A Dismal Drudgery By Moonhawk64
A/N: This is a sequel to "Next of Kin". I know this is an awfully short chapter, but there's stuff I have to do, and I'm not sure I'll be able to get back to this tonight. I've also got some writer's block going, and I'm hoping that the obligation to my readers to continue this will help shake it loose.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, nor the characters thereof. More's the pity, cause I could use the money.
John H. Watson, M.D. couldn't help the triumphant grin that dominated his face as he skipped up the stairs to flat B of 221 Baker Street. He flung open the door, his happy news on his lips, however, before he could tell his flatmate the good news, Sherlock, sitting on the sofa, bent over his computer and typing away furiously, snapped,
"John, I said I need you to send a text to Lestrade."
John rolled his eyes in exasperation.
"You know I was out, right?" Sherlock still didn't bother to look up, and his fingers continued to fly over the keyboard.
"Really? Well, now you can text Lestrade and tell him to check the toilet for toenail clippings. If there are any, he can arrest the older brother."
"What?" John blurted. Then he gave a frustrated huff and walked to the sofa. He dropped a piece of paper on Sherlock's keyboard. The younger man frowned and finally looked up.
"What's this?"
"The reason I was out." Sherlock glanced at the paper, then tossed it on the sofa cushion next to him.
"Good. Now you're even more useful to me."
"Is that it, then?" John asked, his good mood completely dispelled by now. He grabbed the page from the sofa and started toward his room. He'd already bought a frame for the document, and wanted to place it under the protection of glass before Sherlock did something to damage it.
"John, you should understand that there are two complements I can give someone. That they are interesting, and that they are useful. You have been both, and now you are even more of the latter. For me, that is high praise indeed. Have you sent the text yet?"
"Sod off. Send the damn text yourself." John told him. He was about to say more, but, with no more that a perfunctory knock, the door was opened and the aforementioned Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade walked in.
"First tiff?" He asked smiling innocently. "Guess the honeymoon's over, eh?"
With an identical smile, John flipped Lestrade the bird, and continued on up the steps to his room.