For venvephe, as part of the johnlockchallenges gift exchange. The prompt was "This has something to do with the tea, doesn't it." So, I hope you like this, venvephe, and thanks for the awesome prompt. (This was originally meant to be fluff by the way, but my brain more or less went "Fluff? What is this fluff you speak of?" and this came out instead.)
And can I just kill my computer now? Because I definitely didn't need all of those strange little spaces in between words that I had to put back in. I swear, sometimes I think the thing's sentient, and it hate my guts.
Anyway, enough of my rambling now. On to the story!
"Yes, of course we want a room with two beds." John resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the hotel clerk; likely barely out of high school, judging by the bracelet she was wearing. It was obviously hand-made, the type of thing a friend would make for another friend, which wasn't something adults normally did, and it looked in fairly good shape, meaning it was new; she was probably working here to save money for college, and- oh God, he sounded like Sherlock.
"Oh, sorry. I just thought that you two were..." The hotel clerk gestured between John and Sherlock, sounding entirely unapologetic.
"No. No we aren't."
"Umm... right then. We're a bit filled up right now. In fact, you might want to try a different hotel."
"Ah, no. We're fine here, as long as there's a room open. " John scratched the back of his head. "We would've made reservations, but it was all a bit last-minute, really."
There was awkward silence for a moment.
"Shut up. Let me do the talking." Sherlock pushed John out of the way, striding casually up to the counter, or at least as casually as Sherlock could. John couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for the clerk. She had no idea what she was in for.
"You obviously have rooms open. That peg behind you would be used to hang up that sign over there," Sherlock inclined his head slightly toward the right corner of the desk, where indeed there was a small wooden sign, propped up against the leg of the desk. "So don't waste our time."
"I-I'll check if we have space available. What name will you be staying under?" The clerk's eyes darted around nervously, almost like she thought there was someone watching her. You're getting paranoid, he told himself, and promptly shook it off.
"Sherlock Holmes."
The girl looked down, toying with her bracelet, spinning it around and around her wrist. With a slight glance over toward her right, she checked the computer, looking up after a few seconds. "We only have one room open. It's on the third floor, single bathroom, but two beds. Will that do?"
John thought he saw the ghost of a frown flicker across Sherlock's face, but it was gone as soon as it was there, if it had ever been there at all. Yep, he was definitely getting paranoid. It had been too quiet lately. It was surprising Sherlock hadn't gone mad from all the calm.
"Yes, obviously it will have to," Sherlock snapped.
"O-okay then." She bit her lip again, obviously bothered, and started typing at the computer.
John leaned over to Sherlock, whispering so the hotel clerk wouldn't hear. "You could at least try to be nice for once." His eyes darted up at the clerk, who was still busy with the computer. "Look, you've obviously upset her-" John cut himself off with a sigh. He didn't know why he even bothered trying. Sherlock, instead of listening to him, was pacing up and down the lobby, staring at the ceiling. He was just glad no-one else was in the lobby to watch. Most people weren't exactly used to Sherlock's special brand of weird.
"Here's your room key- sir?" The clerk looked up at Sherlock, currently halfway across the lobby.
John sighed again. He was doing a lot of sighing today, and he had a feeling he'd be doing even more by the day's end. "Sherlock!" he hissed, glancing pointedly over at the poor hotel clerk.
Hands clasped behind his back, Sherlock strode, not walked, strode back over to the desk, snatching the key from the clerk's hand. Her mouth gaped open, and she opened her mouth several times before speaking. "You don't have to check in right now you know, you could always go out and-"
"Yes, I have stayed in hotels before." With a flourish of his coat Sherlock turned away from the reception desk, leaving a very flustered clerk in his wake. "Room 318," he announced to John, still walking at a pace that John knew would make it almost impossible to keep up.
John followed with a start, shooting a quick apology to the hotel clerk. "He's always like that," he said, before struggling to catch up with Sherlock.
