Eight: Play On...
They met up with Tony at a local pizza joint. There was a large window showing off the kitchen where young men with bared forearms were tossing and flipping the disks of dough with manic precision. John gaped, Sherlock shrugged.
"There they are! I was worried you'd chicken out and stay cooped up in that apartment all night." Tony beamed. He gestured for them to follow him as he made his way through the gathering crowd of diners to a secluded booth. The seats were made of polished wood, and had been worn smooth and comfortable by time and repeated use. The table was covered in carved initials and other graffiti, which Sherlock immediately began to study once he took his seat beside John and across from Tony.
"Why here?" John asked. He practically had to yell over the din.
Tony winked. "Two reasons. One, the pie is amazing." He gestured to the other tables where people were busily devouring their pizzas with gusto. "And two, the garlic masks the smell of dead people."
John frowned and sniffed at his clothes and skin. Sherlock leaned over to talk into his ear. "Shoes, John."
"Oh."
"Now, you're in America you've got to learn the finer points of excess. So I've ordered us a Motherlode." Tony damn near shouted.
"What's that?" John asked. Sherlock just kept his eyes fixed on the carvings in the table top.
"It's a bit of everything, actually. Sausage, peppers, bacon, ham, pineapple, mushrooms-"
John held up a hand. "Alright, alright. You do realize this one's been fiddling with corpses all day?"
Sherlock glared at him. Tony just smiled.
"Exactly, so I figured best to order something that doesn't look even a bit like actual food."
John couldn't help it. He laughed. A glance at Sherlock showed a slight upward curl at the corners of his mouth. Thank God.
"You alright, mate?" He asked, keeping his voice low enough that Tony couldn't hear.
Sherlock nodded. "It's like hieroglyphics..." He muttered. John could only barely hear him.
"I'm sorry?"
But Sherlock ignored him. He was tracing one long, tapering finger along the carvings in the wood, mouthing silently to himself. Suddenly, he smirked. "He was planning to propose. "
"What's that?" Tony asked.
John raised his eyebrows. "Oh, you've not seen it? Didn't you two spend some time together today?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, contrary to what you might type into that ridiculous blog of yours, I do not, in fact, trot out my deductive capabilities for everyone I see."
"Yes you do."
Sherlock glared at him. John just grinned.
"Go on then. Show him."
Sherlock sighed, but fixed his gaze on Tony in the way concert musicians tend to do before launching into something complicated and delirious. It was sort of a by your leave look. Tony nodded.
"This carving, it was made with a pocket knife, obvious from the slight bevel and the width of each line. Pocket knives aren't generally the accessory of choice for modern women, so it was more likely made by a man. He wrote his own initials first, the cuts are much more shallow and the letters are poorly formed, clearly he considered his own identity relatively insignificant. Her initials, on the other hand, are carved deeply, he dragged the blade through the same lines several times. Clear indications of points where he repositioned his initial cuts, he wasn't satisfied with the letters' appearance at first, so he was clearly thinking about her to some great extent.
"The heart drawn around the pair is even deeper than the woman's initials, but there are signs of numerous paths along the same general route. He carved the symbol several times, but he didn't trace over his previous lines, that indicates several returns to the design over a period of hours. No one needs that amount of time just to eat a pizza, he was waiting then. He got to the table quite a bit earlier than her, indicates he was nervous. His scrawl is clearly present on a similar design further along the wood, this one much older. Obvious, then, they came here regularly, presumably during an event of some importance, say their first date. That says this was a place of significance for the pair of them, the similarity of the two designs says he was contemplating their relationship, past leads to present leads to future, conclusion: he was planning to propose."
John peered at the engraving, secretly swelling with pride at Sherlock's titanic intellect. "JB and KM." He read. "D'you think she said yes?"
Sherlock smirked and pointed along the table to another design, this one right in front of the salt pot. "JB and KB 4ever".
"I'd say there's a good chance." Sherlock said smugly, stressing the final syllable.
