AN: Hi! This posted story is going to be the raw, unedited text of the roleplay between fancylances (FanFiction user TheShoelessOne) and myself. This is the first story arc we wrote together. know that I could make it more story-form but I don't like moving this out of it's natural medium. The story flows in a manner that really isn't conducive to chapters (which I'm doing anyway), let alone longer paragraphs than were original. Maybe I'm just lazy, but hey! I really hope you like it anyway!

So without further ado:


John, I'm sorry.

SH

Sorry, what? Where are you?

JW

Oh, you haven't found them yet, then? Forget what I said.

SH

Sherlock. Found what, may I ask?

JW

Nothing. Don't come home for twelve minutes.

SH

I'm at the door.

JW

Inside the apartment, one can hear John's faint struggle with the keys and his two bags of groceries.

JOHN, DON'T COME IN.

SH

John's gaze goes upward for a moment, and he tentatively steps into the kitchen, sliding the bags onto the counter, eyes on the- closed- door to his room. "Sherlock...?"

There is dead silence for too long, then the quiet creaking of footsteps in John's room and then silence again.

Moving slowly but with a purpose, John starts up the steps, soon reaching his door. "Sherlock?" He queries, sounding a little worried.

There is no sound from the other side of John's door, but a moment later there is a crash from downstairs, the vicinity of Sherlock's bedroom, and a string of muffled curses.

John pounds down the stairs, opening the door to Sherlock's bedroom with hardly a second thought. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock looks as though he's tumbled in through his open window, and has a long, bleeding gash on his forearm, which he is inspecting as though it's an annoyance rather than painful. "I told you not to come in, John. Now look what you've done."

John lets out a short, angry sigh. "Let me see that." He takes Sherlock's forearm, careful not to touch the blood. "This is not my fault." He peers out the window momentarily. "Honestly, what were you trying to do? Booby-trap my room somehow?" John sounds incredulous, letting go of his flatmate's arm.

"Careful, John," Sherlock hisses when John touches his arm. "No, I wasn't trapping your room, don't be dull. I was... cataloguing it."

Thoughtfully, he adds: "Do you think we should collect the excess blood for coagulation tests?"

"I- coagulation tests? Sherlock, honestly. Come on, get into the kitchen so I can clean this cut." John looks to be what one would call 'vexed'. His thoughts seem disorganized. "Why were you cataloging my room? And what did you gash yourself like this, on?"

"Your window frame." Sherlock follows dutifully, pouting like a child, and he flops down into the chair just like a five-year-old. "And I was cataloguing your room in case I should ever need to find my way around your room in an emergency. Though really, John, your choice in pornography is a bit banal. Under the mattress, like a teenager." He holds out his arm for John to get a look at.

John rummages in the cupboard, knowing that he had put a medicinal kit in there at some point in time. Hopefully it hasn't (yet) fallen prey to an 'experiment'. Pursed lips at Sherlock's comment regarding what was found under his mattress. "I really would appreciate if you wouldn't go into my room, Sherlock. Arm out please." John has taken a fresh paper towel and wet it slightly to dab at the cut.

Sherlock is hardly paying attention to the wound, curling his knees up to his chest in the chair and perched like a gargoyle. "Why not? If you're dying and the only thing that can save you is in your room, I think it's a good idea to have a floorplan saved to my hard drive." He holds his arm out for John, very disappointed that John won't let him save the blood that's dripping down his arm.

John lets out another sigh, trying to appeal to logic. "Why on earth would anything in my room be the only thing that could save me? Name three things." He continues cleaning, looking for the gauze.

Without looking down, Sherlock instructs: "Bottom right cupboard, behind the digestives." He sighs through his nose and flexes the fingers of his injured arm. "The extra bullets in your underwear drawer, for one. Assuming you were unconscious, the thermal blanket you've stored on the top shelf in your closet for if the heat goes and you need to keep your internal temperature from dipping into hypothermia. You have a box of medications in your nightstand, at least two of which contain heavy amounts of blood-clotting agents which could be instrumental in keeping you from bleeding out." He gives a smug grin. "Shall I go on?"

"No, thank you." John opens the previously- indicated drawer, swiftly cutting gauze to size and applying it. He is glad that Sherlock has the sense not to move about while John is working on him. "Why would you exit via the window, rather than the door?" He scoffs quietly. "Wanted to see if it was possible, or just trying to get yourself killed?"

He seems uncomfortable for the first time in the conversation. "I didn't think you'd take kindly to me rooting through your intimates, John." As if it's the plainest thing in the world. Sherlock seems slightly worried that John might break at any moment and beat him up, so to speak.

"So why," John asks, eyes intent on Sherlock's arm as he finishes up with the taped gauze, "would you do it anyway. And you don't need to answer that. I'll be upstairs."

John leaves the kitchen, limping slightly but still managing to move a little more quickly than his usual. He has a need to visually assess what damage sherlock has done to his room.

Miffed that John's left before Sherlock can finish, he whips out his phone.

You weren't supposed to know, you ruined everything by coming home twelve minutes too early.

SH

There's no reply for a minute, as John presumably decides whether or not to look at his phone. Then,

I don't think that it really matters what I was supposed to be doing.

JW

Go look at your pornography, then. See if I administer blood-clotting agents the next time you are bleeding out on the floor.

SH

There is the distinct sound of Sherlock slamming a door from below.

John doubts that Sherlock will be back anytime soon, and he hops onto his bed, flipping open his laptop to read something more illuminating than what Sherlock had suggested.

Try not to wet the gauze, or bleeding might start again. JW John replies, going for 'medically detached'.

Jumping in the Thames is out then. I'm not an idiot.

SH

I was thinking more along the line of experimenting with tea. Sorry.

JW

There are no texts for at least twenty minutes, but John isn't worried, just irritable. Then:

She is cheating on you, John.

SH

What?

JW

Beatrice. Sleeping with another man. Thought it was clear enough from my last text.

SH

Of course she isn't. You can't possibly have thought up something like that after just seeing my room.

JW

Of course not. She's at Regent's Park. He's certainly a step down from you.

SH

You are just fooling with me to get me to forget about you going through my room.

JW

Very well. If you won't do something, I will.

SH

John's head, tilted backwards with a long sigh, hits his bed's headboard. He isn't sure whether to believe it, but why would Sherlock lie? He can't think of anything to reply, so he phone falls to the bed and John goes tentatively into his email, rereading those from Beatrice. Just for peace of mind..

Hardly more than thirteen minutes later, John's phone buzzes with a text.

come down to the station and pick sherlock up

GL

John's laptop closes and his head is briefly in his hands now. "Oh, why me..." He mutters in a rare moment of self-pity.