Counterfeit at its Finest

Hi there

I must say, I was totally skeptical when I heard there was a TV series 'Sherlock' as the movie set some high standards. (I loved that film, okay?) All I'll say: the TV series hasn't left me disappointed. Not at all. My hat is raised to the cast and crew behind 'Sherlock'.

Also, there may be a lot of hefty description in this story. I can't show you the clues casually on TV, I've got to write the notable details in. (It's worse because I actually have a habit of writing every little silly detail in when it's completely unnecessary. Especially my first-person stories, everything is described. So dull.) If you don't drown in it... read on! Rating may change.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything you recognize or that is related to 'Sherlock' and I'm getting no profit from this.


Chapter One: The calm before the storm.

John Watson was sitting at his desk in the clinic, having a five minute break after a particularly infuriating patient. The dear lady had come down with a cold, a viral infection, and there never seemed to be a end to the massive line of people with viral infections demanding a solution. What's more, if you know it's a virus, why are you coming to me?

John was never intentionally short-tempered, or intentionally snappy, but he had gotten a rather mean awakening first thing in the morning by his flat mate. Sherlock had started a fire with some home-made gunpowder, who for all reasons, had decided to make it just because it had been a while, and no; that was not a reasonable excuse. John had rushed to the rescue, preventing any further damage, but the table would have to be replaced, and some unread letters remained forever unreadable. And no, he was not soothed at the fact the fire didn't catch onto anything else, John was pissed because he'd have to be up in two hours to go to work.

Wiping his eyes and stifling a yawn, John checked the clock and counted the final hours down to the end of the day.

When John wasn't in the Surgery, he was running around London with Sherlock. If he wasn't running around London with Sherlock, he was lowering himself into the armchair about to go running around London with Sherlock. In a small way, John didn't mind. Sherlock did all the research and John had a piece of the action. He would, however, really like to get some sleep. His breath was starting to stink of coffee, and it was only two o'clock.

Sarah was on sick leave. She wasn't a military person, or Sherlock, so her stress was to be understood, and actually respected. She took Sherlock and John's adventures in good humor until she nearly got impaled by a spear. Sherlock didn't get why she had to have a holiday, but John knew, and he made sure to wish her the best before she went. To his absolute joy, Sarah didn't hate him, or even Sherlock. She just needed a small break.

John kind of hoped she would be back soon, though.

There was a soft beeping from Johns' mobile phone. A message:
Need milk. Semi-skimmed. Get a good one. SH

John clicked on the buttons furiously in his reply:
I'm at WORK. You go get milk.

Another tune of soft beeps.
You'll be home before I will.

Quiet curses escaped John as he replied:
You better not make a noise when you return then.

Beep.
No promises. SH

John shoved his phone into his desk drawer. He would stop off at the shops on the way back, but maybe buy the full-cream milk, out of spite. Or Soya, he didn't know how Sherlock would react to Soya milk.

But at least John had a key, and was now warned Sherlock wouldn't be back tonight. Several times Sherlock had forgotten to tell him. John would never admit it, but he did panic.

Pressing the buzzer on his desk to signal another patient could come through, John reminded himself exactly what to expect after work. Pick up fresh milk of undetermined type, possibly a dinner for one, and another late night.

All of that, John Watson could handle. But if one more person came in demanding a virus cure...


Sherlock Holmes was currently clinging on top of a Sainsbury's delivery truck down the M23. A series of clues had led him to believe that this particular driver had hidden something with the groceries. From what he discovered, this delivery was dropping supplies off at a Service Station on the way towards Brighton. There would possibly be a gang waiting to collect it, maybe the staff itself. With a twang of annoyance, Sherlock remembered the suspected drop point was near Crawley, over an hour away.

One thing for sure, the wind sure was choppy on top of a delivery truck going down the motorway.


After finishing his hours, John returned to the flat at Baker Street with a tired mind, a pint of semi-skimmed milk and two microwavable dinners. He was greeted warmly by Mrs. Hudson; the delightful landlady. As delightful as Sherlock may call her, John did personally not approve of her nosing in, or her sly hints at their relationship. Several times John was tempted to show her his bedroom, just to prove he was using it, but who knew what kind of suggestion that would imply.

"Hello dear, good day at work?" she asked.

"As good as it gets." John replied, although a repetitive client was starting to get on his nerves. He suspected she was a hypochondriac, that or she really liked seeing him.

"Sherlock said he would be late home tonight, did he tell you?"

"Yes." John said, bitterness escaping his restraint answer.