Tony goggled at him. "You worked all that out from a doodle in the wood?"
Sherlock shrugged. "It's plainly obvious to anyone who looks."
Tony grinned. "Yeah? Do me then, let's see what you can see."
Sherlock opened his mouth. He was really going to do it. He had just started to form the first syllable when John spotted their salvation: bastardized Italian food.
"Ah, pizza! Come on, lads, dig in. Sherlock, try and eat something will you?"
"Look at you, John. Fretting over him like a mother hen." Tony crowed. Thankfully he seemed to have forgotten the whole deduction lark. That sort of demonstration never ended well.
"Yes, he is a bit tenacious about it. I maintain that I consume plenty of calories when I'm not working. Enough to tide me over during cases."
"Sherlock, the last time you finished a case I found you sitting in the bath and eating from a bowl of icing sugar."
"Powdered sugar."
"Whatever it was, it was in your hair. You looked like my gran!"
"Nonsense, your grandmother has been dead for years. I'd hazard Jeffrey Saunders more accurately resembles her these days. Ow!"
There was a faint sting in John's palm where it had connected with the back of Sherlock's skull. It felt satisfying. Sherlock frowned. "Not good?"
"What do you think?"
"Do I have to apologize now?"
John rolled his eyes. "Eat now. Apologize later, when I'm dangling your violin out the window."
John became aware of a slight choking sound. He looked across the table to Tony, who was desperately trying to suppress a laugh. In measures, he managed to collect himself. Still struggling to keep a straight face, he said, "So, Sherlock plays the violin?"
John cut the detective off before he could speak. "He eviscerates the violin."
"You said I was an exceptional musician." Sherlock sounded wounded. John knew better than to believe it.
"Well, I didn't lie." Sherlock shot him a death glare. He resisted the urge to preen. It was getting easier and easier to one-up Sherlock. Especially in company. Of course, he always paid for it sooner or later.
"I swear you two are worse than me and my brothers." Tony chortled. His tone was light, but the comment sent a pang through John, anyway.
"How is Edmund, anyway?" He asked.
Tony shrugged. It was that shrug. "He's alive."
"And his leg?"
"He's gotten used to it, mostly. Forgets to take it off some nights."
"Right. Yeah." John shifted uncomfortably. He regretted asking.
"Right." Tony echoed. John was aware of Sherlock's calculating gaze switching between the pair of them, but he didn't much care. He tucked into his pizza, scarcely bothering to notice the taste, which was chaotic at best, just eating for an excuse not to talk.
"So. Tony." Sherlock said, startling John. Sherlock was never one to bend to awkward silences. "How do you like living in the states?"
Tony smiled, and it was very nearly genuine. "Oh, it takes getting used to, I tell you. So easy to get your signals crossed here. I swear sometimes it was like learning a new language." John ignored the haughty, self-rightous look he just knew Sherlock was sending his way.
"But," Tony continued. "I like it here. Everything is so...expansive. It's so easy to be odd because there's room for just about anyone. And you can't argue with the music." A real smile this time.
"No, you can't." Sherlock said. "We were treated to a bit of the local specialty on the way to the university. A violinist of some skill."
"Fiddler, I'll reckon." Tony supplied. "It's very different to the violin, your fiddle. Same instrument, different sound, it's incredible. You might like to try your hand at it, if you're up to the challenge."
John looked round in time to catch the gleam in Sherlock's eye. "Oh, I think I am."
John glared at Tony. "I will get you for this."
"Do your worst." Fearless Tony.
Sherlock took a bite of his pizza and frowned. But he gave a slight shrug and ate anyway, then asked, "And do you have any intention to return to Cornwall?"
Tony's face went blank. "I dunno. I think about it, sometimes. But I'm happy here." He didn't sound it. "Now, I know John's never been across the pond before, but is this your first trip to the States, Sherlock?"
"Yes." Said Sherlock.
"No." Said John at the same time. They looked at each other, their faces mirroring baffled expressions.
