Wow what a day. I have been so busy with work, boxing, and trying to figure out my stupid laptop. I got a malware on my machine and managed to kill it, but now I have to search for the .exe file every time I want to open a bloody program with no idea on how to fix it and no money to bring it to a pro. So sorry that I haven't updated in a while and it might be a bit for the next update as well. Thanks for all the reviews and favorites everyone! Enjoy this chapter too.
-Awhoha
John Watson nimbly maneuvered through the bustling streets, his footsteps lost amidst the bustling crowds. Children giggled, pressed up against the shop windows, their small fingers pointing at their newest favorite. Men walked about with their women about their arm, dressed in their finest attire—silk dresses adorned with lace, hats decorated with ribbon and colourful feathers. The West End of London was alive with people eager to spend coin; metal bells rung loudly clattering against the doors of shops, the scuffle of feet against stone, the calls of bartering. The doctor hastened along Bond Street, a piece of scratch paper clutched in his hand, the other glancing down at his pocket watch all the while trying to avoid the bumping into the masses. John cursed and with a click shoved the watch back into his vest pocket. He was late; of course he was late. No matter what he did to try and arrive on schedule, if it involved working a case with a said Sherlock Holmes, the timing would be most re-missed.
A large building covered with generous windows stood impressively across the street, a metal sign reading Thompsons and Ackles Appliances. The fair haired man jogged across the street, the address crushing in his gloved palm, trying to avoid the wheels of impatient hansoms. Pushing open the heavy glass doors, John was engulfed in a world of leather, wood and perfume. Ladies with bright plumage, flounced petticoats and billowing skirts walked around chattering about the merchandise on show. Husbands followed behind, fingers lazily tracing over their watches hidden in their pockets. The good doctor, in search of his wife Mary, walked around the wooden tables of cherry, oak, and maple. His intense blue gaze fell upon one such woman; fair of hair, rosen cheeks flush with youth and blessed with azure eyes, focused on a set of dark cabinetry. White lace lay upon her slender throat, a dark blue dress wrapped around her form while a set of silken roses entwined with pearls mingled with her golden curls. A flutter swooped in through the man's heart as he strode near, smiling in apology as she turned, whipping a gloved hand over his chest.
"I am terribly sorry, Mary. I lost track of time, I got involved with a case-"
"I thought you were finished with such things?" Mary Watson told, wrapping an arm around the doctors forearm. Her tone was gentle but held a soft frost. "Did Mr. Holmes-"
"Holmes didn't force me, my love. My medical skills were needed so I found myself at their disposal."
"Will you be offering your services often, Doctor Watson," Mary quirked a delicate brow. She disliked it when her husband associated himself with cases pertaining to Sherlock Holmes. The man was a source of constant danger. "When we married you told me you were walking away from such a life."
"I assure you that this mornings events were purely circumstantial. Let us leave such topics, we're here to shop are we not?" John felt his heart do a quick flip. It had seemed like an empty promise to stay away; rather a stupid thoughtless decision made on the spur of a moment. How can he possibly—No. Now was not the time to think of such matters. He shrugged off the thought—he was here with his wife; not with Sherlock.
"Yes," Mary smiled, fingers squeezing gently. "Shopping it is."
*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*
Sherlock watched the ceiling, almond eyes half lidded, his mass of unruly locks resting upon the tiger rug that lay covered with scattered notes. His legs were crossed, feet bare as he tapped his riding crop against his chest. He hummed while fingers drummed in rhythm. His suspenders fell loosely at his hips, his white shirt open to reveal a muscular torso, hard planes, and the dip of the iliac crest.
"Holmes, must you hum- I am trying to read aloud, unless I am to rest my voice?"
Sherlock rolled his head back, brown eyes narrowing as Paul Jefferson set aside the loose notes. In a swift movement, the riding crop was positioned at the throat of the taller man who was currently residing next to the detective.
"Rest? There is no time for rest, Jefferson. Don't you see, it is almost evening? There is a killer on the loose, murdering- oh there could be more. Do you think there will be more? Wait no. How utterly foul to ponder such thoughts. We are not allowed to rest. Carry on."
