A/N: A bit of a nonsense built up collection, or what could have been an alternative publication had a chosen a different catch phrase (sometimes i just forget about it altogether, and that's not so very good).
Take care, stay safe. -csf
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John.1
'This is not what it seems', I declare flatly.
Sherlock's muffled voice protests: 'This is exactly what it seems, John.'
'What? That I handcuffed you, chained you to your armchair, and gagged you? Well, I guess it is what it looks like, Lestrade.'
Our friend, the detective inspector, is mildly apoplectic, but soon clears his throat, and whatever thoughts he might have been harbouring, and settles for: 'Good on you, John, he's a right pain in the backside.'
Before I can say anything, the clanking sound of chains rattling against the hard wood floor makes me turn. Sherlock is now fighting his cuffs alone, even the gag is removed and hangs limply round his neck.
I turn conspiratorially to Greg Lestrade. 'Sherlock read a book on Houdini. He took it as a personal challenge.'
The detective in question brushes it off. 'Nonsense, John! All in the line of duty. Isn't that right, Lestrade? When was the last time you fought your way out of cuffs and chains?'
The inspector is looking very unsure while he responds: 'Zip ties, Sherlock, you may want to try those. That's what the 21st century criminals use.'
'That's so boring and predictable! Is there no imagination left in the criminal classes? John, this is the wrong key for the cuffs!'
I smirk. 'I knew you'd smuggle key to the cuffs before starting, mate. Do you really think I'd let you have the right key?'
'But, John! I can't— my wrists!'
I shrug and walk away, brushing past a daunted inspector I assure him: 'I'd let him free by dinner time. Enjoy your talk, I'm off to work!'
'John, you double-crossing—!'
Nope, Sherlock needs to take that up with Greg. I just passed him the handcuff keys on my way out.
With a bit of luck Sherlock won't miff the inspector so much that he'll walk out before setting our mad friend free, taking the only keys with him.
I can still hear them upstairs, just before I leave by the front door.
'Take a seat, Sherlock, we've got a few old witness statements to go through...'
'John! Help, I'm being tortured!'
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Sherlock.1
'I believe the common turn of language is "this is not what it seems"... Will you ingratiate us by not jumping to conclusions without all the facts, Molly?' Sherlock requests, in absolute composure, despite the fact that we've just been discovered by the pathologist in her underground morgue. Sherlock is being Sherlock, and I am laid out in a body bag zipped nearly all the way up, on a cold stainless steel slab. And when I say Sherlock is being Sherlock, I mean he's been apprising autopsy tools with the scientific detachment of a mad doctor Frankenstein.
As Molly surprises us, it causes the cranial saw to whizz at high speed in Sherlock's hand.
Doctor Hooper attempts a valiant smile through her misplaced awkwardness, and goes to grab a more powerful tool out of a cabinet.
'This one would work better. I can get you an unclaimed corpse to try it on, if you like. I think I've got one roughly John's height and weight in the back. I just need a few hours to defrost it', she offers, with keen brown eyes stuck on the mad detective, willing him to take her gift.
Sherlock powers the circular saw in his hand. 'Have it ready for me in six hours', he says; no thank you or that's kind of you. 'John, don't squirm away, I'm not through with you', he adds, without even looking at me.
'What do you expect me to do? Stay here until you saw me in half?' I huff, departing easily.
Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'Next time I shall use a watermelon, tropical fruits are far more compliant than my assistant.'
I can't hold back a sneeze, that quickly turns into a string of sneezes. I think I caught a cold, as I got left waiting in the cold storage.
'Surely you must have deduced the killer by now.'
'Yes, of course. Half an hour ago. Still needed to prove how it was done, John.'
I tug at the zipper with stiff fingers quickly turning blue.
'Nah, just tell Lestrade. He always believes you and your elaborate depictions of the modus operandi.'
'Very well.' Sherlock puts away the nice saw and comes help me out of my tarpaulin cocoon.
'Molly, have two defrosted specials for me by the end of the day', he reminds the nice pathologist in a snappish way. She blushes, entranced by the shared interest, we are already walking away.
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John.2
'Not what it looks like, Mrs H', I say, without even looking up the newspaper I'm browsing. She never listens anyway. 'Sherlock is not leaving until he promises to clean up the mess he's made on the kitchen table. Other flatmates would like to be able to use the kitchen table too, once in a while...'
Sherlock defiantly rejects: 'Science cannot be stopped, you heretic science denier!'
