*Is this where the disclaimer goes? No, I do not own Sherlock (but I do own this plot). All this loveliness is first and foremost Doyle/BBC/Moffat/Gatiss. If they ever decide to change this... No? Fine. Ruin my christmas. ;_;
:)
Enjoie.
Part 2: More entertainment. Sherlock is a child. John is a saint. Guess why Sher's so moody, hm?
3
"Nice night?"
John had to hit on the light to see the source of the disembodied voice that floated up to him from out of the darkness. A good eight hours later, and Sherlock was still in the same place, strewn across the floor. The flake blood had dried to a sticky, gelatinous substance smearing across his shoes as he walked.
"Yes… thanks. Have you moved, since I've left?"
"Did you take Sarah out?"
"Yes. Have you even eaten?"
"Where'd you go?"
"Dinner and a movie .Why are you still on the floor?"
"Boring."
"Sherlock." He looked back over at him, blinking. "Get up."
"Why should I ?" He rolled his eyes as Watson glared back. "Fine."
He staggered to his feet, shaking out his stagnant muscles. "Happy?"
"Not until you've cleaned… this." He grimaced. "and it wasn't boring. First date, and she almost died. I think anything out would be a step up form that."
"Hm."
"Look, it's not like you've ever even—" He backpedaled immediately. But, thank the lord; he was interrupted—saved, really—by the chiming of his phone. "Hello? John Watson."
"John, thank god. Listen, is Sherlock there? I've got something for you two."
"Lestr—what? Why haven't you called him?"
"I have, at least a dozen times. He must've lost his phone."
Sherlock studiously avoided John's eye, walking over to the chair to pluck at his violin strings. The violin that was the only thing untouched by the red goo.
"Okay. All right. Thank you. Fine." John snapped his phone closed, and then open again, and dialed a number.
The phone in Sherlock's pocket chimed loudly.
He pulled it out and put it to his ear.
"John, why on hearth are you calling me?"
John walked back over and plucked the phone from Sherlock's hands. Fourteen missed calls.
"Why were you ignoring Lestrade's calls? No—" He pushed Sherlock back as he tried to step around him. "Answer me. Why didn't you answer it? You've been complaining about your boredom, and here, right up your alley-"
"I didn't hear it."
"Like hell."
"I fell asleep."
John sighed and rubbed at the aching spot between his eyes. "Fine. You know what? I don't care. Let's just go see what he wants." Watson turned to go, and then turned back, stopping Sherlock short. "And get that goo out of your hair."
*Oh, quick note. I've decided, John took the night shift, at the surgery. I want the crime scene to be early morning. Far more shocking that way. ^^ *twiddles fingers*