"Yes you have." John said. "Florida, remember? Mrs. Hudson's husband, you got him executed by the state."
"I only ensured the conviction, John. Anyway, that trip doesn't count."
"Why the hell not? It's the whole reason we have the flat in the first place."
Sherlock pretended to study his pizza intently. Tony shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"Because I don't remember most of it." Sherlock muttered and took a large bite, silencing himself.
"Oh." John decided to drop the subject. At least until he and Sherlock were alone.
The rest of the meal went by in a haze of pleasant if shallow conversation, truly heroic volumes of watery cola, and the curious mingling of flavours in their hodge-podge pizza which somehow managed to grow more and more enjoyable with each bite. Sherlock, true to form, devoured enough food for two men. His lengthy fasts during working days meant he had the appetite of a rubbish compactor. His frankly alarming thinness meant there were no solid walls of fat to impede his expanding stomach. John had learned almost immediately following the death of the cabbie that it could be damnably hard to keep the kitchen stocked with food during Sherlock's days off.
Sherlock had just polished off his eighth gargantuan slice of pizza, and John had just finished grilling Tony about the state of American football (soccer, sorry) when Sherlock's mobile suddenly buzzed furiously and emitted a shrill beep. Moments later, John's did the same.
Irritated, John checked his phone. It was the alarm function. He switched it off.
"Sherlock?"
"Hm?" Sherlock was busy disabling the alarm on his own phone and didn't even look at John.
"Did you set an alarm on my phone?"
"Redundancy is key in ensuring proper device function, John."
"I understand that. But it's my phone."
Sherlock scoffed. "I use it more than you do."
"You could've asked."
"And you would have said yes, why bother wasting time?"
John resisted the urge to slam his head against the table. "Why did you set an alarm for ten at night?"
Sherlock just looked at him with that expression that always made John feel like he'd just dribbled all over himself.
"John, I haven't slept since England." He pointed out. Tony goggled at him.
"You haven't?" Tony sounded incredulous.
"No, he hasn't." Said John absently. "But that's not unusual, why do you care?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No case, John. And there's a limit to how much time I can spend going over my research. If I put off sleeping another night I'll begin to lose focus at work. Besides I need to delete some things and that's usually easier if I can rest afterwards."
John just gaped at his friend. "Who are you? What did you do with Sherlock Holmes?"
Sherlock threw his hands up and stood from the table. "Settle the bill, John. I'll be outside."
John sighed and didn't bother watching Sherlock go. He looked at Tony apologetically.
"He's not like that at the lab." Tony remarked.
"No, I gather he isn't. I think he's trying to impress them for some reason." John said.
"Are you, er, are you alright? I mean, he seems a bit...pushy?" Tony looked supremely uncomfortable, the implication hung in the air.
John smiled sadly. "Imperious, more like. Look, I'm not some sort of lackey, Tony. And I'm not a victim. Sherlock is just...Sherlock. Trust me, he doesn't get away with it." Tony nodded but he didn't look appeased.
"Don't worry about me, Tony. I can handle myself."
"Yeah, I remember. Just...keep your head up, okay?"
"Always do."
John and Tony split the bill and John said his good-byes. Sure enough, he found Sherlock waiting outside.
"You alright?" John asked. Sherlock was standing stone still, his eyes on the ground.
"We need to stop at a shop on the way home." Sherlock said. "I don't have enough patches."
"Sherlock. Are you alright?"
Sherlock hissed in annoyance. "I'm fine, John. I'm just tired."
John blinked. "Well I guess that's getting drunk off the agenda."
Sherlock smirked. "You were never going to get me drunk, John. You know better."
"Yeah, I do. You're...actually tired, then?"
Sherlock leaned his head against the rough bricks of the restaurant wall. "I'm exhausted, John. Can we just go, please?"
John fought back the tremor of worry creeping up his spine. "Yeah, alright. We can go."
"And we'll stop for patches, yes?" Sherlock pressed.