'Pfft! Is science advancement the new catch phrase for laziness? You've got petri dishes growing so much mould it's spilled out and is now trailing down the kitchen chair.'
'You're just jealous of my colourful moulds, John!'
The landlady affectionately shakes her head at the sight of us.
'Oh, you two', she pretends to protest. 'Just like Mr Hudson and I first got together, we wouldn't leave each other's side no matter what, we were so in love... That was before I tried blowing his head off with an assault riffle, mind you.'
I look up, startled. She doesn't notice, too busy plumping the pillows around us on the sofa. She's actively ignoring the fact that I'm sat on top of the detective, forcing him to stay put at last. He's also protesting, but his words are now muffled by his scarf.
She finally catches my eye. 'Mr Hudson deserved it. I had just heard he had been unfaithful to me. What would you have done, John?'
I blink, and carefully evade the thought.
'But you didn't shoot him.'
'He both denied and apologised. Mr Hudson could be very cheeky, you know. A bit like our Sherlock, I should think. So endearing yet so difficult to love.'
'Wait, you're not asking me what Sherlock has done, or going to try to rescue him?'
'Oh no, never get between a couple my mother always said. Live and let live, I say... Oh, and if you turn on the telly for Corrie's, it will really drive him nuts.'
I grin at that. Mrs H is the best landlady ever.
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Sherlock.2
'This is not what it looks like', I assure, in rapid trampling words that slur and stick together like thick treacle.
'Of course it is, exactly, what it looks like', Sherlock rejects my assumption.
'It is?' I startle at that.
'Of course it is. You're inebriated already.'
I do a double take at the mad genius.
'You told me you wanted me to help you in a scientific ex-experiment of yours. I didn't think it involved me getting very, very d-drunk at our kitchen table, while you write down your observations on my cl-clarity of mind!'
'I couldn't exactly get impartial at this study if I got inebriated myself, now could I?'
I raise my chin proudly. 'And that's why I accepted the bloody honour. I do anything for you, git.'
Sherlock looks down on his notepad and writes down "Foul mouth language up by 132%."
Even drunk I can read upside-down.
I giggle at the mad bugger. So clever, and yet he needs to write down the bleeding obvious lest he forgets later.
It's funny because he's a genius, you know?
I burp before I can help myself. Sherlock smirks at that, and it's insulting, so I try to get up from the chair and smack his perfect nose, but I end up losing my balance, and – wow – so I grab on to the table top for dear life. The whole kitchen swims as a boat lost at sea.
'I'll sit down now', I announce, a bit lost; it's hardly fair when the whole kitchen gangs up on me.
'How come there's no colourful mould on the k-kitchen table?'
'You cleaned it earlier, John.'
'Damn right!'
'And you let me keep the moulds in our bathtub, although you may not remember that conversation, I'm jot sure you were in the room at the time...'
'Huh? How many pints did I have? I lost count after the first t-ten.'
'One, John. You had one.'
I glance suspiciously at the empty cans on the table. Even though they conspire to multiply impossibly through trumpe l'œil, there's more than one empty can.
'Placebo effect, John. You had the one. The others were alcohol free. I shot your palate through spicy crisps and salty peanuts, same as you might find in the pub. Naturally honest, you assumed they were all alcoholic as advertised, and let your guard down, releasing yourself from your socially instilled inhibitions.'
I let my head hit the back of the kitchen chair.
'I'm not drunk?'
'Not yet.'
We both smirk.
I know a challenge when I see one, and the mad scientist puts his notepad aside.
I force myself up slowly. 'You start, I need the loo, and you need a head start.'
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John.3
'This isn't what it seems', I declare, with a jolt.
'Do not distract him, Lestrade', Sherlock requests, evenly. 'This is an experiment of the highest importance. Aim at me, and shoot now, John.'
I groan and lower my handgun.
I can hear the detective huffing over my backtracking. Next thing I know he's briskly pulling down my blindfold. The living room's light are blindingly bright. Through squinting I can see Sherlock still has a round, shiny apple on top of his head. Not for long; he collects it from the nestle of dark hair, rubs it on his sleeve, and bites it with satisfaction.
Lestrade is positively spooked as he tries to reason with me: 'I know he drives us all nuts, John, but death by firing squad is not the way to go.'
My fingers still on the blindfold knot I'm trying to loosen.
The mad detective turns to the inspector. Innocent confusion plastered all over his porcelain perfect features. He then screws his face in indignant superiority and points out, as if it was all so perfectly logical, so deducible: 'Oh, please, inspector! Did you not realise John was shooting the apple on my head?'
