Hey, sorry this has been so slow, exams :( But they're done now, woooo. Thanks to anyone reading this, hope you enjoy this chapter.
Sherlock strode into the living room, dressed immaculately – as always – in a crisp shirt and sleek trousers. House was sat at the desk, his feet resting carelessly on a pile of papers by the laptop in a way which was strikingly reminiscent of how he might have been sat in his office in the hospital. He didn't look up as Sherlock entered, but called out cheerfully as he continued to peruse the thick file which was strewn across his lap.
"Goooood morning, Shirley." Sherlock glanced across at him and froze, a deep frown tunnelling across his forehead, apparently torn between his desire to express his annoyance and his reluctance to even acknowledge the other man's existence. With a sigh that was laden with irritation, he made towards the desk.
"Other than being excruciatingly annoying, what are you doing?" Sherlock stopped suddenly, his face like stone. "Are they case notes? Where did you get them?" He lunged forward and snatched them from House's lap.
"Well, someone came in asking for Mr Sherlock Holmes, so naturally I decided to pretend to be you; it wasn't all that hard, I just spoke really quickly and occasionally flicked my hair pretentiously –"
" –you loudmouth American juvenile imbecile –"
"- actually, I'm not surprised people think you're clever given the basal intelligence level of your client base, she didn't even notice that I was American –"
"- I told John this was a ridiculous idea, you've ruined this case –"
"- so anyway, I pretended to be you, and she explained to me about her situation. It's not bad, this whole detective business, although I didn't get to do any painful or preposterously dangerous diagnostic tests on her, which are always fun –"
Sherlock began to stride away, not even bothering to toss a contemptuous glance at the doctor behind him, muttering darkly under his breath.
"- and anyway, it's clearly not very difficult - it's pretty obvious that the notes were being left by a jealous ex-lover. She knew that too, she'd just in denial – that's why she didn't go to the police, and she probably just sold the 'stolen' necklace to a pawnbroker herself to add credibility to her story." Sherlock whipped around to face House, his expression suddenly one of interest.
"You got that all by yourself, just now?"
"Well, I had Daphne's help; she's my cane, in case you didn't –"
"Just by talking with her?" Sherlock interrupted, brusquely cutting through House's sarcasm.
"Well, yes," House said, less jokingly. "Oh come on, it was hardly difficult. She couldn't have been any more blatant if she'd written across her forehead." Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.
"Of course, it was a boring case; I'm sure she was an idiot, most of my clients are. You just have to look, and everything's there – but normal people don't look, they miss things, obvious things, even if they're staring them right in the face. They're blind, ordinary people." He paused for a moment, staring intently at House, his blue eyes crackling, his face alight with a certain curiosity. He opened his mouth as if to say something, before stopping suddenly. Apparently changing direction, he continued in a more offhand voice. "But then, it was a boring case. Boring, boring, boring. It hardly means anything." He turned away.
"Shirley, I do this for a living." House smiled and spread his arms wide. "You deal with people – and people are idiots. Diseases, on the other hand, don't think, they act. Pathogens don't leave traces like a dim-witted bank-robber does. People are simple: they lie, they make predictable mistakes, they give themselves away. You've got it easy."
"If you're seriously suggesting that what I do is somehow easier than what you spend your time doing, then you're more of an idiot than even I could have imagined." Sherlock said swiftly, his tone contemptuous.
"Oh, so you think playing 'Cluedo' for a living is harder."
"I don't play Cluedo for a living."
"OK, you think being a detective is harder than being a diagnostician?"
"Yes."
"Prove it."
House leant back in his chair and smirked widely, his hands behind his head and his expression one of amusement. Sherlock frowned.
"I'm not wasting my time with infantile games."
"Anything you can do, I can do better..." House started singing in a mocking voice. Sherlock's face was a picture of annoyance.
"Well, how do you propose I prove it?"
"A competition, what else?" House leapt up, brandishing his cane like a sword. "The doctor vs the detective; the handsome maverick vs the sociopathic oddball; the revered genius vs the –"
"Fine, a competition," Sherlock interrupted. "But we don't have a case to solve, at least not a real one," he muttered, almost to himself, as he turned away and began to pace.
"But solving crimes is boring anyway. Why not do something a bit more exciting, Shirley?"
"Such as?"
"Well, why not do it in reverse? Instead of trying to help the police work something out, let's try and outwit them." Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"In what way?"