"Yeah, yeah. We'll stop and get patches and we'll watch TV and you can get some sleep." John hailed a cab and guided Sherlock to the door. Once inside, he turned to his friend.
"So, what do you remember? About Florida, I mean?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Not much."
"You...deleted it, then?"
"Most of it."
"What did you keep?"
Sherlock leaned his head against the window and smiled wistfully. "Her."
True to his word, no sooner had Sherlock dropped his coat on the floor of the apartment than he disappeared into his bedroom. Irritably, John picked up the coat and put it on the hook by the door. He settled down onto the sofa and turned on the telly, sifting through seemingly endless news programmes before he found something mildly interesting.
He didn't really watch it though. His mind was busy decoding Sherlock's behaviour over the past few days. He was beginning to wonder if he'd done the right thing, bringing him to the States. Sure he seemed to get on well enough with the people here, and sure he seemed to be enjoying his work at the university...to an extent. But...
Exhausted? John did a bit of calculating, and the last time he'd seen Sherlock sleep had, indeed, been before they left England. Four days, he reckoned. At the very least. But he'd seen Sherlock get on with less sleep than that, and he never admitted to being more than a little drowsy.
I need to recharge for a few hours
Or,
Think I'll lie down for a bit.
But exhausted? Never. And certainly not after a few days. A week maybe, and John had seen him go that long. During a particularly stubborn case Sherlock would only consent to brief and strictly timed naps to keep himself from hallucinating or passing out while working. He would no sooner admit to being exhausted than he would to being starved or lonely.
Had John just made things worse? This was meant to be a holiday, a chance to relax and unwind. Instead, it seemed to be wearing Sherlock out. But why? Yes, the state of the corpse had sent him reeling, but Sherlock got over such things quickly. He was a master of acclimatization. So what was tiring him out? What was Sherlock doing that took so much out of him? What didn't John know?
He fought the urge to phone someone at home, not least because it wasn't yet four in the morning in London. Even so, he was tempted to ring Mycroft or Mrs. Hudson. They seemed to know Sherlock best, and were the two people he held in highest regard. For all he detested Mycroft, it was plain to see Sherlock respected the man. And Mrs. Hudson, well, if Sherlock was capable of loving another human being, it was their landlady. And she'd been with him the last time he was in this country.
He resolved to send her an e-mail or phone her if Sherlock didn't improve or even out or whatever it was he needed to do. For now, though, he would wait. And watch.
The next day they stayed in for breakfast. John took Kelly's advice and made Texas-style French toast, referring to a recipe on his computer and using the very thick bread she'd made him buy. They really were massive, and very fluffy. He ended up with something golden-brown and intimidatingly large, which he indulgently smothered in icing sugar and maple syrup, as per the website's instructions.
Sherlock sat at the table, still in his pyjamas and dressing gown and still blinking sleep from his eyes, and stared at the breakfast incredulously.
"Calories?" He asked.
John nodded, smug. "Calories." He confirmed.
Sherlock sighed and picked up his fork. With obvious reluctance, he speared his French toast and began to eat, sullen and quiet.
John wanted to ask him...something. Anything. But he kept his worries to himself and they ate together in silence. John kept flickering his eyes at Sherlock, taking in the slump of his shoulders, the weariness of his eyes, the lethargic pace at which he chewed his food. Finally, he just couldn't take it anymore.
"Do you want to go back?" He asked, startling himself as well as his flatmate.
"What?" Sherlock snapped his gaze up to look at John.
"Do you want to go back to England? I'm sure we can call Mycroft-"
"No!" Sherlock cut him off, showing more enthusiasm in that word than he had all morning. He visibly calmed himself. "Why would I want that?"
John shrugged. "You haven't been yourself lately. You just...don't seem to be having much fun here."
Sherlock dropped his gaze and bit his lower lip. "I am, John. Really. I'm-I'm working on something, and it's taking longer than I anticipated. But I'll be finished soon, don't worry." He smiled, but it was the fake smile. John could tell, even if no one else could. "I am glad to be here, John. I'm grateful that you brought me. Don't start thinking you've done something wrong just because I'm a bit preoccupied."