Mrs. Hudson just smiled, "such a busy boy."


The Sainsbury's van had just pulled into Pease Pottage Services, and stopped in the large vehicle parking area. Sherlock, shivering slightly, watched the driver climb out and open the back of the lorry. Moving then, Sherlock slipped to the front of the vehicle, lowering himself down and jumping the last couple of feet.

He gave himself a moments rest.

Then he attacked.


With a friendly ping, the microwave called John over to get dinner. He did so, and ate in his armchair. Several times he and Sherlock agreed to tidy the flat up a bit, and several times they had done nothing about it. Now John, man o' the military, was a tidy well organized man. His room was spotless, almost. Sherlock, detective o' the dirty, had papers all over the tables, chairs and floors. Most of his books were on the floor, not the bookshelves, unwashed dishes flumped a confusing distance away from the sink. Just the other day John had discovered his favorite mug hanging from a ceiling lamp. When it wasn't hanging from somewhere, Sherlock was drinking out of it.

Annoying, certainly.

When finished his meal, John thought maybe to write in his blog. Nothing interesting had happened to him today... should he make something up, just to please his therapist? Maybe the details of his court trial. He had managed to escape punishment by saying he had noticed two vandals damaging property and went to stop them, but they escaped when they saw the policemen. The prosecutors had been a bit hasty to seek justice and therefore had too little evidence to make a persuasive case.

He escaped that one. But sharing the details, no. It wasn't something he really thought people ought to know.


Sherlock dodged a kick, ducked a punch, and with a swift hand jab the last foe went down. The police would arrive any moment, so without further ado, Sherlock leapt into the back of the lorry, rooting through the crates and bags. For such a large vehicle, there wasn't a lot of shopping.

He found it, wrapped into a protective case in a crate, and grinned to himself. This would look good at home on his skull...

Oh, but John would complain about more mess in the flat. God knows he did enough of that already. In his defense, the flat was a mess. With a small sigh, Sherlock chose to hand the object over to the police, the whole reason he got caught up in this job. He could hear them pull up beside the lorry.

"Hello, inspector. Don't worry, I've got it." Sherlock grinned madly, waving the thousand year-old Viking helmet by its' nose piece. (The inspector was swift to return it to its' protective case.)

Performing a quick calculation, Sherlock determined that he had just caught the tea-time traffic- Oh bugger- and that it would take a few hours to get back to Baker Street. Before he left, he picked up a two pint carton of semi-skimmed milk.


John Watson was awoken from his armchair that evening by Sherlock stumbling through the door. He didn't even look at the mantle clock; he just glared at his friend as Sherlock hung his coat up, a sure sign that he was going nowhere tonight.

"Good party?" John asked, sleepily, and somehow forgetting about the anger he felt moments ago.

"Got milk." was Sherlock's reply, showing John the carton, and that act alone was enough to set John off.

"Sherlock, you told me to go and get it, why did you do that when you went and got it yourself?"

"It's always good to have a spare." said Sherlock, settling into his armchair, and dropping the milk to the floor.

"Are you going to put that in the fridge?"

"In a minute." Sherlock said, pressing his fingers together in a delicate hand gesture. After a few moments of silence, when John had decided he did want to know what Sherlock had been up too, he asked. Sherlock replied: "this and that..."

"Sherlock-"

"The museum had called about the Viking helmet, which they had expected to be delivered to them (I believe it's very rare and they wanted to study it) but never showed up. You see, this theft was planned, it turns out the delivery driver they hired was on holiday, so it was the thief who planned this filling in for him. He had a false identity and suspicious back ground, and was certainly not the man they hired for the job. He tried to leave a false trail and look as though he was heading to London, but changed direction last thing... I won't bore you with the details. I must say, however, the man lacked subtlety. A Sainsbury's delivery to a Marks and Spenser's outlet? Anyway, he planned to trade the helmet at a Service Station, which I happened to intercept."

"And then you stole two-pints of milk."

Sherlock grinned, "perceptive, John. You noticed I did not take my wallet with me." He then relaxed into his chair a little. "Not a hard case at all, but long distance. I would prefer, next time, something a little closer to London."

"How far did you go?

"Pretty far."

John was already on his laptop, looking up the helmet Sherlock had mentioned. He let out an appreciative whistle.

"It would have gone nicely on my skull, wouldn't it?" Sherlock asked, pointing at his mantelpiece decoration.

"What, you think there's any space? For gods sake, Sherlock, when it gets to the stage of there being no room on the floor, you don't start stacking it up!" John hissed. "And- good grief, is that the time? I've got work tomor- today!"

