A/N: Last recurrent lab rat plot. -csf
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I'm curled up at the long sofa... No, of course not, I'll disentangle myself and put my mismatched socks cladded feet back on the floor the moment I hear anyone but Sherlock come near. I'm a soldier, I won't have Lestrade or a client see me curled up with a book and a cup of tea, hogging the cushions and the Afghan blanket. I'm thoroughly enjoying my book, but it makes for dense reading and I'm digesting it slowly as I go, at the speed of my own mundane genius – not everyone is Sherlock blooming Holmes. That's when I glance at the table by the windows, particularly to the wire cage that sits there nowadays, with a safe, unharmed, slightly bored, rescued lab rat that Sherlock insists is named after me.
Because all of Sherlock's companions should be called "John". I'd say it's a memory problem, but this is Sherlock, he's got an encyclopaedic memory in every other regard – except, notoriously, for first names other than my very common, and short, first name.
John II, the lab rat, is a feisty, clever creature with his own merits. He incessantly explores the cage's constraints and the sliding door, closed shut obviously, squeaking happily as he chews on the wire mesh.
I sigh and return my focus to the borrowed book in my hands. I have to reread a particularly difficult to follow paragraph. How does the author come up with these things?
I wonder where Sherlock is, too. At this time of day he's often picking up his beloved violin, soothing the familiar landscape of 221B with melodic and richly stringed melodies.
From the cage the squeaking intensifies suddenly. I look on and find the stubby but athletic, white furry body of John II pressing against the cage's gate, lifting the gate to freedom with his head – his red eyes on high alert and whiskers twitching furiously at the first taste of escape. He stills and looks me straight in the eye. I stare back at the adventurous creature.
Does Sherlock know about this? Is it part of the experiment?
I wouldn't have put it past Sherlock to have taught this neat trick to his pet rat.
In a mad dash for freedom, John flees from his jail before I can lift a finger. I see him run across the table top, jump to Sherlock's nearby chair, climb down the leather with ease from his tiny clawed feet and disappear behind the mantle's cast iron screen.
Maybe he's paying a visit to Mrs Hudson downstairs. If I hear a loud shriek and a pile of dishes breaking on the floor I'll know that's where he went.
'John.'
I jump with a start of my own as I recognise Lestrade's voice, Sherlock is already crossing the threshold, unwinding the blue scarf from his long neck.
Caught in a homely reading snuggle in the sofa, I feel my cheeks reddening as I quickly sit up straight, toss away the comfy blanket – and even put away the book.
'Hi, Greg! What brings you here? Case?'
He nods, glancing at Sherlock, whose cooperation he must get if he's to have any chance of closing some harassing case. Must be a tough one to crack. Greg Lestrade is very good on his own. He just needs Sherlock's help for the occasional genius level ones. Which suits our friend just fine, as he despises the ordinary with vigour. Their synergy perfected by years of knowing each other well.
The inspector's amused eyes gleam as he still catches a glimpse of my homely stance. He's not about to let this one go, I sense. One last glance at Sherlock – who is quickly consulting old manila files in the metal cabinet across the room – and Greg's hand reaches for my book, with a joke already forming on his lips. His eyes roam the title and he squints. He's found a mother load, it seems. Before he can say anything, I blurt out:
'Sherlock, your pet rat has run away from home, you know.'
I can see the genius' shoulders shrugging. 'He'll return, worry not.'
'How do you know that?'
'I named him John, haven't I?'
I blink, and let that one go.
'He's a rat. He hardly knows his own name.'
Sherlock glances over his shoulder, his searching hands stilling at once.
'John is cleverer than people around him give him credit for. Why he likes to keep a humble façade over his talents is beyond me', he adds, way too serious not to be of the utmost honesty.
Greg has been opening and closing his mouth. He finally rediscovers his voice as he says:
'Did you say rat?'
'Yes.'
'Sherlock has a pet rat?'
'Had, by the looks of it', I retort.
The detective kips, lazily:
'He'll return. John is fiercely loyal.'
I roll my eyes to that; Sherlock really must be messing with me now.
The detective adds, with a quick flash of a genuine smile:
'There he is, and he brought the family.'
We all freeze at the numerous hoard running through 221B. White furry rats of all sizes, juvenils and adults, climb the chair, and the desk, and gather inside the opened metal cage, as if that was the most normal thing to do.
Greg shrieked, and climbed my chair for safety in high ground. Sherlock seemed to be tallying them as they got in, one after the other, before he finally delivered a chunk of cheese, and gently closed the gate on the family.
'Soon we'll need a bigger cage, John. Take care if that for me, will you?'
I clear my throat. 'Sherlock, did you just get cheese out of that filing cabinet?'
'Yes, of course. That's where I keep the Camembert', he retorts logically. 'Entirely unsuitable for the Gruyère.'
'What about Lestrade's case?'
The inspector is still playing "the floor is lava" on top of my chair.
Sherlock grabs his violin case and opens it without any rush, slowing down time in 221B.
'John, you were reading my quantum physics volume as we came in. Unable to hide it under a cushion, it was inevitable that Lestrade saw it as he looked for something to embarrass you with, namely your reading choices, because apparently that's what blokes do to one another. Will you kindly retrieve the antiques shop receipt stored between the book's pages, for a similar pewter teapot to the one found at the crime scene? I will then convince Lestrade to direct got an analysis of both teapots alloy as 85 to 95% tin, and the remaining being copper, antimony and bismuth. On the murder teapot Lestrade will also find arsenic, heavily coating the inside of the teapot in the form of green fabric dye. A heavy metal content that survived to the day, as the teapot was stored under an attic support beam for over a century, before being sold as an antique, found as a bargain and used, not very well washed either, by the unsuspecting victim. An accident, Lestrade, not a planned out murder. Most disappointing. Death by teapot. John, I hope I'm not causing you significant distress.'
I smirk, and he smirks back. I go through a lot of tea, that's a fact.
DI Lestrade looks baffled and bewildered now, as he takes in the genial deductions.
'And the lab rat family, Sherlock? Can you explain that too?' I challenge.
'Just drop it, John', he tells me, poising the bow over the violin strings, elegantly. 'Bach always seems to summon my dear friend John. That's an irrefutable fact. May I suggest you snuggle up and reread the chapter on the string theory? It's really a cornerstone to the whole concept of the book, John, and music will stimulate your brain synapses, making it easier for you to process the information.'
The git is probably right, I notice, and decide to ignore the DI frantically ordering analyses to the forensic team over his phone from his stance, on top of my armchair, one foot heroically angled atop the armrest. I just hug the Union Jack pillow, saved from Lestrade's trampling by serendipity, and resume my peaceful study of Sherlock's book, munching on some Camembert cheese and crackers.
I notice John the lab rat surreptitiously sprinting across the rug towards DI Lestrade's jacket and smirk. So small and eager to go on an adventure already. Maybe Sherlock named him right after all.
I wonder if we can get a bunny and call him Moriarty. That would drive the detective right out of his mind.
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