John frowned. "Since when do you keep me out of your work?"
Sherlock shrugged. "I keep you out of a lot of things. You can't help me with this one, and you probably wouldn't want to."
"Even so, Sherlock, if it's anything like what happened yesterday afternoon-"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That wasn't important. I'm not going to have a mental breakdown, I'm not going to run out and find some dealer so I can start jabbing myself in the toilet, and I'm not going to run to my brother so he can bundle me onto a plane and send me home to mummy. I'm fine, John. I will be fine." He was irritated, and John felt relieved. Irritated was good. It was familiar and comfortable.
"Okay." John sighed. "Okay. What time are you due at the lab?"
"Nine." Sherlock grumbled.
John looked at his watch. It was half seven. "Okay. Let's get ready."
Sherlock stared at him. "You're...coming with me?" He narrowed his eyes. "No, you'll just sign the slip and be off again."
John sighed. "What would I do with the cadavers?" He asked.
Sherlock shrugged. "You're a doctor. You might learn something useful."
John set his jaw. "I'll stay for a bit, okay?"
Sherlock smiled, genuine this time. "Great. You can see how it's getting on." And he spun to his feet and away from the table, striding off to his room to get dressed.
John stood to clear the dishes and froze. "How what's getting on?" He called. No reply.
Oh. My. God. John though, gaping at his friend. The change in Sherlock was astonishing. He'd gone from sullen, critical and normal to...this in moments. And John was feeling an acute sense of vertigo from the sudden shift.
Sherlock's mood had completely transformed the second he stepped through the door to the lab. His steps became lighter, his expression happier and his shoulders straighter. He walked differently, too, holding his arms more loosely, his back less erect. Andrea greeted him with a smile that included John in its warmth. John felt his abdomen go a little tight.
"Morning, guys. Got the slips right here." She beamed.
John found himself relaxing in Andrea's company, letting go of the tension he'd accumulated since the previous night. Until Sherlock did something completely unsettling.
He spoke.
"Morning, Andrea." The detective said. Only he didn't, because Sherlock didn't usually stress his r's that much, or clip his syllables, or speak with a bloody convincing American accent. John groaned silently to himself. Was Sherlock intending to do this every day? "How's the subject?"
"Dry. For the most part. We're pretty much down to the bone at this point." She raised her eyebrows approvingly. "Coming right along, I see."
Sherlock did a very authentic impersonation of a sheepish grin. He even rubbed the back of his neck. "How was I?" He asked, still in that ridiculous voice.
Andrea tilted her head as though considering. "Not bad. I'd almost believe you were from here."
"Almost?" Sherlock seemed genuinely miffed at that.
Andrea smiled apologetically. "You're still holding onto the o a little too long. And your 'ing' is too defined."
Sherlock cursed to himself. "You people mutter, you do realize?" He accused, thankfully in his real voice. "Have you never heard of enunciation?"
She shrugged, unfazed. "And you have an unhealthy obsession with vowels. You'll get the hang of it soon, I'm sure."
"Damn right." Sherlock mumbled. American again.
John shook his head. "Stop that, or I'm leaving."
Sherlock looked stricken. "Sorry John. I was just-"
"Being a git, I know." He sniped and scrawled his name on the slip for the day. Andrea smirked and initialed dutifully.
John followed Sherlock into a little room full of cubbies bearing lab coats. Sherlock donned one and handed another to John. They both dressed in companionable silence, then Sherlock kitted himself out with goggles, a surgical mask which he let hang loosely around his neck, and more of those plastic, cinched booties that covered his shoes. With a sly look at John, he reached into the upper compartment of the cubby that had held his coat and pulled out a large triangle of fabric. With deft, sure motions he wrapped it around his head, tying it in the back so it confined his dark, chaotic curls.