"Jeez, you really are stupid if you need it explained. Let's see which of us can pull off the ballsiest crime – and not get caught for it, of course." Sherlock looked thoughtful; a slow smile began to spread across his gaunt features.
"Yes," he said decisively. "I quite like it. The police are all buffoons, of course, but proving it to Lestrade is always fun. I accept your challenge, House."
At that moment, John entered the room, looking distinctly bleary-eyed. With a mumbled good morning, he made to go into the kitchen; Sherlock called out to stop him.
"John, we've got a case. Come on."
"A case? Sherlock, I need to go to work."
"Don't care."
"Well, what's the case even about, then?" John sighed, irritated but unmistakably resigned. Sherlock paused for a moment, clearly deliberating about what would be the best way to attempt to convince his friend to take part in his law-breaking plot. His dilemma was solved abruptly as House leant across and casually addressed John.
"We're having a competition to see who can break the law in the most daring and audacious way. It'll be much more fun than dealing with snotty noses and whining crinklies with continence problems." John groaned and shook his head disbelievingly, whilst House sat back, looking smug. Sherlock shot him a dark look.
"I would try to explain why that's a really stupid idea, Sherlock, but I've know you long enough to know that I'd be wasting my breath." John shrugged and gave a long-suffering smile. "As fun as it sounds, boys, I think I'll stick with the doctoring for today. It's better paid, and as far as I can tell, I won't be arrested for it."
"John, don't be so boring."
"Sherlock, don't be so annoying." Sherlock waved his hand carelessly and threw John a keen grin: a grin that John had seen many a time before, normally in association with the news of a serial killer on the loose. He began to speak rapidly, his eyes sparkling.
"John, we can argue about this for a while, before you eventually but inevitably concede that you would actually much rather spend the day doing something interesting. So why don't we just skip the whole unconvincing argument and get straight to business?"
"I – "
"Right then, let's go." Sherlock clapped his hands together and made to pick up his coat.
"Wait just a minute there, Shirley." House was still sat at the desk.
"What?" Sherlock span around, looking irritated.
"Well," House said, pulling himself up and moving towards them. "You two both know London. Wilson and I have never even visited before: so it's not really a fair test, is it?" Sherlock shrugged, looking to John.
"He's right, you know."
"Well, what can we do about it?" John exclaimed.
"Obviously you'll have to go with him."
"What? I –"
"It's OK, Shirley here gets Wilson." House interjected with a wink. "And between you and me, he's a few tacos short of a fiesta platter."
"Someone say my name?" Wilson mumbled sleepily as he entered the room.
"Nope." House said breezily, pointing towards Sherlock. "Now look lively, you've got a date with Shirely here."
"What?"
"Yes, come on, I'm bored."
"It's like a personal tour of London," House cut in. "Shirley's being terribly generous offering you this little excursion, it would be rude not to go, really."
"Erm, right, fine, OK," a bemused Wilson stuttered as he was guided towards the door by Sherlock, who was now sporting his trademark long black overcoat.
"One last thing!" House suddenly exclaimed after Sherlock's retreating back. "Why don't we add a little something to make this whole thing a bit more interesting?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow in question. "OK, so how about if I win, you have to make my speech at the conference next week?" Sherlock smiled widely.
"Dear me, you're a bit of a masochist, aren't you? Well, if you want to make things worse for yourself... If I win, you have to do John's locum work for the week."
"Sherlock, he can't just do that – " protested John.
"Fine," House interrupted as he leant over to shake Sherlock's hand. "You're on."
"I'm sorry, but can someone please explain what the hell's going on?" Wilson exclaimed, looking utterly bewildered, his chestnut hair tousled and his earnest brown eyes wide with confusion.
"It doesn't matter Wilkins, let's go," Sherlock uttered sharply, practically pushing Wilson through the exit.
"It's Wilson –"
"Don't care. Now move: the game's afoot!" And with an indignant yelp from Wilson, the pair exited the apartment, rather gracelessly.
House looked after them, his forehead creased as a wicked grin seeped across his rather weathered face. The stubbly chin and craggy cheeks gave him a look of a vagrant, yet from behind the tired exterior there was an unmistakable energy; a certain air of roguish unpredictability which churned beneath the surface, bubbling with inimitable sharpness. He turned to his new accomplice and said, with the same reckless abandon and swaggering overconfidence with which liked to address his team at home:
"The game is, indeed, afoot. So let's go kick some limey detective ass!"
