Roaming the House In a State Of Undress
(or, Ten Reasons Why Chocolate Is Useful When Chasing Sherlock Holmes)
After much yelling from John for Sherlock to get back in his room right now or he swears he will have no cuddles for a week, the missing detective was still…missing.
So he had to use his last resort.
Chocolate.
After moving in with Sherlock and discovering his addiction to sugar, caffeine, and adrenaline (as well as danger, gore, and nicotine), John got him thoroughly hooked on chocolate. He knew he would need it for bribery in instances such as this, which was why he had several blocks and bars of the stuff stashed around their home.
1)John was stirring a pot of hot chocolate. It was a chilly day, after all, and this was a good way to get the scent of chocolate spread through the flat. He added a pinch of cinnamon, a dash more milk, and turned off the heat. The cook turned his back to rummage about for clean mugs and the marshmallows god, he loved those squishy little things, and whirled around when he heard a soft slurp and a thunk and the now empty pot landed on the stove. He met the bloodshot eyes of an insane, naked Sherlock. His mouth dropped open, and he was frozen to the spot.
He stared at the ill man.
Sherlock stared back.
Then with a roguish wink and a mad grin, the naked figure scurried away with a wild cackle. So much for that plan.
2) He wasn't one for baking, but, hey, it couldn't be that hard. As long as he followed instructions, his cookies might turn out just fine. After borrowing several ingredients from Mrs. Hudson, John began.
A ding from the timer alerted him to the now finished cookies. He peeked in, and through the glass, could view a dozen perfect chocolate chip cookies, soft, golden brown, melty chocolate chip cookies. He salivated, just a little, and waited a bit before taking them out with a hot pink towel (monogrammed in gold thread, with the initials M. H.) folded double so as to not burn his hands. Balancing them on a corner of the sink, John wiped his wet hands on his apron(also hot pink, with a border of pursed lips and the words kiss the cook). The treats were tipped unceremoniously onto a plate, and were left to rest on center stage(the very conspicuous pile of paper on the table). John hid behind a conveniently placed wall of books, and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
As John started to snore, Sherlock crept to the cookies, mashed them into his mouth with a crazed look in his eye, and crept away, quiet as a mime.
John woke with a snort and a start, and his eyes alighted upon the empty plate. He sighed, and went to clean up for bed. He would try again tomorrow.
A sight greeted his tired face in the mirror. Smeared all over his forehead were fingerprints of chocolate(although he wasn't quite sure it was chocolate, he thought nervously, but preferred to keep it that way. Ignorance was bliss, after all) and a moustache of blue ink.
He cursed colourfully, with several detailed phrases picked up at the pub, and even a few in other languages(he doesn't remember how he knew curses in Mandarin or Spanish, but does know that the experiences involve quite a lot of alcohol).
John sank into his covers, recuperating for the daunting task of capturing Sherlock Holmes, madman extraordinaire.
3) John woke with the scent of chocolate in his nostrils, sunlight in his half- lidded eyes, and a sleeping Sherlock(still naked, bless him) curled on top of his blanketed form like a cat. Like a sinuous, glorious, insane cat, who was gazing into his eyes, still with that odd look in his pupils.
Munching on a bar of top quality chocolate.
Munching on John's bar of top quality chocolate.
Which was supposed to be his super secret emergency stash.
Which was supposed to be tucked deeply in his underwear drawer (now spilled in a rainbow of whites and greys and blues and a surprising pair of red across the floor).
He sighed, and flipped over, his arms forming a cage around Sherlock's shoulders, and his knees on either side of his thighs. Sherlock grinned, finished the candy, slid down, and out of the room in two seconds flat.
He was going to murder him, and with no consulting detective around, John was sure he wouldn't be suspected of killing his best friend.
4) John was sitting in bed. He had a dozen pillows fluffed up behind him, a woolen knitted hat in various shades of gaudy orange with a puff on top, clean grey footie jammies on, and a pair of striped pink socks (stolen from Mycroft's sock drawer. The man had silk socks, for goodness' sakes, and all perfectly organized by colour and thread count! THREAD COUNT!). A thick mystery novel was resting on his lap (he wanted to see if he learned anything living with Sherlock for so long) while he awaited Holmes the Younger's arrival. Every few moments, John would put his hand in a bowl of chocolate chips and plop one on his waiting tongue.
His plan went thusly:
By turning up the heat to swelteringly warm, the too hot(in more ways than one) Sherlock would drift to John's room, where the heat was off, to escape the warmth. Sherlock would go to all the rooms to find a cool place, and as Mrs. Hudson was out for the week visiting her sister, he would be the only person subject to the detective's naked glory. Sherlock would see the chocolate, approach, and John would wrestle him down and subdue him with a pair of (fur lined) handcuffs. Then he would administer the treatment, keep watch over him until his fever broke, and everything would go back to normal.
He should have known it wouldn't be so easy.
Sherlock arrived an hour later, striding with a purpose across the room.
Still naked.
He eyed the chocolate, and then threw his body into a corner, in a pile of (clean) discarded clothing.
There, he watched John silently, while John prayed- please, god, I've done nothing wrong- I'm keeping Sherlock away from the rest of the world; don't let him be up to anything- and pretended to not notice the dark shape in the corner.
After another hour where John started to forget the predator in waiting (though his eyes flickered to the corner occasionally), the shape suddenly sprang at the doctor. Taken by surprise, and overpowered by a fever ridden otter, who found the fur lined handcuffs, cuffed him to the bedpost, and sat just out of his reach with the bowl, popping a chocolate chip into his mouth every so often, just staring.
The doctor sighed.
IF YOU REVIEW I WILL FORCE SHERLOCK INTO THE BATH WITH A RUBBER DUCKIE