He waited until they'd gone up a few sets of stairs to yell at Sherlock. "What was that? You couldn't have at least tried to be nice to her, could you?"
In way of response, Sherlock stopped moving in the middle of the staircase, bent over, and shuffled to the right.
"What is it now?"
"Move to your right."
John frowned. "What?"
"Move to your right," he repeated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
John did so. "Is that good?" he asked, having decided to just go along with Sherlock for now. While he couldn't think of any possible reason stopping in the middle of a staircase was a good idea, he had a sinking suspicion that Sherlock was about to tell him.
There was a slight pause. "Yes, that's fine." And then, sure enough, "I suppose you're wondering why I've asked you to stand there, John." John remained silent, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Of course he was wondering. Bloody show-off.
"Look up in that corner over there." Sherlock pointed at a corner to the far left, mostly blocked out by the edge of the staircase, which turned just before the corner. He kept his arm bent at a strange, and frankly, rather uncomfortable looking angle as he did this.
"Okay, I'm looking. But what am I looking for? It's a corner."
"Brilliantly observed John. Yes, it is a corner. But do you notice anything else about the corner?"
Don't punch him in the face, don't punch him in the face. "Umm, there's a sort of painting thing on the wall." He squinted at the painting, which appeared to be of a potted sunflower, against a green background. He really didn't see anything special about it, there were plenty others like it all around the hotel.
"The camera, John. Look, there." John followed Sherlock's finger to the left side of the painting. "That corner's off slightly, and the shadows on that part of the wall are all wrong. It's obvious that somebody has created a hole in the wall, hidden behind the painting, to place a hidden camera in to watch us." With that, Sherlock stood up and continued climbing the stairs, with John trailing behind.
"But if the camera's watching us, why are we going toward it?"
Sherlock's back was to him, but he could just picture that arrogant facial expression of his plastered all over Sherlock's face as he spoke. "Whoever is watching us would notice if we stopped for too long. The only reason I stopped in the first place was to point out the camera without our watcher noticing."
John opened his mouth to speak.
"And before you ask John, since you were obviously going to, yes, it would be completely plausible for a hotel to have hidden cameras to catch vandals committing property damage, however, I am inclined to believe that this is not the case."
Sherlock paused, and John sensed that he expected him to ask why. "And why is that, Sherlock?" Could they not go anywhere without something happening? And of course, he realized, of course there was no way Sherlock would just want to go to some show then dinner in some small town in the middle of nowhere. Of course not. No, there had to be some crime involved, and of course Sherlock couldn't just bloody tell him that!
"The clerk down there. She was nervous; toying with her hair and bracelet. That's what got my suspicions up at first. Her right sleeve was slightly damp, and she looked flustered, obviously she'd been crying recently."
"Obviously."
"And then she asked us if we wanted a single-bed room, but when I gave my name, she claimed there was only one room left; once we took the room, she didn't put the sign up, which she would have if we'd taken the last room. All of this points to..."
"A trap," John realised. "It's a trap." All irritation was instantly gone from his voice.
"Correct. Our watcher approached the clerk, and gave her directions to send us to this particular room when we arrived. Who knows how much time he's had to prepare?" He clapped his hands together suddenly. "We're expected, John!"
Sherlock thrust open the double doors of the third floor landing and continued down the red-carpeted hallway, the slightly dim lighting of the hotel now looking ominous to John. "And the trap- we're just walking into it?"
"Correct again." Sherlock reached the door with 318 clearly stated on it in large golden numbers.
John tensed as the key turned in the lock, waiting for something to happen. A gunshot perhaps, or an assailant, waiting hidden in the shadows of the room, to spring out and grab them. He reached out an arm, ready to pull Sherlock aside as the door opened. The door opened. A moment of silence, then, nothing.
Sherlock walked into the room casually as ever, as if there was nothing that was probably waiting to kill him lurking in there. John followed him closely, his eyes assessing every shadow for potential danger. He went over to the window, opened it, being careful to stand off to one side, and gingerly glanced out it, looking up and down. Satisfied, but not relaxed, he closed the window.
