*Is this where the disclaimer goes? No, I do not own Sherlock (but I do own this plot). All this loveliness is first and foremost Doyle/BBC/Moffat/Gatiss. If they ever decide to change this... No? Fine. Ruin my christmas. ;_;

:)

Enjoie.

The Multiplier Concept

Part 1: Nothing really happens. It's mostly an introduction. And something I can fully and completely see happening. I love these boys. :)

John Watson walked up the stairs to the flat; his leg had grown accustomed to his daily trek up and down the little torture devices. It was barely a twinge now.

Especially when he was distracted.

A red, viscous fluid was dripping its way down from the top of the wooden stairs, leaking form under the half open door. It looked like blood, and, living with Sherlock Holmes…

"Sherlock?" He slammed the door open with his cane and slid hallway across the floor.

Sherlock Holmes, six feet plus, curly-haired, black-locked, broad shouldered and skinny framed, lay spread eagled across the floor, eyes closed and his grinning skull perched on his chest.

"Oh, my god." Before Watson could crouch next to him to feel for a pulse, ice blue eyes slid open, regarding Watson balefully from their cradle on the floor.

"What?"

The familiar, infuriated feeling that always rose whenever Holmes was concerned started rising from somewhere around his ankles. "'What?' You're covered in blood. The whole flat's covered in it!" And it was; the fluid dripped form the desk and shelves. Even the easy chair was dyed a shade darker.

"It's not blood," Sherlock drawled petulantly, eyes falling closed once more, folding his long-fingered hands across his chest. John looked back at him, unsure of what he'd just heard.

"What?"

"It. Is. Not. Blood. That is what you were nervous about?" John stayed quiet, blinking back at him. With a sigh, Sherlock sat up, catching the skull as it rolled into his lap. "It's an iron-potassium compound. With some hydrochloric—Look, it looks like blood, it smells like blood, probably tastes like it, though I wouldn't advise it, don't touch it, actually. At all. And yet—it's not."

It took John a long moment to respond. "I don't believe this."

He could almost mistake the look on Sherlock's face for confusion.

"Why not? You could test it, I guarantee you it's not—oh. I thought you'd be relieved. Look, I haven't shot anything." He gestured behind him to the untouched wall and collapsed back onto the floor, toying with the skull.

"No, you haven't. You've moved on to destroying the rest of the flat." He rubbed at the stubble across his chin. "Why can't you get a hobby? Read a book, for Christ's sake. Go out."

"Can we?"

"Not me—I've got work. And then—I've just got work."

"Work."

"At the surgery?"

"With Sarah."

"No—Well, yes. Same place, not exactly together—"

"I meant afterwards. Your 'and then?'"

"Oh. Well, I suppose."

"Hm."

"What?" John asked, exasperated. Every time Sarah came up, it seemed to narrowly precede a row. And now, he was exhausted, and irritable, and all the adrenalin from the fake spilled blood was making his head hurt, never mind his let.

"Nothing," Sherlock answered, curling up. John sighed and grabbed his coat.

"I'm sure Lestrade will call sooner or later."

As he left, he could've sworn that Sherlock muttered, "So bored."

He said a silent prayer for the wall.