" These scribbles crave another voice." Paul stated, his voice raspy from talking. Sherlock frowned, whip cracking back towards the ceiling while his flatmate stared back down at him.
"Do you think Mrs. Hudson- no, absolutely not. That nanny would find some way to sabotage the evidence from me, that will never do. Carry on, old goat."
"You could take a go at it."
"Me? No. Far to busy."
"Doing what?"
"Thinking. Now ask no more questions."
Paul leaned back on his palms, studying the man lying before him. His green eyes drifted down the exposed skin, the slight traces of hair leading down through the waist band of the consulting detectives clothing.
"Will you be going to the ring this evening?"
"I haven't decided. Now if you have the energy to voice pedestrian thought, you shall carry on with the narrative." Sherlock sniffed, earning an eye roll from the man beside him.
"I'm done this section." Paul declared, lifting the sheets that he had just discarded. "I would rather like to call it a -"
"There's plenty to go around."
"There all on your side."
"You have arms; use them—which bring me to the construction of the arm. Did you know, Jefferson that the arm consists of five major muscles? The flexors: coracobrachialis; the biceps brachii; and the brachialis as well as the extendors: triceps brachii and the anconeus."
"The Latin term for arm is bracchium, in case you thought I didn't know." Paul pushed himself off his palms and leaned over Sherlock, one arm brushing over the exposed abdomen, a playful smile pulling the corners of his mouth. The other was braced by his the detective's head, the back of the lieutenants hand nestling with the dark hair. Long fingers searched near the man's hips, grabbing at the bound sheets that lay beneath. Paul's thumb ghosted over the strong bone, Sherlock's brown eyes still staring up at the ceiling. A slight tremor ran across the man's spine at the slight contact, his brain automatically supplying any form of further material.
"Yes. You are quite right, however, the word bracchium could also stand for the limb of an animal; a claw or tentacle. The branch of a tree, the-"
"The arm of a catapult, perhaps."
Both men; Sherlock tilting his head back to face the door, Paul—still leaning over Sherlock in what would seem a provocative way ( oh and how), gave their full attention to the man standing straight in the door frame, hand gripping his cane tightly.
John Watson could feel the blood draining from his fingers ; glad to have the leather covering his fists. His icy blues were fixated on the scene before him, brain deducting the state of manner Holmes was in: sprawled on the floor swallowed by a sea of paper; shirt unbuttoned; bare footed; Mr. Jefferson leaning audaciously over the detective; skin contact.
"Ah Watson, do come in, old fellow. Thought you wouldn't make it judging by the hour, old boy."
"Would you rather I hadn't?" John persed his lips together tightly, closing the door with unnecessary force. He felt his side twist as Jefferson lazily pulled back from atop his dear friend, a booklet of notes in his hand. Paul sat back, green eyes shining like emeralds.
"How did the shopping go; eventful? Was it the dining set or the couch? Or was it both?" Sherlock asked ignoring John's comment, his position still anchored to the tiger. "Both. Cherry wood accented with another, can't quite place it."
"Cherry and ash." John made no move to further advance into the flat, his eyes boring holes into Sherlock. Did the man feel no sense of shame? If it had been anyone, anyone other than the doctor, rumors would be flying all over London. Was being found in such a situation no large matter?
"Would you like a drink, Doctor Watson?" Jefferson asked, pointing to a half filled glass resting by his side.
"Yes, if you wouldn't mind." John nodded stiffly. If it would mean that the man removed himself from Sherlock's side, then he would indulge himself in a spot of brandy. The taller man grinned and stood, making his way over to a side table filled with a crystal beaker and glasses. "How did you know, Holmes?"
"About the cherry? Elementary, my dear Watson. The slight tone finish on the cuff of your jacket—you must have moved the sets into your new home causing a smear; a new furnished dining set, hence the new coat of pigmented stain. The smell of the cherry mixed with the satin toned lacquer, commonly used with cherry wood is still clinging to your clothes. You must have been thoroughly engaged to such a degree that you lost track of time; evening is almost upon us." Sherlock studied John, reliving the giddy feeling that rose in his gut whenever he peered into those eyes—eyes resembling the most untouchable seas. John had spent the day with his wife. Of course his wife. Mary Morstan—now Mary Watson on shopping. Shopping of all things. For their home. The detective shivered, blaming the sudden draft from the door, jealousy not proving to be one of his finest suites. He diverted his gaze from the doctors throat; a small brown bruise barely distinguishable above his collar, hating his traitorous heart.
