10 Chapters. Wow. That went fast and we aren't even half way in, or so we think so far anyway, yet.
Ah, Mr Holmes, I see you've returned,
You have a lesson that's soon to be learned,
You cannot win no matter what man it may be,
Your destiny is calling with me,
Moriarty is dead, you are alive,
Are you ready to face the Vicious Five?
You could tell my Russian was no poet,
There were higher forces and you know it,
You think you'll catch me at the final stand,
But it is you, Mr Holmes who will die by my hands.
P.S. Doctor, doctor, hello to you. It won't be long before your Sherlock is through.
John glared at the screen as Sherlock laughed. "Why do you attract the bloody psychos?"
"Hush, John. I have a case!" Sherlock jumped into his black chair, curled up his legs and stared into nothingness. Lost within thought.
"No even a bloody case yet." John groaned. Closing the laptop lid he got up, walked over to the kitchen and put the kettle on. He could use a strong cup of tea. If not stronger.
"Why a poem though, Sherlock?" John asked, he poured the boiling water into his mug.
"It's simplicity, John. That's why."
"What?" John leaned on the door frame. He watched Sherlock's hands; they were pressed together as though he was in some sort of meditation.
"No crime is ever original. Even Moriarty had done things that had been done before." Sherlock sighed. "-Crime that uses poem here-"
"Ah." Said John, unsure of what to say.
"Ah indeed. Now, shut up." Sherlock snapped. "I need to think."
Sherlock snapped at him again no less than ten seconds later. Something about John thinking too loudly. He muttered under his breath, closed his laptop and walked towards the door. He looked back to see Sherlock mimicking some person but then waving the persona away. Mind palace. Right. There was no use talking to him for a while.
"I'm going to talk to Mrs Hudson." Sherlock remained in his trance. "Not paying attention to me? Nope. Okay then."
He quietly closed the door to 221B as possible. That way he wouldn't annoy the arrogant sod. The trip down the stairs didn't take him long and soon he was knocking on Mrs Hudson's door. It was time for another talk.
John followed Mrs Hudson into the kitchen where she continued washing her dishes. John did what came as second nature to him and began drying them. He watched the towel in his hands run over the clean dishes.
"Not like that, dear." Mrs Hudson said, "Those tea cups should be looked after. I got them from Sherlock one year, see?"
John looked down at the pretty cups. Porcelain and inlayed with gold, yet they were also coloured a light blue. They were beautiful.
"I don't like to use them." Mrs Hudson sighed. "But Sherlock's brother came over to talk, and I thought it best to be polite."
"Wait, Mycroft came over?" John asked, his eyebrows rose in surprise.
"Oh dearie, he does it a lot. He used to come to check on Sherlock. Then he came to make sure you were okay. Even though you weren't... Even though Sherlock wasn't around." She prattled on; John's brain froze for a second. Mycroft cared enough about John to make sure he was alright? What?
"John? John? Hello, love?" Mrs Hudson cooed, looking at John with a concerned expression on her face. "What was it you came down to talk about?"
"Oh, it was..." John started, "It was, well, Sherlock."
"Driving you crazy again?" Mrs Hudson laughed. "He's driving me up the wall and he's only been back a day."
"Hah... yeah." John laughed softly. He'd only been back a day, so why did those two and a half years feel like nothing? What was it about Sherlock Holmes that made John Watson's brain unable to remember anything that didn't involve him? Sherlock had even slipped into the memories John had before they'd met. That was a power that John admired. "You could say that..."
Mrs Hudson smiled kindly at him. It was like in her own little way, she knew. Like she had always known. The first to think they were a couple. John chuckled to himself as he remembered Mrs Turner's married ones. They were a lovely pair. He remembers when they had come round after the funeral. Both also getting the wrong idea. He remembered the look they had given each other when John had told them that they weren't a couple and John wasn't gay. At the time he thought they were wrong. Now, he knew they were wrong. John Watson wasn't gay. That subject he had given a lot of thought. He was Sherlocked.
"Sit down, dearie. You finished drying that ages ago." Looking down he could see she was right. He had been drying a saucer for the last three minutes. Placing it down on the draining board, he walked over to table and sat down. "Now, what's up, dearie?"
"Sherlock. Gone and got another bloody sociopath after him."
"Oh dear. That silly boy." John nodded. Silly indeed.
John's phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it.
"He's going to get you into some trouble some day soon, you know." Mrs Hudson sighed, "Not like he hasn't already."
A small smile crossed John's face. "He's got me into plenty of trouble; I've gotten him out of it all though."
"Ah, that's what friends do." Mrs Hudson laughed. "I'm glad he's back though, aren't you?"
"Yeah," John grinned, "I'm worried about this case though. Someone knows he's not dead, someone knows he's... back in the game."
John's phone vibrated in his pocket again. He ignored it. If it was Harry, she'd leave him alone and call again in the morning.
"Oh dear... Sherlock's never been one for being a people person. I think he's got two types of friends; ones like us and ones that keep him employed." Mrs Hudson sighed. "John, you should keep an eye on that man. Infernal racket or not, he's still the best neighbour I've had in years."
"Yeah," John nodded, "I know. Bloody annoying, but he's amazing."
"That's exactly how I'd describe Sherlock. Now, answer your phone. It's driving me up the wall."
"It's either Lestrade or Harry." John sighed. "I don't want to answer it."
"Do it, love. Otherwise you'll regret it."
"Fine, okay. I'll be back tomorrow, no doubt." John smiled weakly.
"That's great; I'll have a lovely new cake recipe to try out on you." She laughed, "Sherlock wouldn't like it, he'd analyse it and tell me exactly what was in it and then complain that I had done something wrong."
