Well, this is my take on the beginning of Vatican Cameos as a safe word. It's not particularly exceptional, but I wrote most of it at camp and it's an apology for not updating. Enjoy, darlings. I love you.
John sat in his usual chair, enjoying the rare luxury of a good book and a quiet afternoon. Sherlock was out doing something secretive and clever, as usual, and John was more than happy to take the Saturday afternoon off and recover from their last case.
It had been a fairly quick solve, as most of their cases were, but had happened to involve sitting on a rooftop by the restaurant all night, trying to capture a specially marked pigeon. He had been beyond exhausted by the time they were finished. A quiet afternoon in was just what the doctor ordered.
He heard quick footsteps on the stairs, and upon recognizing Sherlock's long gait, continue to read his book. Sherlock swept into the room dramatically as always, and promptly announced, "Vatican Cameos, John."
John looked up from his book, more than a little confused. None of their cases had involved the Vatican, (Well, directly, at least) and he was definitely NOT the sort if person who was going to be doing an acting cameo. "What on EARTH are you talking about?"
Sherlock was still standing in the doorway, staring out the window and looking winded. "Vatican Cameos, John. It's our new safe word."
"Ah, yes. Of course, because that's so obvious." John paused for a second, nodding to himself. "Why, exactly, do we need a safe word?"
Sherlock turned, looking at him for the first time since he had walked in with an expression of faint bewilderment. "Well, it's obvious, isn't it?"
"Hmmm... Nope, not obvious to me. Why do we need a safe word?"
Sherlock, having hung up his coat and his scarf, proceeded to walk over to the couch and flop down on his back, staring at the ceiling ponderously. "Simple. If one of us is about to do something risky that could potentially blow us up or get each other shot, then we say the safe word and the other person reacts accordingly."
"Oo-kaaay... Just out of curiosity, why Vatican Cameos?"
Sherlock was looking slightly annoyed with all the questions. "Because it won't mean anything to anyone else and because of the case we're working right now."
John was confused again. "Case? We just finished a case, Sherlock, we don't have one right now."
"Yes, we do, I told you about it on the way here."
John sighed, laughing to himself under his breath that the most brilliant man he had ever met had trouble remembering when John had come with him and when he hadn't. "Sherlock, I've been here all afternoon, I didn't come with you, remember?" Then something new occurred to him. "Did you really talk to yourself all the way back here? And why were you running?"
Sherlock seemed faintly affronted, although it was hard for John to read his facial expression when Sherlock was lying on the couch being mysterious and staring at the ceiling. "Well, I can't keep track of you all the time, now can I? I need my brain to work, John, I can't keep track of details like that when a I'm on a case!"
John sighed, smiling ruefully to himself. "Oh, why am I even surprised anymore? All right then, is this new case you've got why you were running? And what on earth does it have to do with 'Vatican Cameos?'"
Sherlock settled back into his contemplation. It really was useless trying to talk to him when he was in a mood like this, but if he didn't get a few answers before the Mind Palace took over, he could be left wondering for a very long time.
"Oh, the running? That was because of the swordsmen. If only my fountain pen had been working."
John considered asking about the swordsman for a moment or two, and then decided it wasn't worth it. "And Vatican Cameos? What has that got to do with anything?"
"Not sure yet. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything." Sherlock settled into the couch and stopped talking, his hands pressed together just below his chin, deep in thought. To the casual observer, he could appear either to be praying or asleep, but John knew that Sherlock's mind was racing along at a million miles an hour.
Ah, well. He'll tell me eventually. I hope. So, we have a safe word now. Right.
John returned to his book, waiting for Sherlock's inevitable, "OH!" followed by an explanation of what might turn out to be a very interesting case.
A few days later, John was sprinting down the via della conciliazione, cursing Sherlock under his breath and trying to keep the ridiculous false moustache on.
Why do I let him talk me into things like this? I'm pretty sure that was just illegal. Oh, who am I kidding, it most definitely was.
But Sherlock, being Sherlock, had needed an inventive way into the movie set, and wasn't about to just walk in and risk being caught by the authorities, because being arrested is tedious. Oh, no, he had to convince an actor with a small cameo role that his sister was violently ill and then have John show up at a convenient moment to take his part. And, of course, when the actor arrived back angry enough to kill, Sherlock had vanished mysteriously before the entire cast started to chase him.
He made it to the end of the Via, getting looks from tourists, some of them holding curiosity, others annoyance, even one or two of them recognition.