John was astonished. Sherlock never, never observed this kind of protocol back home. And like this, with the coat hiding much of his sleek and stylish suit and his highly recognizable profile, the boots covering his shining leather shoes, the bandanna concealing his unruly mop and the goggles partially obscuring his intense, cat-like eyes, Sherlock became anonymous. And when he turned and left the room in that curious, loose-limbed gait, John had to force himself to recall that this was, indeed, his best friend and flatmate, and not some unknown scientist or doctor passing by.
John slipped a pair of booties over his own shoes, not terribly eager to reinforce the scent of decay still on them, and into the gross anatomy lab.
He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but it wasn't this. The body of Jeffrey Saunders (Subject B) was laid out on a plain metal operating table, and it had, indeed, been reduced almost completely to the skeleton. There was still quite a lot of cartilage present, though, so the bones retained their formation sturdily, only the severed right hand echoing the conditions of the pit. The copious insect life had been tidied away somewhere, and what remained was something pale, clean and decidedly un-disturbing. John had seen plenty of skeletons in his time as a medical professional. He had gotten up-close and personal with people's bones on a fairly regular basis. True, they were usually still inside their bodies, and he'd merely had to re-align them before hiding them behind the skin where they belonged, but all in all the skeleton was a definite improvement over the corpse in the hole.
The floor was another matter. There were stains and splotches all over it, and though someone had obviously tried to mop it up, residue remained. The smell lingered, too, but it was diluted, hovering behind the more potent scent of antiseptics and floor cleaner like an onlooker at a crime scene. John was able to ignore it almost completely.
He watched Sherlock sweep into the room, pulling the mask over his nose and mouth and snapping on a pair of blue rubber gloves. Maria and Cal were already there, and John watched Maria's eyes crinkle behind her own eyewear as she smiled. Cal was more subdued, but he did nod at Sherlock in greeting. Sherlock wasted no time in perching himself on an uncomfortable-looking metal stool beside the table. He reached down to a set of surgical implements arranged nearby and plucked out a pair of minute tongs. John had to wonder just how much experience Sherlock had with surgery. He certainly wouldn't trust the detective at an apendectomy, but perhaps with the already-dead...
John was snapped from his reverie by the sound of clicking footsteps. He turned to see Andrea, her mask draped around her neck and her eyes bare. She gestured for John to follow and slipped behind a windowed partition. There was a bay of microscopes, much like the one resting in the kitchen at 221b, and a shelf containing jars of samples John would really prefer not to look at. Some of them were still moving.
"How is he?" Andrea asked, her eyes fixed on the trio at the table.
John considered. "He's better. It was a bit rough yesterday, but he dealt with it."
Andrea didn't make any visible sign of disbelief, but her voice was unsure when she asked, "He can do that?"
John smiled. "I've learned never to put anything past Sherlock."
There was a pause. "I read your blog, you know. You called him a madman."
John blushed. "That was...a long time ago."
"Not really. It's only been a few months, going by the post dates. But the way you talk about him. It's like he's not human."
John shruggged. "He is, really. I don't generally write about the in-between stuff." He smirked. "You should've seen him eat biscuits and gravy yesterday morning."
Andrea giggled. God she was beautiful. That laugh, that smile, those lips...Sarah, think of Sarah.
"So what are they doing in there?" John asked.
"Cartilage samples, skeletal markers, trace evidence embedded in the bone...a lot of people fail to take the skeleton into account, but for a lot of the cases we work on, it's very nearly all that's left. Subject B died of natural causes, so they're not looking for evidence of a murder weapon or anything incriminating. Right now they're examining his skeleton to determine his age, sex and cause of death.
"But you already know all that."
Andrea nodded. "Yes. Now they have to find evidence to support it. Eventually there will be a case where the remains need to be identified. They start with a body where all the answers are already there, and figure out how to use the evidence in front of them to arrive at the correct conclusion. Eventually, they'll be able to do it blind, but for now they still need training wheels."
"And Sherlock, how's he doing?"
"Brilliantly. He asks amazing questions. I doubt any of the professors here could have gotten Cal and Maria to think as abstractly as Sherlock does." She beamed. "I can't wait to get him at the bugs."
