Chapter Seven: Much Ado about Nothing
Lestrade shook his head.
"Oh no! I'm not carting a laptop around just because you can't leave the flat!"
"Do you want to solve the case or not?" Sherlock snapped irritably. Lestrade had learnt not to take offense to Sherlock's insults but he still pulled a face.
"It's not happening." Sherlock gave Lestrade a look that would probably have worked had Sherlock been a woman. As it was, he still didn't back down.
"Get Anderson to carry the laptop, if you don't want to!" Sherlock said with a gleeful smile. "I want this case, Lestrade. I need a case, any case. Anything at all!"
"Sherlock!" Lestrade snapped him out of his rant. "The answer is no." He finished sternly and when he turned to leave, Sherlock regretfully let him go. He walked briskly to the window and watched his chance at freedom drive away. He picked up his violin and started to play a mournful tune. His frustration grew as he thought about how Sam was the cause of his entrapment in the flat. The melody picked up pace and anger. He had to get out, there were cases to be solved and criminals to catch, how could he stay in when London was being so wonderfully interesting? Then an idea formed in his mind.
Brilliant! He thought to himself. He only had minutes before John would return; he would have to work quickly.
John slowly climbed the stairs with Sam, who seemed much happier to have been outside. When they entered the flat, he removed the scarf and Sam went off to find some water. Sherlock was in his armchair, quietly reading a newspaper. John narrowed his eyes at the man, feeling his guard go up. Something wasn't right. He noticed that the wet patch Sam had caused was covered over with newspaper sheets.
"For God's sake, Sherlock! Couldn't you have cleaned it up at least?" John looked annoyed. Sherlock threw a nonchalant glance towards the area and lowered his newspaper just enough to regard John with a 'what-do you-think-I-am?' look.
"I am no housemaid, John," he said flatly and returned to his reading. John let out a growl and threw the scarf at Sherlock. It ripped the newspaper from the detective's hands and landed on his lap, covered in dog hair, saliva and smelling quite unpleasant. John stomped into the kitchen to find some cleaning products, muttering loudly about where he'd like to stick the disinfectant bottle.
Sherlock eyed his scarf then picked it up with his index finger and thumb, holding it away from his body like it was contagious. He walked into the kitchen to dump it in the sink; John brushed past him, his face stormy. Sherlock turned to watch John set to work, and he took his chance.
"Sam!" he whispered. The dog pricked his ears expectantly, cocking his head to the side. Sherlock took his hand from behind his back to reveal the last cherry scone. He wiggled it enticingly. "Look! Another scone! You know you want it!" He glanced in John's direction shiftily but the doctor hadn't noticed, he was too busy scrubbing the carpet. Sam happily ran over and took the scone from Sherlock's hand. Sherlock smiled and made his way back to his armchair.
John looked up at him incredulously. "You're just going to sit there? Not even help?!" he said through gritted teeth.
"You missed a spot." Sherlock pointed helpfully, this time he did get the disinfectant thrown at him. He ducked just in time and chuckled.
"You're insufferable," John snapped and took the things back into the kitchen. "Sherlock?!" John's voice was now full of concern. Sherlock jumped to his feet and walked into the kitchen. As he rounded the table, he looked to where John was pointing. Sam was flat out on the floor, not moving.
"What the bloody hell have you done to the dog?!"
"He'll only be out for a few hours," Sherlock said simply.
"You drugged him?!" John asked, panic crossing his face. "What with? Have you lost your mind? You had no right!"
Sherlock sighed and waved a hand to shush him. "It's only a mild sedative. I put it in the scone."
"So they were drugged," John said flatly – he was no longer shocked.
"Oh no, only that one. I made the others and offered them to you as a behavioural experiment to see how you'd react," Sherlock said as if that was normal.
John pinched his brow and concentrated on counting to ten, drawing deep breaths with each number. Sherlock watched him patiently. When John opened his eyes, the look on Sherlock's face was expectant. John read it with ease: 'the case!'
"I am not leaving the dog here."
"Oh come on, John! I need you at the crime scene!" Sherlock had moved to the door and was already pulling on his coat. "Who am I going have watching my back and being my inspiration?" Sherlock really hoped that the passionate speech would work. It didn't.
"No. If you go, you go alone," he said. He knew this would make Sherlock reconsider, he could see the detective hovering out of the corner of his eye. He bent to stroke Sam's head, the dog was sleeping contently. When John turned however, Sherlock was gone.
