Guys, I got an electric violin :3 and while putting rosin on the bow hairs I noticed just how much there is like a dust cloud, and since we havent had Sherlock having a written attack... -evil grin-
What a week.
It didnt feel like a week at all - more like a month, to John.
Sherlock had three bruised ribs, and was covered in all shades of bruises seemingly from head to toe. When the paramedics arrived, he had been unconscious - thank god - and therefore Nicky was overly protective. They had to take him with them, just to be able to tend to the beaten up detective.
In fact, the Chihuahua got to stay with them the entire time at the hospital. (John was the one to take care of him for that time.)
John suspected that Mycroft had something to do with it.
Speaking of Mycroft, the suspect had been "taken care of and will not bother you and Sherlock again" - he had said in a text. John didnt ask.
When John had asked Sherlock who the guy was, the answer he got was "its not important what his name is, as long as The Man is now forever gone."
To which John gave an annoyed reply of "oh, so now we got The Woman, The Dog and The Man. Sounds like a lovely book title, dont you think? ... Its a wonder that you call me John."
He didnt get a reply because the detective was fast asleep.
#
There was something about the belstaff. Nicky was always growling at it when it wasnt being hid - John had gotten annoyed after a while, because he couldnt figure out what was wrong with it, so he hid it on the backside of his room door (Nicky surprisingly never goes up to his room).
And also that way Sherlock couldnt just leave.
John was just entering the living room when Sherlock got his violin and bow out of its case. He paused. "Are you sure its a good idea to play it so soon?"
Sherlock didnt look at him and just pretended he hadnt heard him, and proceeded by getting out the rosin as well and then sat down in his chair, violin resting against his chest as he removed the little cap.
John went into the kitchen to get the tea pot going.
As he filled two cups (Sherlock usually wanted some too and he didnt want to have to walk twice), he stared at the detective again, and noticed that he was becoming agitated, and seemed lost in thought as he rapidly applied way too much rosin, with more force/pressure than he should.
"Sherlock?"
The movements became more frantic.
"Sherlock!"
John watched as a horse hair succumbed to the pressure and snapped. He strode over and made to grab his frantic moving arm from harming the delicate bow any more.
"Sherlock!"
"WHAT?!" The detective snapped at him, and in his fury he had pulled his arm from Johns firm hand and managed to slam it in full movement on the bow.
A big white cloud immediately spread from the bow and both turned their upper bodies away, each with an arm covering their faces.
Sherlock began frantically flapping his free arm, trying to clear the dust cloud while John went over to open the window.
After a few tense moments they both ended up coughing, though Johns brain immediately went into a panic. Not only did the detective have a bunch of bruised ribs - which must hurt like hell - but the tiniest, subtlest cough from the detective had his mind scream "asthma attack! Code blue!".
Sherlock really should have controlled himself. He knew better than to let his emotions out on his precious instrument. No matter which part of it.
He just couldnt figure it out. He knew that.. The Man, had done something. Something other than turn him into a smurf.
Something to do with drugs, if Nickys reaction was anything to go by.
Sherlock wasnt stupid, hed made the connection when the small dog kept growling at this monster. Of course he would smell the drugs from a mile away, that guy had so many bags on him that even Sherlock could smell it through the plastic bags and his (very smelly) jacket.
He knew it was somewhere in his belstaff. He must have planted it somewhere on the inside, because it was open when he woke up in the ambulance, and his ribs were bruised in places that are most probable from someone kneeling on them.
He didnt know where exactly he had hid.. whatever he hid, in it. And the even bigger problem was: how was he going to get rid of it without anyone noticing?
The entire topic of recreational substances and the name Sherlock Holmes, always put everyone on edge enough as it was. Imagine their reactions if the former Junkie suddenly had a baggie hidden in his room.