John picked up his cane, crossing over the mess and sat down in the welcoming chair facing his friend. He allowed himself a smirk as Jefferson took the seat opposite, leaving Sherlock lying alone on the floor. The brandy—calvados; a rich apple liquor from the French region of Normandy, tasted rich of pear and apple with a brutal tang. John swirled the red mahogany liquid in the glass, the taste welcoming.
"Mary was most insistent."
"Woman always are, are they not?" Sherlock drawled with a flick of the crop. He gracefully pushed himself into a sitting position, legs folding underneath, eyebrow disappearing into his mess of hair. Breathe. Steady. Calm. The detective plastered on a smile, reading the doctors emotionless visage.
"Now that I am here, what shall I do? Any advancement on the case?" John's tone was neutral even thought his heart floated like a giant iceberg floating on precarious waters. "Seeing the state of the notes, you must have found some evidence."
"Not a thing." Paul sighed, rubbing his temple. " I have been reading for hours and not a damn clue."
"So a dead end." John dead panned. "Any news from Inspector Lestrade?"
"He sent a telegram that the list will be here tomorrow morning."
"So we just sit here and wait?" John tapped the tip of the cane, his leather shoe- shined to perfection, pressing against the oriental carpet. A screech cut the air like a knife, Sherlock's parrot flying in from the opposite room; the bedroom. It flapped its brightly coloured feathers, landing atop the mess of dark hair. Sherlock bolted up, shouting profanities. The parrot quite delighted by the racket, laughed before sinking down once again; this time on the man's shoulder. Sherlock beheld the bird with utter contempt.
"I should have you stuffed."
John couldn't help himself—Paul following, as the room filled with laughter. The consulting detective looked rather comical: a parrot nested on his shoulder, its head bobbing to and fro; hair sticking on end as if struck by electricity; large brown eyes narrowed; clothing askew.
"Écouter Holmes. Écouter Holmes!" The bird fluffed it's green feathers, beady eyes seeking approval from it's owner.
"It speaks?" John giggled, as Sherlock rose, bird refusing to budge.
"It does. Annoying thing, never ceases its belligerent rabble." The detective shot a look at the two men, who were wiping the tears from their eyes. "I blame Jefferson."
"You said you wanted a pet."
"Yes a pet. However a bird is not a suitable companion. Can I preform experiments, test my theories? No. I cannot." Sherlock's voice rose, the bird nibbling his earlobe.
"You got him a parrot? What ever for?" John said, placing the brandy down. He raised a brow at Paul, genuinely curious.
"Holmes was going on about missing, Gladstone was it? Yes, the bulldog, and so on one day I came across a seller in the market wanting to rid himself of the bird. I thought of Holmes, who seemed delighted when I brought it home." John bristled slightly at the word home. Paul didn't notice the flinch as he was focused on the detective who had abandoned his crop, pipe now twirling in his grasp.
"Hardly. Hes a nemesis." Sherlock sniffed, searching for a light. " Has anyone seen my matches? Ah, Jefferson, hidden them again have you?"
"Its because you smoke like a chimney." Paul argued, sighing as Sherlock made way to the fireplace. The dark haired man reached into the fire with a set of tongs, extracting a burning coal. Using the ember to light his pipe, Holmes deeply inhaled the tobacco shooting his flatmate a look of triumph. John smiled noting the the sense of irritation on the lieutenants face.
"Will you both be joining me this evening?" Holmes puffed shaking the bird off his shoulder; the parrot sorrowfully flying to the top of a solitary cabinet. John's eyes immediately went to the thin red markings on his friends skin, the birds claws leaving noticeable markings. "I think it's high time for a bout in the can't progress on the case till morning, so a night out then, gentlemen."
"A fight would be welcoming." Paul grinned, rising from his seat, the doctor downing his drink. If Jefferson was to conform, John was not about to left behind.