"That's our Sherlock." John nodded. "Completely batshit."
"Now, behave." Mrs Hudson smiled.
John's phone buzzed. He looked down, unknown caller. "I have to take this one, they might not call again." John motioned to his phone. "Sorry."
"Go." Mrs Hudson waved him away. "Take that call and leave me to go to bed."
"Okay. Night."
"Night John." Mrs Hudson said, "Shut the door on your way out."
Shutting the door, he glanced down at his phone again. Still ringing. Sighing, he hit the accept button and put the phone to his ear. "Hello?"
"Good evening, John." The well rounded words of Mycroft Holmes echoed down the receiver.
"Good evening, Mycroft."
"No doubt you are aware my delightful baby brother has returned." John snorted.
"Really, Mycroft? I had no idea." The disapproving sound of Mycroft reached John's ears. It made him smile.
"I heard you both solved a case today. Three hours apparently." John wondered who had told him the exact time. Only five people knew for sure. The other three resided in Scotland Yard.
"Yes. Your brother has got another madman after him. Any more lunatics you've been swapping details about Sherlock for state secrets we should know about?"
"Not the time for jokes, John, but yes I know. It's quite the predicament."
"Hmmm."
"Watch him, John. Watch yourself."
"I think I can handle myself, Mycroft." John sighed.
"Yes but can he?" John looked upwards towards the direction of Sherlock's chair. He didn't know for sure. Still. "Oh and John, do be careful of what you both say. We don't want another 'Faster, John.' experience."
John could feel himself burn with embarrassment. He mumbled an okay. "Goodbye, Mycroft."
"Good bye, John." Closing him phone, John leaned against the side of wall and took in a deep breath before taking up the slow walk back up towards 221B.
John opened the door quietly, trying not to disturb Sherlock's thoughts. He shut the door slowly and crept into the living room. Sherlock was crouched on his chair, his fingers pressed together and his eyes shut. He looked deep in thought, as though he could deduce the meaning of life if he tried hard enough.
"Sherlock?" John whispered, trying not to shock Sherlock out of his thoughts. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"
The man stayed still as a statue, clearly too lost in his thoughts - his deductions - to notice John. Good.
John turned to pick up his laptop. He flicked open the lid and read the poem again, it annoyed him. He pondered the lines for a while, the unnervingly still Sherlock still staring into thin air. If he'd been anyone but Sherlock, John would've been worried by now. But this was Sherlock, the one and only. And this special man was under stress to perform tomorrow.
"Sherlock," John said while turning his computer off and setting it aside. "I'm going to bed. Try not to let my sleeping interrupt your thoughts. That would be terrible."
Sherlock didn't reply. In fact, he didn't move an inch.
"Fine." Sighed John, "Be like that."
John flicked off the lights. He walked to his room and shut the door. As he pulled off his clothes, the day's adventure finally took its toll, a sudden wave of exhaustion swept over him. He climbed into bed and within seconds he was asleep.
"John, pass me that pen." Sherlock said, his fingers twitched and he scratched the side of his nose. "And a cup of tea would be nice." He sat waiting and thinking in the darkened room for a long time.
He had been waiting for about two hours now, though he didn't notice the time, and Sherlock was getting impatient. Getting to his feet, he walked into the kitchen and he switched on the kettle. He didn't bother hunting for a pen. It didn't matter any more. He had found it easier to story it within his palace. As the click of the kettle finishing went off he released that he had already replaced the teabags with something else whilst John had been sleeping last night and now he couldn't remember where they were. Searching around, John must be in his room. He'd know where the teabags would be.
Storming into John's room caused a loud crash as the door slammed against the wall. "JOHN! I asked you for a pen!"
A startled John bolted upright in his bed. Dazed and confused. It had been sleeping peacefully for once. It was lovely. Damn Sherlock. His eyes were tired and his voice was heavy with sleepiness. "Sherlock, it's one in the morning."
"And I asked for a pen two hours ago."
"Do you still just carry on talking when I disappear? You have to stop that, Sherlock. Now piss off so I can sleep." John fell back into his pillow.
"I still require a pen."
Reaching over to his bedside cabinet, John picked up the pen handy to him and threw it at Sherlock before grabbing his duvet and burying his face into a wonderfully welcoming pillow.
Sherlock slunk out of the room, fiddling with the pen in his hand. Why did John need to sleep so much? It wasn't... normal for people, was it? He shook his head and walked back into the kitchen. He looked around the cupboards, still unsure of where the teabags were.
"John?" He called. "John, where are the teabags?"
There was no reply from John. Sherlock sat on the edge of the table and thought about it. Where could the teabags actually be? He looked around the kitchen, rummaging through draws and opening cupboards.
"John?" He called again, louder this time. "John. Where are they?"
As John wasn't replying, Sherlock stormed back into his room. The door wide open, as he'd left it.
"JOHN!" Sherlock shouted. "Where are the teabags?"
John groaned, he dragged his head out of the pillow. "I don't know."
"Where are they?" Sherlock asked again.
"I don't know, Sherlock. I've said that." John mumbled. "Please, fuck off for another four hours and let me sleep."
"I need some tea. I need it now. I'm thirsty and it's distracting." Sherlock complained. "Where are the teabags?"
"I don't fucking know, Sherlock. Piss off. I'm asleep."
Closing John's door, Sherlock began a search of the house. He eventually found the teabags on the bookcase lodged between Crime & Punishment and Emotional Intelligence For Dummies (a sort of joke gift from John). Soon Sherlock had boiled the kettle again, made himself a cup of tea and returned back to his black chair.
Sherlock sat up till dawn. The tea he so desperately needed forgotten.