Chapter 4- what a man has to do
Sherlock jerked back in surprise as his test tube frothed in a most unexpected manner. With a growl of frustration he the pulled off his goggles and threw it across the room, where it clattered against the wall before ricocheting back to tumble into an open box.
The living room was saved from further destruction when his mobile chirped.
'Answer mobile,' Sherlock intoned slowly and clearly, and he grinned gleefully as any child with a new toy, when his updated device did just that.
'Sherlock,' Mary answered, 'I just managed to wrangle him on to the sofa and put his hand into a bucket of ice. I hope you are doing the same.'
The detective raised his head at this very promising beginning, 'tell me more.'
There was a pregnant pause on the other end. 'Wait, aren't you and John on a case?'
'Not that I am aware of,' Sherlock replied truthfully, before he remembered that John had told him it wasn't absolutely necessary to blurt out everything on his mind to his girlfriend. Was this one of those instances?
'Well...err...' Sherlock cast about desperately for some plausible excuse to why John might need to have his hand in a bucket of ice. He didn't want to be the cause of any trouble, not when everything was going so much better between him and his former 'partner in crime'. 'Well sometimes Mary, a man has to...'
Sherlock had been busy texting Lestrade to see if knew anything and his heart fell, when the man texted back a negative response.
'John hasn't helped me with a case in over a year' -GL
'A man has to...'
'If you want to be helpful then come over here and talk to him!' she snapped, 'I will not have a husband who brawls in the street for no good reason. Do you hear me?!'
Hastily, Sherlock packed his precious petri dishes into a shoe box to go.
'On my way,' he replied meekly, as John had advised him to do if he was on the receiving end of that tone of voice from Mary.
When he arrived, the detective didn't get much out of his friend who, still white lipped and vibrating with suppressed anger, stared transfixed at the television, pretending to watch a rerun of the Big Bang theory.
Well he was able to deduce that John had started the fight, and even though the person was taller and bigger than he was, John had managed to hold his own; the altercation didn't happen out in the street, bystanders had tried to restrain John but that hadn't been successful at all; and eventually he had to be dragged off by the loops of his belt.
All easy enough to conclude from the wealth of trace evidence on his friend's clothes.
Mary squashed him into one of her sitting room armchairs and handed him a large mug of tea; indicating she was in one of her black moods and she didn't want to look at John.
How could Sherlock refuse when she so obligingly measured his petri dish cultures every thirty minutes for growth?
As he wriggled around in the cozy chair, trying to find the most comfortable spot, the detective didn't mind the domestic tension in the room as another man might have. He was just happy that he was allowed to share in any part of John's life, at all.
The next day when the consulting detective dropped by Mycroft's office to answer his urgent summons, Sherlock was so stunned to see his brother sporting a fresh black eye, that he was at a loss for what to say.
'How bad does it look?' Mycroft drawled. 'Perhaps it would have been better if in the grand scheme of things, I should have told your Dr. Watson, that I had no idea how you received those injuries on your back.'
Sherlock could only smile happily, at this very tangible evidence of John's continued deep and loving regard for his well being.