"You're enjoying this." John accused.
She shrugged. "What's not to like? We're solving mysteries, taking what was once a disgusting mess of tragedy and death, and turning it into clean, reasonable data. Subject B is going to help us bring killers to justice, reunite anonymous bodies with the families they left behind, even save lives." Her eyes were starry, and John felt a surge of heat in his chest as he remembered why he'd gone to med school in the first place.
"Sherlock doesn't see it that way. The justice and all that." He pointed out. "All he cares about is the puzzle. Being right."
Andrea nodded. "Yeah, that's kinda freaky I'll admit. But he's doing good anyway. I'm glad we can help."
"Are all of you Americans so insanely sanguine?" John demanded.
Andrea snorted. "Just those of us who work with dead people, John. It takes a type." She seemed to be bracing herself for something, and after a moment she turned to face him.
"Listen, John. Um...if you're not busy...tonight. I mean there's this place off North Central I'm sure you'd love and-" She broke off with a blush.
John's heart was doing flip flops in his chest. Yes, yes, God yes! His body screamed at him to take her up on the offer. He felt his head and his loins going at it in an all-out brawl.
He cleared his throat. "I'm...flattered-and tempted-" he added quickly. "It's just there's this woman back home and we're kind of..." Kind of what? He hadn't even talked to Sarah since that last almost-fight, and they hardly saw each other out of work and dear God Andrea was attractive...and temporary. It wasn't like they could become an item. He was leaving in a few weeks. An ocean and six time zones away.
She looked down. "I understand." She worried at her lower lip. It made John's imagination conjure up a lot of very inappropriate images. "It's just you barely ever mentioned her in your blog and I was kind of hoping...I'm sorry. I shouldn't have presumed." She looked away. John had to force himself to keep his eyes on the lab, where Sherlock had removed his goggles and was studying Subjet B's femur from about two centimetres away, to keep himself from snapping and snogging Andrea's brains out right there. Christ, what was he? Seventeen?
He sighed, but didn't look at her. "No, I'm sorry. I do find you very attractive, and I must've been giving you all these signals and...I'll shut up now." He lowered his head to try and hide the blush.
She gave a little (adorable) laugh. "Well, if you change your mind you know where to find me."
"John!" The imperious voice travelled to him from the table, deep and commanding and with bloody perfect timing, thank God! John smiled apologetically at Andrea and slipped away, grateful and regretful all at once.
"What did you need?" John asked, arriving at Sherlock's side. Maria and Cal nodded at him. He waved.
"Nothing, Maria saw you talking to Andrea. Though you could use an out." His eyes never once left the metatarsals he was prodding.
John flushed. "Well that was very...thoughtful of you. Why?"
Sherlock continued not to break his optical lock on the skeletal foot and smoothely produced a small piece of paper from his coat. Handing it to John he said, "So you'd feel inclined to come with me to this. Turnabout is fair play and all."
John took the slip. "I'm not sure you're using that phrase correctly." Sherlock just shrugged, unconcerned.
John looked down. It was a ticket. The Knoxville City Showcase. He groaned. "Sherlock!"
"It's Saturday. I've already purchased a ticket for us both, I have the day off, you obviously have no plans and now you owe me." He finally turned his head to look at John. His eyes glittered malevolently and even through the surgical mask, John could tell he was grinning like a hyena.
John gritted his teeth. He could already hear the three a.m. recitals as Sherlock taught himself to play like the bloke from the CD. Still, even if he refused Sherlock would probably go on his own anyway. At least John might get an entertaining evening out of it.
With a long, weary sigh he hung his head and handed the ticket back to Sherlock. "Alright, fine. You win. You always bloody do."
Sherlock pulled his mask down and smiled. "Great. Let me finish extracting this marrow sample and we can go."
"What, lunch?"
Sherlock beamed. "Shopping."
John's blood went cold. Oh. Dear. God.
What had he gotten himself into?