Thank GOD Sherlock runs more than anyone I've ever met who isn't actually a runner. Oh, wait. Sherlock got me into this bloody mess in the first place.
He turned the corner, and almost immediately felt a strong yank on his collar from the side. A certain very tall, very thin someone with a ridiculously long coat dragged him quickly into the alley before the pursuers turned the corner.
As he followed Sherlock deeper into the maze and away from the entire very angry cast of the movie they had crashed, John remembered that he was annoyed at Sherlock. "What the hell took you so long?" he asked as their feet pounding against the pavement.
Sherlock grinned slightly, slowing down and turning. They stopped, their backs pressed again the wall of the alley, both breathing hard.
"They were more clever at hiding the evidence than I thought, took me a full thirty seconds to find what I was looking for, must have been the food you forced on me, always slows me down."
John smiled, then laughed under his breath. "Of course. I get chased down the street by an angry mob and it's all my fault because I made you eat so you wouldn't pass out. Right."
But they were both smiling as they walked back to the hotel. It had been a successful day, almost being murdered by an angry mob aside.
Sherlock heard the footsteps of someone new on the doorstep. Didn't bother to ring, familiar but not Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, or John, so a client who has been here before. Heavy tread, purposeful, walking very slowly. Interesting.
He sat up from his place on the couch, where he had been bored enough to consider adding a fourth patch to his usual three. Buttoning his suit jacket, he stepped up and over the table, startling John from his newspaper.
"Who's that, coming up the stair then, Sherlock?"
Sherlock looked down at him, smiling for the first time in what seemed to John like days. "Old client, one I'm very much hoping is interesting. It's been horribly dull all afternoon."
John went back to his newspaper. This client was certainly taking his time coming up the stairs, and until he actually arrived, John's job of making sure Sherlock was moderately civil was not begun.
Sherlock stood there, carefully timing the strides as the client slowly climbed up the stairs. Whoever their visitor was, they stopped just before they entered the doors, and seemed to be composing themselves before entering. He wished they would hurry. He was horrendously bored. But alarm bells went off in his head as soon as he saw the glint of metal through the crack between the open door and the frame.
"John?" he said, just as an old client who he had apparently deleted all but the barest glimmering of walked in holding a gun. He delved into his mind palace, recognizing them after a few milliseconds of searching the area he considered his "trash bin."
John flipped his newspaper down just before the client walked into the room, and was starting to say, "What now?" when Sherlock sprinted forward, yelling, "VATICAN CAMEOS!"
It took John a second to process what he was supposed to do when that happened, as all those words recalled initially were memories of being chased down a street by an angry mob of movie people. Then, he hit the deck, just as Sherlock grabbed the hand of the strange man with the gun, forcing him to shoot the wall right above where John's head had been seconds before and tackling him into the wall by the door.
A few minutes later, when the man was properly subdued, Mrs. Hudson came thundering up the stairs as only an angry landlady can do. "Sherlock, what did I say about shooting up my bloody wall, and, ooo, what's this? Sherlock, I thought we agreed no more interrogating in my house!"
Sherlock sighed. "Mrs. Hudson… please?"
John looked at their argument with faint amusement, then added, "Well, to be fair, he did actually attack this time."
Mrs. Hudson threw up her hands. "All right, boys, just don't make too big of a mess now. I'm not your housekeeper!" And with that she turned and went back down the stairs.
Sherlock turned back to John, the old client temporarily forgotten. "React accordingly does not mean 'hit the deck,' John, it means come-and-help-with-the-shooting-person."
John looked down at the man who had just tried to kill him, replying, "Well, not getting shot seemed like a good start. Is Lestrade on his way, then?"
Sherlock, having been reminded that they did actually have a rather interesting prisoner, began to inspect their guest. "Hmm… Lestrade? Oh, don't be boring, please. I think we're fine on our own for now, don't you?" And then resumed his perusal without another word.
John sighed, walking into the kitchen and sitting down as Sherlock walked in circles around the man who was now tied and gagged in a chair in the center of the living room.
"I was right, though." Sherlock said.
John frowned slightly, wondering which accomplishment he wished to highlight now. "Well, I know you think that about everything, but what exactly are you right about?"
"A safe word. We did need one."
At that, John could only laugh.
And so, after an wonderfully entertaining interrogation and the equally amusing task of dropping off a gagged prisoner in front of the police station with a note for Lestrade without being seen, life at 221 B Baker Street continued on.
If anyone who reads this also reads Darling, You Give Love a Bad Name, I'll update that really soon, I promise. How was it? Review, please? (every single review I get seriously MAKES MY LIFE.)