A/N: Let's get us some Lestrade, he wasn't in on that last one. -csf
.
'What is that, Sherlock?' I ask after a quick glance at my friend, from my armchair. 'If you keep munching it will spoil your appetite for dinner.'
He glances up from his anatomy book research and hums vaguely.
'Gingerbread Person', he mentions fleetingly through another bite. Figure he'd answer factually. However—
'Did you mean: Gingerbread Man?'
He takes stock, looking up in earnest. 'How would you know? You've got three buttons to go on, John!'
'That's, hmm, very inclusive of you, by the way. Traditionally—'
'Ha! Tradition!' he derides with all the scorn he willingly reserves for Tradition.
'But, seriously, whatever tickles your fancy...' I gesture vaguely. He's Sherlock; I'm preaching to the choir here.
He frowns as he pins me with deep grey eyes.
'Could it be a Gingerbread Soldier, John?'
I squint. Now I'm positive he's messing with me.
'Could also be an Overcomplicating—'
The doorbell rings, interrupting us.
'Lestrade!' Sherlock recognises with barely concealed excitement. 'About time he got me a case! My brain's been left rotting!'
Staying behind, I'm muttering under my breath – and me, I'm here, what am I now? – but there's not enough feeling behind the words and I get up to join the detective crusade gathering at the top of the stairs.
Baker Street is coming to life. About time, too, Sherlock is an emotional eater in times of crisis – and lack of cases are intense crisis around here. I was about to have to hit the streets for groceries on a particularly stormy evening. Not the right time for my old shoulder war wound, it lets me know.
It didn't help that Sherlock and I took a train to a failed crime scene a couple of days ago, through an intense downpour of rain, so intense that flooding held the train stalled on the tracks for hours before it was safe to resume the ride. It wasn't cold in the train carriage, and enough heat was being metaphorically produced by hot tempers confined in small quarters for an undefined period of time. But I fell asleep against the cold window pane among the general disparaging and annoyance – I've been at war, I'll sleep through anything short of explosions and enemy fire. Because Sherlock Holmes takes the forward seat each time, which puts me with my back towards the train pull each time, this time that meant I was squeezed against the cold window on my left shoulder by a plump (gorgeous, actually) young woman. In front of us, Sherlock had her slim fiancé at his side. Long story short, Sherlock built a new wing in his mind palace from scratch before the train resumed the ride. We only woke up back in London, past our station anyway. Sherlock had a few choice remarks for my lack of attention and not rousing him at the correct location, but he shut up as soon as he heard me groan and saw me tumble over against his seat. He grabbed me fast and ensured I wasn't left alone to take care of myself, or even walk out of the station, from then on. He's been keeping an eye on me since. I've been trying to push him away for just as long.
This is Sherlock's first concession to engage in something other than keeping me company and ensuring I take my meds at the correct times (which I try to delay every time). Predictably, he needs to act like a jerk about it. He's Sherlock.
Or, possibly, he knows I am feeling awkward for having held back the super detective onsite, and that I much rather deal with a jerk flatmate than an exceedingly caring, saccharine friend who would only highlight my physical weakness by ways of excessive caring. I know he cares; he's been all along studying the anatomy of joints and articulations on those medical text books.
All my inner grumblings are carefully wiped from my expression before I reach the two conferencing detectives.
'Greg.'
The detective inspector is acting surprised to find us in on an evening like this.
'Where have you two been? The Yard has almost missed you! Thought you two were investing away some top secret stuff!'
Sherlock expressively rolls his eyes. 'One can dream!'
'So what held you back?'
Sherlock glances at me – he really doesn't get where the rumours come from, huh – and answers, much to my surprise: 'Research, Lestrade. You should try it some day.'
The inspector is nonplussed. 'So it's not all genius then?' Checkmate.
Sherlock is not above a dark glare.
'I believe you have a case, Lestrade, do not ruin my mood if you want me to take it.'
'You will take this one.'
'Says who?' is the indolent reply.