Oh... dear..., thought Sherlock. Whilst Sherlock had taken this mundane case, suspecting it had been the work of his last interest: the Black Lotus, he was quite disappointed to realize he wasted his energy on an ordinary and unexciting crime. General Shan had not been behind this, it had not been the work of the Black Lotus, (he should have known; he now cursed his rashness) and now John was going to give him a hard time. Not the best of days for Sherlock Holmes.

"I'm hungry..." Sherlock said, "where's that pie you had?"

Not even bothering to ask how he knew he ate pie for dinner, John said, "in the fridge waiting for you, and put the milk in there." He walked out the room muttering as Sherlock heated up his dinner/breakfast. He was struck by a moment of inspiration, but just as he contemplated the idea, John returned to glare at him. "Sherlock, I need sleep, if you blow anything up I'm locking you outside."

"John, really!" Sherlock asked.

John left without another word, but Sherlock was determined. He would just have to conduct his experiments quietly.


A hooded man, carrying in his arms a large package, hurried through the muddy backstreets, wincing with every squelch, avoiding with care the glare of yellow lamp lights. He kept to the shadows as much as possible and ran across the inescapable lit areas. He made a wrong turn momentarily, but retraced his steps and walked with much vigor.

Eventually, he reached an alleyway with a red lamp over a handle-less red door in the brick wall. As he approached, he looked around, and assured he was alone, he held the package tightly to his right hip with his hand, using his left to knock on the door.

Rat-rat-rat-rat . . . rat-rat.

The door opened with an eerie creak, and the man leapt into darkness, the door slamming shut behind him.

Half an hour later, the man walked out back into the streets of the town. Once the red door was shut behind him, he ran like his life depended on it.


John Watson was woken that morning by Sherlock, and not in a way he had expected. Having slept through his alarm, Sherlock took it upon himself to wake John. He had entered Johns' room and tripped over his briefcase. Sherlock landed rather softly, catching the floor with his hands and bending at the elbows, but his pride had just received a massive blow. Thank god John hadn't just seen that. Sherlock would never hear the end of how he was bettered by a briefcase

The thud, however, still woke John up, and sat up grumbling only to see Sherlock lying on the floor of his room, staring at him like a deer caught in the headlights.

"... Sherlock?" John asked, wiping the sleep out of his eyes.

Sherlock caught his chance. John was too sleepy to pay attention to whatever had just happened. "Hm? Oh, hello John. I've just noticed something fascinating down here."

"... on my floor? What?" John asked, his eyes closed as if the sun was blinding him.

"These floorboards are not attached." and with that, Sherlock demonstrated by pulling several wooden sleeves clean off. Just for good measure, of course, it wouldn't do for John to remember him on the floor and bring it up later.

John let out a cry, leapt out of bed and demanded he stop pulling the floor up. "Jesus, Sherlock, you've pulled- you've... how? Oh, it's just too early for this..."

Shrugging off his friend's complaints, Sherlock brushed himself down, told John he would be late for work if he didn't hurry up, and left without a second glance. John looked between the floor and his clock, choosing work as the priority and deciding the floor, Sherlock could repair.

The bathroom was a small square room, with a toilet and sink at one side, and a bathtub on the other with a shower up against the wall. A towel rack with three towels and a stool were against the wall beneath the light switch, and John put a fresh change of clothes there. Sherlock always dumped his dirty clothes down on the floor under the sink. The wash basket had been missing for some time. John stared at the pile of Sherlock's clothes, mainly because when he was in the army and shared rooms, he never did that. He was always tidy and considerate to those soldiers he shared with. Sherlock didn't seem to care about keeping up appearances in front of him, and yet here John was with his change of clothes in the bathroom with him.

Showered, dressed and about to leave, John caught his friend looking out the window, an expression of interest masked by a contemplative frown.

"It's not Scotland Yard, is it?" John asked, going into the rubbish dump that was the kitchen and writing a note for Sherlock. He stuck it against the fridge with one of the broken fridge magnets. With a quick look around the kitchen, he chose to get breakfast in town.

"Actually, it is."

"Another case for Sherlock Holmes, another late night for John Watson." John muttered, closing the door loudly behind him.

Sherlock smirked. At least John hadn't noticed the microwave yet.


A.N- I'm leaning towards Sherlock/John, but make no promises. Is this chapter, rewritten, any better? I also don't know how well or how badly this has turned out, so if you have a moment, please leave some advice, suggestions or opinions. They would be really appreciated.

Thanks for reading!