The Refuse Debacle - By popular demand. A quick one-shot based on a quote from Chapter two of 'The Odd Surprise'. It's not necessary to read that, though I would, of course, like you to!
Usual disclaimers apply - nobody and nothing is mine, apart from the slightly twisted imagination that creates these scenarios.
He had to be joking. Really. He couldn't possibly be serious. Could he?
It was cold and dark. They were investigating a missing child and the case had led them to a large house in the suburbs. Sherlock, of course, had not hesitated to break in. But the back door was secured with a self-dropping latch, and, also of course, he had not thought to inform John of this as they checked out the back yard. Hence the stuckness of their situation. Plus add in the fact that there were now people in the kitchen of the house, most likely about to head out of the aforementioned back door. The best case scenario was arrest for breaking and entering, the worst John didn't even want to contemplate right now.
"You cannot be serious."
"I am perfectly serious, John."
"I'm not getting in there-" He was cut off by Sherlock grabbing him around the thigh and lifting and caught himself letting out a slightly less than manly squeal.
"In."
John struggled against him and looked around. The small yard had no other hiding places. Sherlock would be ok if he could slip behind the mangled clump of wisteria growing against the house. But there was no way John would fit there too. The walls were too high to climb and the back gate was bolted and padlocked. With enough time it could be picked, but time was not something they had a lot of. "Sherlock! There has to be-"
"No. In you go." And he used his hand as leverage, deceptively strong, and flipped his companion in.
John heard a muffled rustle from beside him as Sherlock jammed his way behind the thankfully full foliage. And then the lock of the back door sliding open. The smell was bordering on unbearable and he was sort of half crumpled, half folded into his hiding place. He tried holding his breath, but after thirty seconds he had to release it and gasp in a lungful of sour rotting fumes. He gagged. Great. His head was perilously close to the floor and if he threw up there was a fair chance it would splash back up into his face. There were voices from outside and had to fight to hold himself still. He wasn't a delicate vomitter, he did a lot of heaving and groaning and spitting. There was no way he could remain undetected once that started. The bile burned his throat.
He hoped Sherlock could hear what they were saying, because he certainly couldn't. His shoulder crammed painfully against his ear didn't help. If this had been for nothing there would be some serious trouble later.
Finally the back gate opened and closed. A minute later he heard the rustle beside him again. Good, now he could get out. Or not...?
"Sherlock?" Nothing. John kicked his legs out a little, but he was pretty jammed in. "Sherlock?!"
John tried pushing his weight upwards with his arms. One hand squelched disgustingly in something and he had to take a deep breath to keep the vomit down. Although, that wasn't a good idea, because now he was gagging from the stench again. Claustrophobia rose, burning and tightening his chest. That, combined with the blood pooling in his head and the deathly silence from outside, equalled panic. He was past the point of caring about arrest or beatings or murder then, he just needed to get out.
"Sherlock Holmes!" John bellowed "If you have pissed off down the road after those guys I will personally emasculate you! With my bare hands. Or maybe something really really blunt and rusty! Get me out of this fucking wheelie bin!"
The lid opened then and he could hear Sherlock laughing. Proper, goofy belly-rooted guffaws. The laughing only got harder as his attempt to pull John out by his ankles failed miserably.
"The angles are all wrong, John," he snorted, trying to breathe. His words were punctuated by his gasps. "I can't. Get. Enough. Leverage."
This was ridiculous. It was absurd. It was actually... quite funny. John couldn't help himself then. He had to let out a chuckle. He could picture Sherlock's view, with John's booted feet sticking out of the top of the big black bin. He couldn't remember a more stupid situation they had found themselves in.
"John, I'm going to have to-" he was hysterical. He took a second to calm himself, snuffling to himself, "I'm going to have to tip you over." And he was off again, cackling loudly.
John braced himself as best he could for the tumble. Sherlock, surprisingly, did it as gently as he could and even put a hand between John's head and the rim of the bin as he backed himself out. John struggled to keep a straight face at the sight of Sherlock's heated cheeks and merry twinkling eyes. The taller man tried to look guilty and sympathetic, but when John looked down at his gooey hands it all went to shit and he was bent over laughing again.
"If you ever dare mention this to anyone..." John threatened.
"Not going on the blog then?" Sherlock clapped a friendly hand to John's shoulder, before wincing at the contact and removing it quickly, swiping it discreetly on John's slightly cleaner jeans. "I've found a way over the wall."
The smell distressingly followed John for the rest of the night. Sherlock did his best not to complain, but he wrinkled his nose aggravatingly when in close contact with his partner. It took John a very long shower back at the flat and three shampoos of his hair to feel even remotely clean. And he suspected his clothes would never quite recover.
"Next time you're going in the bin," he threatened as he emerged, rubbing his hair dry with a towel.
Sherlock did not answer. But he did crack off laughing again.