'I can tell when you're jittery. You need to lay off that research of yours and take a case. John, tell Sherlock—'
I'm already raising both hands in a surrender gesture – not my battle, mate! – when I flinch and grab onto my left elbow, cradling my arm. Wrong move and I've woken up the sleeping injury. Swallowing back the pain and tasting bile, I turn around and leave them summarily, not bothering to excuse myself after the obvious display of brokenness.
You are a class act tonight, John!
I can almost hear the expletive Sherlock growls under his breath to Greg, assigning blame. The inspector is already taking charge of the electrified minefield blanketing 221B nowadays.
'The case can wait a while. It was really more of an excuse to check up on you two', he adds Sherlock's way, much to the younger detective's dismay. 'John, what you need is a nice night in. Here, I'll start by putting the kettle on. Sherlock's going to order some take away.'
'Am I?' he's surprised.
'You are. And then we can... I don't know, play board games, bake, read bedtime stories.'
The consulting detective is not convinced.
'And you've done this before with whom, inspector?'
'My kids when they were younger', he admits. 'You'll love it! Come on, Sherlock. Bring John his pyjamas from his room. I'm sprucing the fire in the living room. This will be fun!'
Sherlock grumbles. 'Don't think so. All board games have been individually banned from 221B. There's not one John and I can still bear.'
The inspector blinks, but refuses to lose ground on his optimism. 'Fine, we'll make our own. A crime solving board game.'
'Neat.' Surprisingly Sherlock approves.
'There will be rules.'
'I can live with that. And contribute with my own.'
'Rules that will make sense.'
'Spoilsports.'
I huff a laugh at their exaggerated antics whilst dropping myself back in my armchair, still carefully protecting my arm and shoulder. The pain throbs relentlessly.
'John?'
I'm roused by a careful hand on my good shoulder and find Lestrade leaning towards me. 'Now would be a good time for your meds', he points out, fatherly.
I take gratefully the cuppa he's handing me but refuse to add those particular extras. They always make me drowsy, I recall as I take a few blessed long sips of tea.
Sherlock is going downstairs to retrieve the Chinese takeaway being delivered. Greg is pottering about the kitchen presumably tidying up; he better not touch Sherlock's experiments or we'll have a stroppy detective for company.
The tea is nice, but it's got a funny aftertaste. And my head swims. It finally clicks. Oi, that's not fair!
I glare as Greg returns to the living room, but he's not quite gloating as I suspected. He looks bothered as he tries to check up on me. He also measuredly checks how much medicated tea I've ingested. Fatherly instincts, I suppose.
'Are you sure you don't need a doctor?'
'I am a doctor!'
Sherlock is coming back up with the food. Greg pulls up one of the side tables and a chair for himself. We share the food parcels and chopsticks with ease and for a moment I feel revived by the warm atmosphere and the promise of tasty food. The pain in my shoulder fades as I'm being distracted by two bickering detectives trying to plan a game to play. One is opting for a charades type of amusement, the other wants an element of chance by throwing dice or by guesswork. I let a small smile take over my face and close my eyes languidly in the warm dry heat of the crackling fire.
As I'm falling asleep, Greg and Sherlock are negotiating karaoke entries and an actual body search for clues in your adversaries. It's going to be a quick game, as they'll have forgotten half their made up instructions before they call me in to play.
.
Little did I expect to be awaken by a considerate flatmate hours later, insisting I sleep on a bed instead my armchair tonight. Greg Lestrade is long gone, it seems, but the warmth of the evening lingers on between the homely walls of Baker Street. There's a manila file abandoned on the kitchen table, presumably a case the detective inspector left for Sherlock.
What I didn't expect was a glimpse at a whole infantry of Gingerbread Army Soldiers territorially spread around the kitchen's surfaces and worktops, cooling down. I frown, open my mouth and wonder what exactly has gone on whilst I slept—
'Just drop it, John', Sherlock precedes me, drily. 'You can bake Gingerbread Detectives or whatever you fancy tomorrow', he assures me, and gently helps me up the stairs.
.
