A/N:

Okay, so. This is a random thing.

I just NEEDED to get this out. So here it is.
I haven't decided if I'm going to continue this or not.
I guess I'll decide according to the response I get for it.
In any case, enjoy this random piece of writing from yours truly!

PLEASE FOLLOW AND REVIEW IF YOU'D LIKE TO SEE THIS CONTINUED.

Teatime in Camelot

He just wanted a cup of tea, dammit.

That's all. As clichéd as it sounded, 'the typical Britishafternoon pastime'. However, when you spent most of your afternoons in the seedier parts of London hunting down Britain's scum, mundane was what you craved most in your down time.

At least that was how it was for John. Four years into his acquaintance with Sherlock and he still didn't have a solid hold on how the man thought. Up at all hours of the day and night, experimenting on odd things, and having the bizarre ability to disregard social etiquette in its Holmes was a indecipherable entity and frankly, John wouldn't have him any other way.

Only he himself knew how lost he'd felt, when the plane had touched tarmac at the airport, (although Sherlock frequently alluded to being of similar mind when he'd resolved to go sober). After the riotous and terse atmosphere of Afghanistan, London seemed dull and dreary, offering little in terms of entertainment. So when Mike had introduced him to Sherlock Holmes and the man had yanked John into his world without a second thought (that was a lie, he was sure that in his mind palace, the consulting detective had most likely weighed every possible pro and con before extending the hand of invitation), John had never been more relieved.

It was an odd sensation, being in the army, heralded as an agent of justice and then coming back to civilization and then being expected to just melt back into the masses. As if that were easy. So of course, with Sherlock's life being what it was, quiet moments were few and far in between. Even on days off, when they weren't dealing with criminal masterminds, the ex-army doctor found himself dealing with terrorism of an entirely different nature. Toes in the sink, unidentified mold in the mugs, and body parts in the bath. It was a battle in its own right.

This latest case that they had taken, was a doozy. So much so, that John hadn't given a single thought to how he would title it in his blog. Now, however, he wasn't sure if he was ever going to get blog about it. Initially, it had ranked only a 6 on Sherlock's scale, (John had yet to figure out what exactly the quantifying data points in that scale were), and they had stepped out, assuming they would only spend about an hour at the site, solve it for the bumbling crew that Lestrade was in charge of and then be on their merry way home. But once they'd arrived, John knew by the maniacal gleam in his flatmate's eyes that the investigation had skyrocketed in his mind.

The case, as Lestrade had explained, was fairly straightforward at first glance. A woman had been found murdered on one of the more secluded trails in Hyde Park, she was dressed in costume, and dead of seemingly no physical cause. There was trauma of course, but Anderson had determined that it occurred post-mortem, a result of the body being violently moved, (read: manhandled) during transit to location. As soon as John had examined the woman, there were a decent amount of discrepancy in terms of her being.

She had fiery red hair, and wore a dress that was reminiscent of the middle ages, something he'd expect a villager to wear in a period film, like Robin Hood, a throwback to Cate Blanchett's role as Marion in the movie. The odd thing, (attire aside), was that there was not a single peri-mortem wound that would have lead to her demise, and Sherlock had quickly eliminated poison as a cause of death, non of the usual indicators being visible.

Then, as they had been evaluating the scene, Sherlock had looked up and caught sight of a woman, long black hair, fair skin and green eyes, wearing a costume as well, observing them from afar. When she'd realized she'd been spotted she'd bolted like a skittish deer. Naturally, the consulting detective gave chase, and not far behind, John followed. But it had been useless, a few minutes of running and she'd all but vanished. There was nothing like a cross Holmes brother to have everyone within a 100 yard radius raising their hackles. John grew quickly tired himself, having to constantly reign in his flatmate, if only to stop him from shredding the lives of every MET personnel in the vicinity. God, how he wanted some relaxing tea or coffee right now.

