It was a miserably icy day. John desperately wished he had a scarf in likeness to Sherlock's; he was freezing.
"Why," he asked through gritted teeth, "do we have to go to St. Bart's today? So you can dissect a corpse, or something?"
"Lestrade called; there's been a most cryptic murder. He suspects poison, yet there were no traces of chemical substance detected during autopsy." Sherlock skirted a group of gabbling Americans, a crease appearing between his brows.
John smiled inwardly at the detective's look of distain. "Don't like tourists, then?"
"Not at all."
"I don't mind them. They're just curious, I suppose."
"Yes, John, but you have the patience for curiosity. I don't."
"You're always curious."
"I'm not curious! I probe, inquire, and uncover. There's a difference, John, a big one."
"Of course there is." Not in the mood for a row, John rubbed his upper arms furiously when he was sure Sherlock wasn't looking. A chill wind lifted the hair from his forehead. Why couldn't Sherlock have hailed a cab?
"I'd assume it was arsenic poison, but really—you'd have to be an idiot to not have run a test for that. Incidentally—"
John lost all ability to focus as the frigid January temperatures seeped under his coat and down his neck. It was times like this that he realized just how intelligent Sherlock really was for wearing a trench coat, collar turned up. He bowed his forehead against wind, scowling.
"…Quite obvious," Sherlock was saying. He looked around at John, and narrowed his steely eyes. "You're not listening." He didn't pout, exactly, but his lips turned down as thought tugged by some invisible hand.
"Sorry." John straightened, and increased his strides, determined to keep up with Sherlock. He knew not to mention his current state of discomfort; Sherlock would think it far too trivial. "Sorry, what were you saying?" His eyes wandered to a unoccupied cab that lingered near the curb.
"Never mind, I don't repeat myself."
"Yes, you do."
"When?" Sherlock looked genuinely mystified.
"You're always roaring about how bored you are. And face it, Sherlock, you say that at least three times in a row."
"Occasionally I allow myself to restate certain facts."
"Occasionally," chuckled John.
"Would you be so kind as to shut up?" Sherlock gave John a slight push with his gloved hand. "Look straight ahead—I've just seen Mike in front of that café, and I really don't have a desire to listen to his incessant jabbering this morning.
"I agree." John followed his flat mate as they purposely put themselves on the other side of a large crowd. Having safely passed the coffee shop, John clenched his jaw. He'd look like a complete idiot if his teeth started chattering.
A moment later, Sherlock flicked his gaze at John, frowned slightly, and stopped. "Here." He nimbly slipped out of his coat and draped it over John's shoulders.
"Sherlock, no. You don't have to—you'll be freezing."
"Shut up." Now clad in jeans and a deep purple shirt, John knew Sherlock must regret his decision. Nevertheless, the detective showed no signs of giving in to the frosty weather.
John grinned up at his friend. "Thanks, Sherlock."
"For what?" Sherlock stopped at the curb, treading carefully to avoid patches of ice. "Now, for god's sake, let's hail a cab!"
"Better not be another serial killer—we haven't even eaten lunch!"
"Ah, I welcome the thought!" Sherlock gave a giddy little twitch and grinned. "Are you ready?"
"I was born ready!"
See that little box down there? Write something in it! A word or two-anything! Reviews make me happy. :D
-Spark Writer-
