-Inspired by The Scarf by CKerased-
As Sherlock Holmes rubs his neck for the fiftieth time in ten minutes, John swears by the Hippocratic oath he'll yank that scarf right off his partner if the man does it one more time.
. . . one neck-rub later . . .
"Sherlock . . ."
"I can tell from that tone something I've done recently has driven you to the brink. So-"
"Take that scarf off."
The detective raises an eyebrow, then raises a hand protectively over item in question. "NOW."
"Why? If it's my lymph nodes you're after I can tell you right here and now I don't get sick. And the last time I was shot it simply grazed my neck. You were certainly there. What the-?" Sherlock stops in mid ramble when he realizes that John had untied it a few sentences ago. He looks at the ceiling somewhat guiltily as week-old bruises come to light.
. . . a few awkward seconds later . . .
"Curiosity satisfied now?"
"No. Who'd you get mad this time? Wait, wait, never mind. Even your massive brain couldn't keep track of that many people-stop glaring at me like that-would it kill you to keep this thing home when we're on a case?"
"Most likely."
"Funny. I know that scarf's a subtle way of saying "come and choke me!" But come on, with those bruises it looks like you tried to hang yourself with this . . . this cashmere noose!"
"And failed, apparently."
"Sherlock, you didn't . . ."
"Of course I didn't. And if I tried, do you honestly think I'd just hang myself? Of all the unoriginal ways-" "ALRIGHT! Sorry for ever worrying about 'the great Sherlock Holmes'!" John stomps off the pavement, then, to Sherlock's everlasting amusement, turns right back around.
"Forget something?"
"I live here, it isn't a work day, and if I show up at the surgery they'll think I'm either a workaholic or up to my ears in debt-which, if that were to ever happen, would be THANKS TO YOU. You can go pester Lestrade for an interesting case or just pester some unsuspecting bystander with your observations. But either way, GOOD NIGHT!"
. . .
Some nights later, Sherlock and his cohorts are hot on the trail of a murder. With Holmes leading the way (and completely unarmed), they barrel through the hall way of an abandoned building.
"Pick up the pace! We can catch him! The smudge marks of his left heel clearly show . . ." John Watson rolls his eyes, tuning out the blue-eyed detective.
'Honestly, how can someone so thin and refuses to eat for days on end out pace us all? Ugh, don't tell me I'm getting "that old" already . . .'
John does a bit more of mental grumbling, momentarily loosing track of his friend when the detective turns a sharp corner. He finds the troublesome man easily enough, though.
"Watch it, watch it. That's a 100% cashmere scarf you've got me by, 'friend'. Which, according to your gloves, the way you murdered our victim, and your breath, I'd say is something worth five months of your salary, supposing you had one-" the detective's observations (which undoubtedly prove he has no preservational instincts), are cut short when the business-end of a gun is shoved in his mouth.
"O-ONE MORE STEP AND I SHOOT THIS GUY!"
John doesn't miss a beat.
"Shoot 'im if ya want. We certainly don't care. Right guys." Lestrade and Donovan's eyes bug out upon hearing this.
"John, are you cra-aaaazy. Oooh . . . . Of COURSE-we don't care what happens to that Freak." Sally starts playing along when John smirks at her.
The criminal looks confused for a second, shrugs, and smiles. "Then I suppose ya won't mind if I do this."
Suddenly the man has Sherlock (gun now pressed to his head) against a wall and is slowly choking the poor detective with his own scarf. Of all the ways to go out, this has to be up there with "death by fish".*
Sherlock, calm, level headed, most likely insane Sherlock, is starting to panic. Now, it would probably take the end of the world for him to get even a bit nervous, but the blood's rushing to his head and ol' Holmes is getting a bit giddy.
"WHATAYA MEAN BY THAT?! Look, you-" Sherlock using the word "whataya" should be enough to prove my statement.
BANG!
John's bullet buries itself deep in their quarry's arm, causing him to let go of the detective's precious scarf. But not with out consequences . . .
Calls of "Sherlock, are you alright?!" echo through the abandoned building, nipping at the heels of the gun shot. Sherlock Holmes, back to his usual dignified, if not venomous, self, stands swiftly. He dusts himself off and proceeds to give his savior a well-aimed glare that would make most recipients cower.
"Well, what is it now?! If it's about some of the things we said, it was just to get the guy off his guard, okay?"
Sherlock sniffs dismissively, now readjusting his scarf.
"I just finished washing this, you know."
. . .
Actually happened, thank you. The thing jumped right down some guy's throat.*