"I can't find anything," he said to Sherlock, who was standing stock still in the centre of the room, still wearing his ridiculously long coat with his collar turned up. "In this room, at least," Sherlock murmured, seeming more to himself than to John. Meanwhile, John wandered off into the kitchen, checking first under the kitchen table, for anything taped to the he looked on top of the table. "This has something to do with the tea, doesn't it?" he called out to Sherlock.
Moments later, a head poked out from behind the doorway. "What tea?" He looked excited, of all things.
"The tea on the table," John said, pointing out the obvious.
Sherlock approached the table, pulling out one of the chairs and sitting down in it. Cautiously, John did the same. "Poisoned?" he guessed.
"Probably. But there's more to it than that. The question is what. What am I missing?" Sherlock picked up the tea cup nearest to him.
John cried out in alarm. What did he think he was doing? Surely he wasn't going to drink it, although John wouldn't have put it past him. To his immense relief, Sherlock did not drink the tea, but only examined the cup, putting it down after a moment.
"Not there," he mumbled. "What am I missing?"
"Are there more cameras in the room?" He was trying to be helpful, although with Sherlock he could never tell if he was actually helping or not.
"Cameras!" Sherlock stood from his chair abruptly, spinning around the room. "Yes. One in each corner. They're not trying to hide these ones; it's much more obvious. They want us to see them. Why?" Sherlock dashed around the room, tearing open cabinets and drawers, not bothering to close them. Then, he suddenly stopped, the mini-fridge drawer half-open. John felt his blood run cold.
He felt his pulse and breathing speed up; he forced himself to take deep breaths. "What?"
One word. Sherlock said one word. "Bomb."
He swallowed, feeling numb. "Right. Bomb. How big, exactly?"
Sherlock opened the fridge door fully. "Big enough to easily blow away half the hotel."
"Ah. Right." John, who found himself half standing from his chair, sat down. "I see. So, I'm guessing it's a choice between the bomb or poison then."
"It would seem so."
"And if we try to leave-" John cradled his head in his hands, closing his eyes. "The bomb goes off," he whispered.
Silence. Neither man spoke. Then, John reached for his cup.
"John, what-?" "
If the bomb goes off... There are other people in here. Innocent people." He closed his hand around the handle of the cup. He didn't mind dying, not really, he told himself. He'd come to terms with the fact that he could die any moment back in Afghanistan. And this would be easier, more painless. Just a nice drink of tea, then death, right? But God, he was scared. Opening his eyes, he raised the cup to his mouth.
"A note."
John looked up. Sherlock, holding his own cup just a few inches from the table, was staring at a small slip of paper, previously hidden under John's cup of tea. Numbly, he set the tea down, breathing in shakily. Fingers grasped the note, he unfolded it, and read as quickly as he could, his voice wavering slightly. "Dear Mr. Holmes," he swallowed. "I'm sure that by now you have found my surprises, and know that you are being watched. I now present you with two choices. If you leave this room, I will trigger the bomb, blowing up most of the hotel, and probably whoever is in the building at the time. There is a thirty second delay on the bomb once I trigger it. If you choose to drink the tea, only one cup is poisoned, but the poison kills quickly. Don't drink it expecting to find treatment." He swallowed. "I leave it to you to figure out which one it is, and a choice. Who will live, and who will die? You have two minutes to decide after you've finished reading this note. Tick tock, Sherlock." There was a rough sketch of a skull at the bottom of the page.
He felt his fingers relax, the page drift down to the table. There was silence. John's head rested against the table, next to the paper. He could practically hear the cogs in Sherlock's mind turning, but his own mind had shut down. No couldn't think; his ears seemed to ring, deafening silence, just... Numb. Everything numb. He heard himself speak. "Which cup is it?" It didn't sound like him; some other voice, disembodied, but not his.
Sherlock took a while to answer. "I don't know. I don't know. How could I? It's impossible!" He sounded scared. Maybe it was just his imagination, but Sherlock Holmes sounded scared.
