Where are you guys? Don't tell me I waited so long I lost my lovely reviewers!
Trying my hand at something with an actual plot, hold tight and watch out for plot holes this might get messy! Also due to my hatred of how hard it is to separate paragraphs in order to show a change in time, I'm going to try and start using lines whenever time has passed. Let's see if that clears things up!
John dropped the takeout on the living room table, carefully avoiding the piles of books and notes from cases that had accumulated there. The TV was on to the news, blaring white noise. Sherlock was in the kitchen, setting something on fire though John really didn't feel like looking close enough to see the chaos in progress. Instead he sat down on the couch and called to Sherlock.
"I've got dinner, and no you're not too busy for it." He put his feet up on the table and yawned, it had been a long day. At least Sherlock had been relatively well behaved aside from whatever he was doing at the moment. Well behaved enough to call when John called him, at least, as Sherlock was currently leaving the remains of his science experiment to come sit down like he was told.
"Cold out?" Sherlock asked, absentmindedly taking John's hands in his own to warm them up.
"Yeah." John shrugged, Sherlock had been getting strangely familiar as of late. Things like this, random excuses to touch John, had been growing more common. The doctor figured it wasn't anything to make a big deal out of, most of the things Sherlock did were confusing anyways. "Should I ask about the kitchen or would that make me an accessory to whatever you've just done?"
Sherlock wasn't listening though, he was looking at the TV. He let go of John's hands and stood, still looking at the news with a curious glance.
"There has been yet another victim to a strange unknown disease, Carl Kolton age 45 was found dead in his apartment last night." The anchorwoman prattled on with the usual dramatic voice all conveyors of news used. "Witnesses say the victim showed all the symptoms associated with this illness: flu like symptoms followed by seizures, delirium and finally death."
"That's another." Sherlock muttered. "You know, John. I don't believe in coincidence."
"That's not coincidence." John gave a disbelieving chuckle. "That's contagious. Diseases travel, sometimes they're deadly."
"This disease has only targeted doctors from Northwind Hospital, that's where I find my unlikely coincidence." Sherlock replied, as he talked he grabbed his coat from where he'd thrown it over his armchair earlier. John knew what that meant, and considering the fact that he'd just brought home dinner he really didn't appreciate what was coming next.
"First off, how did you know where they worked? Second off, we are not going to look at the body!" John sighed with frustration.
"As soon as the second victim died of it I looked them up. After all they lived nowhere near each other and there was no news of anyone else getting sick. It was too localized, too small." Sherlock buttoned up his coat and then neatly wrapped the trademark blue scarf around his neck. "So I found the connection. Then I memorized the names of doctors working with those two in case any other victims showed up. I have my proof, time to go look at the body."
"We're not going to look at the body!" John argued. "Not now at least. Look, if you think you have a hunch just call Lestrade and we can find a way to legally see the body tomorrow morning. I'm really not in the mood to break into a morgue."
"I'm texting him now. He can at least get us into the dead man's flat." Sherlock stood by the door, phone in hand. "Get your coat. I don't want to waste time."
"What makes you think I'm coming?" John stood and folded his arms over his chest. Sherlock just looked back at him and smirked ever so slightly. He knew John would come because he always came, because he could never resist it. Because he knew people were getting ill and that as a doctor he felt that if there was a way to stop it he should find it. He had John and John knew it.
"...Fine." John groaned. "But I hope you know that I really hate you." He grabbed his coat, not at all happy to be going back out into the cold night just so Sherlock could sniff some corpse to find out how it died.
"Good." Sherlock's smirk grew. "So does Lestrade, apparently." He said waving his phone at John. "You two could form a club."
"Couldn't you just set him down with a mystery novel and a cup of tea or something?" Lestrade complained, his breath fogging in the air as he walked up to meet the the detective and his doctor companion. He'd driven straight to Dr. Carl Kolton's flat and waited there for Sherlock and John's arrival.
"You're the one that told him he could come see the flat tonight." John replied accusingly.
"Oi! He wouldn't stop texting me!" Lestrade shot back. "Besides when he finds something like this it turns out to be important. If I ignore it now it's only going to come back and bite me on the arse."