'Blindfolded?'
'Why not, inspector? I wouldn't put my safety on the line of fire for an easy shot! Not even your men would risk missing a target three feet away in excellent visibility and in full faculties!'
'I'm not sure about full faculties when it comes to you too', the inspector reckons, darkly. 'For heaven's sake, John could have missed, Sherlock! What does it take to get that little piece of information through your thick skull?'
Sherlock scoffs. 'John, miss a target? Never! The man was practically born with a target lock system.'
'This is insane. No, you're insane! John, I thought better of you', he still snaps my way. I try to protest, he won't listen.
Sherlock intercedes quickly: 'You really shouldn't have, John is trigger happy. That means he's only happy triggering.'
'Sherlock...' I warn darkly.
'What?' he challenges me like a petulant teenager.
'Behave, or next time they won't be blanks.'
The inspector jumps at that. 'Blanks?'
I frown, utterly confused. 'Of course they were blanks, did you really think— Gee, Greg, honestly? Don't you think I've seen up close enough friendly fire cases?' I shake my head, my stomach suddenly churning.
'How was I supposed to know they were blanks?' the inspector raises his hands in surrender.
'I told you, "this isn't what it looks like".'
'When is that ever true?' the inspector wisely philosophies. 'Fine, so what is this this all about then?'
I shrug. 'I don't know. Sherlock asked me if I wanted to shoot him, and I said yes.'
For some reason the inspector groans.
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Sherlock.3
'This is not exactly what it appears', Sherlock declares, self-righteous, as he draws me closer with a strong arm grip and a splayed hand over my rib cage and heart. I'm sure he's measuring my beats per minute, as well as sensing the perspiration drenching my undershirt. Both more elevated than I would have them, in front of an intruding Mycroft Holmes. I groan as I recognise him, and flop back on the sofa I'm sharing with the younger Holmes. It's amazing how we both fit lying on it, so long as we're closely pressed together.
I'll let Sherlock make the explaining, he forced me into this vaudeville scene when he saw me dragging myself about the flat, searching the medicines out of the bathroom cabinet, the ones that, as it turns out, Sherlock used to "make the experiment fizz".
'Should I have you explain, Sherlock?' the older Holmes mocks. 'I once caught you sleeping with a pet rat, remember? Why should this be any different?'
'I'm staying with John until his fever drops.'
'Afraid he might get himself lost in the sofa if unaccompanied?'
I nearly fall off the sofa's edge as Sherlock scrambles his long legs to get up, vaulting over me, and goes standoff in front of the three piece suit Holmes.
'John is my associate. Should I not concern myself with his health?'
'Is this the levels of concern you have over all your associates?' Mycroft verbally spars with a glint in his eye.
'Only the ones prone to difficult nightmares.'
'Oh, yes, the war. It gets blamed for a lot these days, does it not? I wonder if the doctor's only traumas are confined to the inside of hospitals and medical compounds, or if some include the damp pavements outside medical landmarks here in London.'
Sherlock positively snarls, like a ferocious creature holding back by a thread.
'Go away, Mycroft. John needs to rest.'
'Yes, he looks worse for wear and about to fall asleep. I'll have common flu medication delivered to the flat. Meanwhile I believe the common procedure is to try to keep John comfortable.' Leaning forward in confidence he adds in a loud whisper: 'Try humming in his ear, Sherlock. I believe your doctor responds well to the positive stimulus of your voice and violin music.'
The two brothers raise concomitant eyebrows.
Independently and of my own volition, I'm falling into unsteady sleep, rocked by shivers and echoes of time dissonant roadside explosions. It could have been my mind surprising me with the chains of nightmares, or the echo of a door banging shut somewhere in the known universe.
Just as the darkest of my days mingle and take over my memories, and fears starts gripping me with its cold tendrils, a soft hum starts vibrating from a distance, and a warmth spreads around me in a myriad of possessive limbs. I latch on to the familiar sound, a lifeline, muffling all the negative inputs. The thrumming shifts, as if it were produced through a smile or a chuckle. I don't have the wits to piece it together. I let the fogging take me down, and snuggle against the warmth enveloping me again.
'Shh, just drop it, John. I'm here. I'll keep you safe.'
In one last moment of coherent thought, I think it's a good thing no one else comes in on us. Or perhaps it does not matter; this is exactly what it looks like. A mad but fantastic connection between two non-boring best friends only begins to describe it.
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