"They haven't even given me anything to go off of." John heard the sound of paper moving, saw Sherlock pick up the paper and examine it frantically. "Nothing! It's possible the skull on the note was meant to indicate a poisoned cup, but it's also possible that they placed it there to mislead me. If I had our culprit here, maybe I could do something, but this? "
John wet his lips, breath shaking. "Look, Sherlock... It's okay." No it's not. Anything but okay. One of them was going to die. Be dead. Gone. Just...gone. "We'll... We'll just drink the tea." His eyes closed. "No brilliant deductions this time, just... luck."
"I don't believe in luck. There are right choices, and wrong choices, and the consequences that accompany them. Luck is merely a construction of lesser human minds."
"What would be the right choice then?" John looked at Sherlock. "What?"
"Which one of us should die, if we did know which one has the poison?" John's hand moved toward his cup of tea, and he continued speaking before Sherlock could. "I'll tell you who. Me."
An expression flickered across Sherlock's face. "John-"
He held up a hand. "No Sherlock. Just listen. There are thousands- millions, probably- of John Watsons out there." A weak smile; an even weaker laugh. "But there's only one Sherlock Holmes."
"John, you're an idiot."
John waited, expecting him to say more. When he didn't, John picked up the tea slowly, looking Sherlock straight in the eye. "Right. Let's just get this done with. We're running out of time." He picked up his cup, hot against his hands.
"Wait. Trade cups with me, John."
He didn't set his cup down. "Which one do you think is poisoned?"
There was no reply.
"Sherlock!"
He still did not answer John. "Fine then. No, I'm not going to trade cups with you, and we don't have enough time to argue." To make sure Sherlock could not argue, because he was good at doing that, John picked up his cup and gulped it down as quickly as he could, ignoring the burning sensation in his throat as the too-hot tea went down. He heard Sherlock set his cup down as he finished the last mouthful; he did not put his cup down. Shaking hands lost their grip on it, and it shattered on the floor, blue shards scattering over the floor, bouncing up and hitting his leg, drawing little droplets of blood.
"So," John's voice was hoarse. "I guess we just wait now."
With a shuddering breath, John cradled his head in his arms. He counted each unsteady breath he took; every one could be his last. Or Sherlock's last. Oh God, please don't let it be Sherlock. He heard Sherlock's chair move, and footsteps. A few seconds later, a warm hand touched his shoulder, hand rested on his neck. He's taking my pulse.
They stayed like that for an undefined amount of time; seconds, minutes, John couldn't tell. It would have been nice- really nice- if he hadn't known how it would end. Don't think about it.
"John, I need you to breathe calmly. Your pulse is abnormally high." Arms drew him in closer, so he was practically in Sherlock's lap, half on and half off his own chair.
It's too irregular. God. "My mouth is numb." It came out as barely a whisper. His arm moved to snake around Sherlock's back, struggling to keep himself upright.
The hand on his shoulder tightened. "John. Breathe."
"I'm trying, Sherlock. I'm trying." He couldn't breathe. He couldn't; there were black spots everywhere, and everything was blurry, he could barely think, it was too blurry. He felt himself pulled from the chair, dragged really, his legs didn't seem to be working. They didn't make it far, just to the kitchen floor. He opened his eyes. When had he closed them? "Sherlock." He couldn't talk. The sound wouldn't come out. Not enough air. You're dying, he told himself with the small part of his brain that was still working.
His eyes fluttered closed, his mind went blank.
He drifted back into conciousness a while later, barely holding on. "John!" A scream. Who was screaming? He couldn't remember. Something about tea...His eyes shut again.
"John!" Sherlock was crying. Something wet fell against his hand. He tried to reach out. His hand was on something warm. He tried to grab it. His hand wouldn't move, but the warmth moved to hold his hand. "John..." The voice that had been screaming was just a whisper now. He wanted to tell him something. There was something he had wanted to...