"Lestrade, do you have the keys or not?" Sherlock asked, reaching out a hand expectantly. "I didn't call you so you could gossip with John."
"They're right here." Lestrade tossed the detective the keys. "Knock yourself out."
Sherlock caught the keys and ran up the stairs to the building. John and Lestrade followed, though not nearly as quickly or excitedly. Inside the building there were two sets of stairs, one leading up and one leading down. They took the stairs down and stopped the second door on the left. Sherlock unlocked the door and made his way inside, looking like a shadow in that dark coat of his.
"So, are there any specks of dirt that tell you that this man was murdered by a germ?" Lestrade teased, waiting by the door as if he didn't want to get too involved with this.
John watched Sherlock work, watched him weave through the apartment noticing everything. His eyes were darting all around taking in the information.
The flat was small, three rooms: kitchen/living room, bathroom and bedroom. In the kitchen there was a small table, and next to it was a toppled chair surrounded by fragments of glass-no doubt from when the man spasmed to his death. Sherlock bent over and looked at the glass, noticing the red tint of blood on several fragments. He reached for one to get a better look, then winced as it bit into his flesh.
"Careful." John warned.
"I know!" Sherlock growled back, slightly humiliated at his slip up. He pulled his hand back and stood to look at the rest of the room. After another five minutes he turned back and threw the keys to Lestrade.
"I have everything I need from here. Let me know when I can see the body." He demanded.
"Oh, yes sir." Lestrade rolled his eyes. John quickened his pace to catch up with the detective already on his way out the door.
"Anything?" He asked curiously, keeping by Sherlock's side as they walked back up the stairs.
"Nothing I didn't expect to find. Somebody was there first." Sherlock held the door open for John and let the doctor slip by him.
"You mean besides the people who discovered or removed the body?" John asked.
"Obviously. Whoever it was took a laptop from the living room coffee table."
"How can you tell?"
"They left the power adapter plugged in at the plug closest to the table, there was a rectangle patch in the middle of the dust on the table, not exactly subtle." Sherlock sighed, and John shook his head. With Sherlock it was either so small you could never have seen it or so obvious you couldn't believe you didn't, but either way Sherlock had to make it seem painfully obvious.
"So the laptop. There was something on it the thief wanted?" John continued, ignoring the comment about his lack of observation.
"The question is, what is it?" Sherlock muttered more to himself than John. From that moment he lapsed into a thoughtful silence and remained that way until Lestrade finished locking up the flat and gave them both a ride home.
For once John was awake before Sherlock.
Well, John thought. He doesn't really wake up before me, just stays up all night.
Still it was weird that Sherlock wasn't up and setting something on fire. Especially since he had a case to work now, usually he never slept while he was on cases. John shrugged and busied himself making tea, he probably only had a few blissfully quiet minutes left until Sherlock got up and he wasn't going to waste them. His phone went off once with a message from Lestrade, but he figured he could wait until Sherlock woke up to show it to him. The detective slept so rarely.
He sat down on the couch with his tea and his laptop, and started scrolling absentmindedly through the comments on his latest blog post. He'd only gotten about halfway through when Sherlock emerged from his room.
"Morning, sleeping beauty." John commented with a smirk, no doubt making fun of Sherlock's rather haggard appearance. The detective was wrapped up in his blanket, having dragged it from the bed as he left the bedroom. His eyes were rimmed with red, his hair was tangled and his mouth looked like it was set in a permanent pout.
"Hmm." He replied, collapsing on the couch next to John and curling into a ball.
"Are you feeling alright?" John reached over and pressed his hand to Sherlock's forehead, it felt pretty warm.
"I feel fine." Sherlock croaked. "I didn't get a flatmate so he could make comments on my health."
"Mhmm. Good thing you picked a doctor then." John snorted.
"Lestrade sent us a message. Apparently there's been another victim. He hasn't gotten clearance on the other bodies yet but he says that he's got the most recent victim under lock down until you get there." John commented.
"Look at him. Being useful." Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"He's doing what you say with barely any evidence behind you. Just get dressed and be grateful." John reprimanded. Sherlock rolled his eyes again and let out a small cough.
That's what he gets for running around in such cold weather. John thought. He's probably getting a cold.