Alright. I'm taking the initiative and challenging my brain with my first BBC Sherlock story (I mean actual story, not that John drabble I did...). I have a basic plot down, but what happens between now and then, and how it happens, is a mystery to me.
But what I basically want to say is I love this pairing and the entire Sherlock fandom, and if you find me ruining it for you, please let me know. And while I'm not begging for reviews, they are highly appreciated. I honestly do try to improve my writing with each story. Though whether or not I succeed depends on the slim possibility I don't get carried away and ignore any means of planning before I let my fingers start typing... Also, if you find any spelling or grammatical errors, do not hesitate to tell me about them. Normally, I can catch them all, or at least most (I'm a Grammar Nazi, forgive me), but my keyboard has been acting up, and keys have been sticking. Damn brother has been eating while he checks his damn e-mail and plays his stupid games again...
Disclaimer: I own nothing, to my utter disappointment.
"Sherlock, I'm going out!" The voice floats from the bottom of the stairs, just before its owner walks out, pulling the door shut by the knocker.
The detective attempts a low grunt in response, but he's not exactly committed to the action. He's been lying on the couch - head resting on one arm, feet crossed and propped on the opposite, with his fingers steepled under his chin - for sometime now. John is used to the unresponsive lump at this point, and no longer expects any acknowledgment from it. And he will continue to do so for at least a few more days. He knows better than to interrupt his friend's complex and brilliant train of thought, for any reason.
However, something clicks in the back of Sherlock's mind. He tries to ignore it, but it keeps buzzing about, jabbing at him in a most irritable manner until he can't take it any longer. In one fluid movement he rises, steps on and over the coffee table, strides to the mantle, and wraps his long fingers around his cell phone.
Bring milk.
SH
As soon as it sends, a sigh escapes his lips. Now what? He's lost nearly everything he's so delicately pieced together in his mind over the past fourty-six hours, and now that he's up and about the thought of returning to his previous immobile state is... distasteful.
Deciding to check if anything at all is happening in the world below him, the dark-haired man paces over to the window, staring sharply out of it, keen eye watchful for anything important or mildly interesting. It only takes moments for Sherlock to discern that there's nothing, nothing at all. It's so ungodly boring and dull. Just the same people going on with their same lives in the same way. It's all quiet, all disappointing. He opens a new text on his phone.
Hurry back. I'm bored.
SH
John chuckles lightly at that last text. You're always bored, Sherlock, he thinks good-naturedly, glad that his flatmate is no longer inert. He doesn't bother texting back - he'll simply send a reply on the way home, not in the middle of the market.
After nearly forgetting the milk and having to back-track, the good-doctor finally manages to make his way outside, bags in hand, and scours the street for a cab. In one hand he has his phone.
I'll be home in five minutes, if I can get a cab. If not, make it ten.
John
A response comes almost instantaneously.
Just hurry up.
SH
Smirking lightly, the fair-haired man continues his search, though every cabbie he tries to flag down passes him by with out a second glance. And he's not even covered in blood or grime this time, nor is he with his (infuriating at times) friend. It seems, however, that their reputation has been spreading, even if they haven't been paying much attention.
He lets out a small huff of annoyance before he begins planning his route back to the flat. John never notices the man following about twenty-five paces behind him.
Musician's fingers pluck the violin strings impatiently. It's been well over an hour since John's text and there's been no sign of him. It's not like the man to be late, or to get side-tracked like this, but Sherlock doesn't let himself panic quite yet. His friend was in the military and is a grown man, perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Yet there's some nagging ache in the back of his mind that begs to differ.
Nevertheless, he continues to sit there, fingers dancing over the strings now. The detective knows if he tries to call or text again it will only get on the doctor's nerves. "I can take care of myself, Sherlock Holmes, I don't require your constant meddling," Sherlock can already can hear him say, tone scolding, eyes contrastingly warm, and the detective feels a smirk stretch one corner of his mouth briefly.
His phone suddenly sounds its text alert, and he scrambles to open it. A million and one things fly through his head, half scathing remarks, some others questions about where the hell John has been all this time, and a slight few asking about the doctor's well-being. The remaining are all possible scenarios that could be happening at this very instant - and none of them are very pleasant, but then again, Sherlock himself has never exactly been one for such a thing. Then everything comes to a earth-shattering halt when the text finally opens.
Hello, love :). I have your playmate, and if you want to see him again you and I are going to have some fun. Let's play a game. Win, you get John. Lose, you don't. You have one minute to respond with an answer, or the game ends early.
-Jimmy
Okay, that was really short and a little choppy, but I have an idea for a longer, more complex second chapter. Be patient with me please, I don't sleep so my brain is at half-capacity at the moment. (grin)