Nothing irked Sherlock more than an abruptly ended chase, and so they returned, an exhausted doctor and a miffed Holmes. They had gone back to the flat then, seeing nothing else of value at the crime scene. The cab ride was characterized with a silent Sherlock, lost to his mind palace. John made a beeline straight for the kitchen upon entering the residence, not even bothering to remove his blazer. He rummaged through the drawers for the tea leaves.

Tea, tea, where is the godforsak- ah, there it is.

"Real, John." John paused, halfway through the kettle he was setting on the stove.

"Sorry, what?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, irate that he had to repeat himself.

"The clothes, John, the clothes! They were genuine!" John found himself not following.

"Genuine what? Leather? Cotton? Does the fabric help?"

"No! As ever, you see but do not observe."

John shook his head, and returned to the cabinets, to find untainted teacups whilst the water boiled.

"The clothes were authentic attire from the middle ages. She wasn't wearing a replica, or a costume, she was wearing clothes that had actually seen the Middle Ages, the times of Kings and Monarchs!"

"Does that help the case?"

"Does that help the – John, it's a veritable impossibility, she cannot have been wearing something from that era!"

"Why not?"

"Because clothing from that time would have never survived to make it intact to the 21st century."

The vehemence with which this was said and the unhinged way with which he looked at John made him realize that what Sherlock was trying to tell him, was that they'd stumbled onto something that was logistically improbable and Sherlock was unable to come up with an explanation. A situation that was good for neither flatmate, in that it would drive them both up the metaphorical wall, until Sherlock found the answer.

Before either of them had time to say anything further, Sherlock went rigid, eyes shooting to the door to their apartment. The kettle whistled, which the doctor ignored as the detective raised a finger to his lips. The conversation they had didn't need to be verbalized.

There's someone at the door.

I didn't hear the door downstairs open.

Ms. Hudson is at her sister's in Brighton.

So, who's at the door, then?

John crept silently toward the door, but soon found his services in opening the door were not needed in the slightest. It blew open, like a gale of wind had ripped the rectangle of wood clear off of its hinges. Behind it, stood the woman whom they had been chasing earlier. She looked far more confident that she had before, green eyes flashing. She wore a black gown, that oddly reminded him of Morticia Adams, the thought bounced around in his head unbidden, as the woman raised a hand at them, palm facing them, fingers outstretched. She chanted something that sounded like an off mix of Latin and Gaelic.

The ground flew out from under his feet and next thing John knew, he was lying flat on his back, on grass, staring up at blue sky. Groaning from his left told him that Sherlock had experienced it too. He slowly sat up, trying to ignore the pounding in his skull from where it had collided with the ground.

"John, I do believe we've been given some kind of drug," Sherlock was already on his feet, the bloody git, John thought. He looked around, seeing trees and nothing but foliage around them.

"The hallucination is certainly vivid, seeing as I can feel the tree and you stand here as though you were here in reality." The doctor next to him, who had been curiously silent thus far, hit him quite hard, somewhere in the general area of his upper torso in what Sherlock would assume was a bid for his attention. He ignored it when he saw a mass of green growth on the tree in front of them.

"Fascinating, these are carboniferous lycophytes of the order Lepidodendrales. These are thought to be extinc -"

Sherlock cut off as John began to violently swat his upper right arm, repeatedly, showing no signs of ceasing.

"John, really, this is a juvenile way to obtain someone's atten -"

John grabbed Sherlock by the collar and quickly turned him around. Before them, were two horses, that carried two men. They were dressed peculiarly, one in chainmail, a cloak and a sword, and the other, wearing a simple shirt and pants, with a brown coat and red kerchief around his neck.

The one wearing chainmail had a decidedly large sword pointed accurately at John's jugular. Sherlock scoffed.

"Honestly, stylists should work on the ensembles they prepare for the cinema pieces that require an eye for historical accuracy. This broadsword would hardly be beneficial in war, it's entirely to heavy and blunt."

Sherlock batted the sword away from John and promptly yelped in pain. His palm dripped blood, the liquid flowing freely as Sherlock attempted to staunch the gush.

John looked back between the horse riders, and the injured man next to him.

"Christ, Sherlock."

All he had wanted was tea, dammit.