And in an attempt to calm his anxiety-filled nerves he had gone to grab his violin, and John - good lord, JOHN! - had to comment on his actions once again. Because, no, it wasnt too soon, because if he needed his instrument then he could be in any amount of pain and still play it.
So he had gone and messed everything even more up. He didnt mind so much that he broke a hair - it just happens from time to time, it was a normal occurrence.
No. He had managed to use so much rosin on them that there had already been much of it in the air. But he just had to make it even worse, by ripping himself free and right into the freshly, overly rosined hairs and now..
Now he was paying for it because he could already feel the stinging, burning tightness in his bronchi, and the sharp pains from his already bruised ribs.
God dammit.
John was coughing next to him and rushed over to open the window, while he tried to clear the cloud.
His own coughs were sounding a lot different from Johns. And he didnt know where his inhaler was right now (he remembered it was in his belstaff pocket before he was at the hospital, but after that the pocket was empty. He suspected that 'he' had taken it in exchange for the drugs.) and only managed to give John a pleading look.
The doctor seemed to understand and ran off to grab one.
His violin, which was still kind of resting against his chest, suddenly felt ten times heavier. With a shaking hand he grabbed it at the finger board and gently placed it down at his feet; same with the bow afterwards.
For a moment he wondered where Nicky was, but then remembered that he had run off the moment he must have felt his anger.
John came back in, just as Sherlock erupted into painful hacks and wheezy breaths. He had shaken it on his way back to his friend and quickly uncapped it, then handed it over.
While trying to hold his breath long enough to let it spread out into his lungs, Sherlock wondered how many times they had this exact situation by now.
He felt some sort of warm fuzz as he thought how he could always count on his doctor. His friend.
He suddenly broke into a genuine smile.
"You okay?" John asked.
Sherlock coughed a bit into his elbow, cleared his throat and smiled even more at him. "More than you know."
John didnt ask what he meant. Apparently his friend had seen something that he didnt. Or thought something. Or remembered something.
Meanwhile, a certain dog had been up in Johns room, not able to resist the smell of cocaine any longer, and had been jumping up to grab the bottom of the heavy, long coat until he finally got it down.
He pushed it up with his snout to get under it and searched for the spot where the smell was strongest. He found it on the inside; the seams that attached the arm had been cut and Nicky made quick work getting the small, hidden bag out of it, growling slightly as he did.
The two men had heard the noises, now that their shock had cleared. They both shared a glance and leaped up the stairs - Sherlock still a bit shaky on his legs but not stopping.
They found the belstaff on the floor, just behind the door, and right in that moment Nicky came backing out from under it with the little plastic bag, filled with white powder, in his snout.
Sherlock felt his heart skip. NO! Bad dog! Oh god..
Both stood paralysed as he brought the bag to their feet, wagging his tail because he did a good job, and waiting for a praise.
John was the first one to move, and he crouched down to pick it up and pet him at the same time.
Sherlock carefully cleared his throat, "John, whatever youre thinking right now, its not what it looks like."
John stood up much too quick for Sherlocks liking.
"Not what it looks like?! NOT WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE?! It looks very much like cocaine to me!" John yelled at him and shoved the baggie to the detectives chest.
"IT ISNT MINE! He hid it in my coat when he knocked me out! John I SWEAR!"
They both locked eyes. Please John, believe me..
They stood like this in silence for a few moments.
"You promise? You arent.. you know." John said softly.
Sherlock shook his head, and even pushed up his sleeves to show his bare arms.
John heaved a sigh of utter relief. He actually felt his eyes tearing up and pulled his friend into a hug.
Sherlock flinched from both not being used to physical affection, and the many bruises littering his body. But he didnt pull away.
Because in a sense he knew that it was not only John who needed it right now.
Just wanted to say a few things:
1. Im dyslexic and sometimes not even my software can pick up all mistakes, so if you find anything, be it "its its" or two letters mixed up or even an entire wrong word, please tell me, because it helps other readers and myself.
2. This story will probably never end xD