and curses from both doctor and detective. The Inspector rose to his feet to offer his assistance but stopped still when Sherlock entered the room, leaning heavily on John.
His left leg was in plaster and he had a brace on his right wrist, five Steri-strips were holding closed a cut on his forehead and he had a bruise on his cheek. In short, he looked terrible.
"Bloody Hell Sherlock, what happened to you? You look like you've gone five rounds with Mike Tyson."
"Who? And to answer your original triviality, I don't wish to discuss how I came to be in my current state. Just give me the evidence, I'll solve your little murder and then I can go back to sleep."
Lestrade raised his eyebrows; he'd never known the self-diagnosed sociopath actually admit to wanting to sleep before. He glanced at John, who silently mouthed "Painkillers". Greg nodded in recognition as he handed the files to Sherlock.
"Ah, just as I thought. How mundane. Clearly the scene has been staged, quite well for an amateur, too well in fact, they've done this before. So, who creates scenes for a living?A set designer; is is too elaborate for television, so must be films. The symbols are perfectly recreated, but random, from al over with no common religion or cipher to link them. This suggests their purpose is to be a diversion, no real knowledges,just a few hours of information gathering. The animal remains had been frozen prior to their use, not the kind of thing you'd buy from the average supermarket, so where did they come from? Someone who works in a slaughter house or on a pig farm would have easy access to such offal offcuts. All the victims are male, mid 20's to mid 30's, all the left hands found have borne the same tattoo. A gang then. The theatrical staging and large-scale drama of the killings suggest low level organised crime; too flashy for the more 'traditional' crime families. This was likely a punishment killing, designed to show the rest of the network what happens when you get it wrong. So in short, a stage creator, an abattoir worker and an organised gang. Child's play. Even you could have done it Lestrade."
Sherlock leant back, sounding slightly breathless. His hand ghosted across his ribs, invoking a glance of concern from John, who was sitting in the armchair opposite the Inspector.
"You ok, Sherlock? The doctor did say that you shouldn't talk too much with cracked ribs. Although that may have been to shut you up."
Lestrade seemed to wake from the state of bewilderment he'd entered when Sherlock began speaking. He finished noting down the detective's deductions and asked:
"Seriously Sherlock, what happened to you? Did you get mugged or something?"
"No. Look, it's all John's fault, so ask him about it."
With that Sherlock curled up on the sofa, as best he could with his various injuries.
John smiled and turned to Lestrade.
"Yesterday was Sherlock's birthday. Despite his vociferous protests, I insisted on going out for a meal to celebrate. We went to Angelo's, and both had a couple of glasses of wine with our meal. Then Sherlock decided he wanted moredrinks after the meal. Now Sherlock is an incredibly lightweight drinker, as you may already know. So by the time we'd been to the pub and were walking home he was pretty pissed. As we were walking down some steps, one of his infamous 'short cuts', he lost his footing. He fell and kept falling until he reached the bottom, where his wrist, ankle and ribs collided rather forcibly with a large expanse of concrete, along with the rest of him of course. Enter me, the dashing hero, who has to carry him, bridal style so as not to further injure his ribs, to the casualty department, which thankfully was just down the road. 3 hours passed, he was treated, told the entire A&E staff about his doctor's love of Sylvanian family dolls, et voilà! His medical will forever have a P.F.O. in them." John finished with a grin.
"...P.F.O.?"
"Pissed and Fell Over."
"Ah. So you really were indisposed. Sorry for disturbing and get well soon Sherlock. Thanks for the consultation. I'll let myself out."
With that, Lestrade gathered the files, waved and left, silently planning an email informing other Yarders that Holmes was going to be 'indisposed' for several weeks.
As they heard the front door slam behind the policeman, Sherlock turned to John and said:
"Well, I think he bought it. You did an excellent job with the cut by the way; I don't think he could see the prosthetic."
"I agree. Your acting was superb. You mimicked the trauma of cracked ribs perfectly. Perhaps now we'll be left in peace for a few weeks, we're both in dire need of a holiday."
"Most definitely. I was thinking the French Riviera."
"I'll go and book the tickets."
With their deception complete, the crime-solving duo prepared for their break.
And now a warning, dear reader; together, Holmes and Watson can be a force of great benevolence in this world. However, were their allegiances ever to change, they are also capable of being the most ingenious criminal masterminds imaginable.
THE END
A.N. Hi! Happy New Year! Hope everyone's having a lovely time and is nicely relaxed and rested. Have a great day, week, month, year. Please R&R.