Sherlock hailed a cab once they reached the main road.
"This is your cab, John. Get in and go back to the flat. I'm going to Bart's."
"Why can't you do your experiments in the house like the rest of the time? Why do I have to go back to the fl-" John's sudden realization made Sherlock smirk. "You've got to be kidding. Sherlock, it isn't the time for you to leave me at the flat to work on a ridiculous deduction whilst you're off working on a bloody case!"
"Go back to the flat, John. Work on your deduction and I think you know what to do when you come to a conclusion."
Sherlock thought John was about to lose it when the shorter man bit into his bottom lip and squeezed his eyes shut with frustration. Shortly after, he let out an exasperated breath, seeming to cool himself down.
He's probably already figured it out, Sherlock deduced of John. He's afraid of being correct about his result. He drank two - no, three cups of tea while sitting at the table before getting up and going on his laptop. Angry about being left to do a difficult deduction with hardly anything to go on. Began biting on his nails in irritation. The answer was on the tip of his tongue just before I interrupted-
"You are absolutely impossible," John said.
"So I have been told many times," Sherlock replied, gesturing towards the waiting cab.
With a huff of pent up vexation, John got in the cab and headed off. Sherlock waited for the car to be out of sight before hailing one for himself and heading to Bart's.
Even if John's cabbie had driven as fast as it possibly could, he couldn't have reached the flat by the time Sherlock got a text.
Is it a book? -JW
He's avoiding his real deduction. For God's sake, John.
No. -SH
If John is going to dance around it, we both shall.
Sherlock smirked to himself. John will have to say it eventually, but for now it was a hell of a show to watch.
The cab pulled up to St. Bart's Hospital, and Sherlock stepped out into the crisp air and paid the cabbie.
Ah, St. Bart's.. Sherlock could walk through that place blindfolded. Not only from having worked there for some time, but this was an original design for his mind palace. That was, of course, before it became necessary to upgrade. The rooms were never big enough in the Bart's model. Then there were the unnecessary caretaker closets. The hospital had them, but Sherlock had absolutely no use for them. The morgue was an excellent addition, however. Any memory he didn't want was disposed of there. Any bodies from crime scenes were put in the cold chambers. Now, the corpses from unsolved cases were put into their own room, each so carefully designed to match the crime scene as closely as possible.
Sherlock walked the halls, hardly paying attention, and nearly ran right into Molly.
"Oh," Molly said. "Sorry about that."
"Why would you be sorry?"
"Because.. I- We- No reason."
Sherlock was bewildered at her behaviour. Probably another one of those emotions where people say sorry for every little thing. Nearly running into someone was nothing.
"Well," Molly continued. "I assume you got a case?"
"What? Why? What makes you think that?"
"You're looking around like you're remembering rather than just thinking. You really only give that look for a fair few of reasons."
"Such as?"
"When you're remembering details of a case, remembering something that will help you with any conclusion you get during any experiment, and - uh - well, that's about it."
"You said a fair few, Molly. So far, you've only given two."
"It's not my place to say."
"I'd be delighted to hear the rest," Sherlock said with an edge in his voice.
"It's nothing. Really. I got to be off, now. Corpses aren't going to autopsy themselves."
And with a small chuckle to herself, Molly walked away, briskly.
More avoiding. Fantastic.
Sherlock rolled his eyes and continued in to the lab.
Ah, now we're talking, Sherlock said to himself, taking the samples from his coat pocket then removing the coat itself.
Ah, and what shall we start with this time? How about the flakes?
Sherlock picked up the slide box that contained flakes of metal from the rusting chains. He put a flake on a slide and put it under his microscope, but before he could even look at it, his phone went off again.
With a sigh of irritation, he pulled his mobile out.
Can I X-Ray it? JW
Oh, for the love-
No. Well, not unless you can get an X-Ray machine into the flat and pay no mind to the radiation that it'd bring. If you can manage that, do go ahead. SH
Has he really gotten that desperate? He'd have only been sitting there for about half of an hour. Surely he can't have gotten that bad so fast.
Sherlock slipped his mobile into his jacket's inside pocket and turned his eyes back to the metal flake.
It seems to just be zinc, so the chain is probably covered in it. Most chains are, so there's nothing useful with this.
Sherlock removed the slide and tossed it aside, soughing.
There was nothing. Nothing special about the blood. No leads from it at all, no matter how deep Sherlock searched.
Sherlock groaned and dug out his mobile from his jacket.
John, I'll be in my mind palace. If you figure it out before I'm done, just wait. SH
He placed it back in his inside pocket, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. And as he exhaled, Sherlock's eyes snapped open as he began to navigate through the manor.
What would make someone throw this kind of party? To impress a pretty girl? Unlikely. A fetish? Also unlikely but still very possibly.
He walked the halls in search for an answer, but before he could find anything helpful, he was distracted by one of his favorite rooms.
The sign read: DR. JOHN WATSON
Well, this is inconvenient, Sherlock thought as he walked through the door. If this is going to become a reoccurrence, I might have to change it from a room into a basement. No accidental ways of coming across a basement in this place.
The room had more file cabinets than most. There were two against the wall dedicated just to John's physical appearance and emotions. An entire drawer for how John liked his food. John's mannerisms and speech patterns. How John responded to different physical contact and body language. He was even able to wire in an olfactory memory to the room and the entire space smelled of John.
Sherlock took a deep inhale of the scent. He made it a habit to drop in this room whenever he came here - unless there was an urgent matter that didn't give enough time for such luxuries.
Right.. Time to get to work.
Sherlock came back to the 'real world,' and immediately checked his phone for a text from John.
Is it a whip? JW
Sherlock's lips twitched a tad with delight.
I'll be home in 20. SH
And just like that, the consulting detective abandoned his work, grabbed his coat, and headed back to Baker Street.
Sherlock bounded up the stairs to 221B and practically took the door down as he did, abandoning his usual elegance.
"So," John started. "I was right, then?"
"You were, indeed," Sherlock replied, shedding his coat and hanging it on the rack.
"Does that mean I can open it now?"
"You may."
With a face of disbelief and confusion, the doctor tore the package open. Sherlock wasn't sure a face could twist up much more in uncertainty.
"So, it actually is a whip?"
"A bondage whip, to be precise."
"I see. And, why would you get me a whip?"
"For you to use with one of your many companions."
"What makes you think I'd want to?"
"John, please, don't pretend like I can't see through you and your quirks. I remember when we went to Baskerville. You marveled in pulling rank and giving orders. I saw your reactions to The Woman."
"Now, hang on. Just because I reacted to her doesn't mean a damn thing."
"And the pleasure of giving orders?"
"You would enjoy it, too, if you got the chance."
"Oh, but I have."
"Pardon?"
"Well," Sherlock began, clearing his throat. "You see, John, I actually do it quite often. Mostly to you, of course."
"I'm sorry, you what?"
"When I picked the package up, you began to ask questions. I insisted you stop, though you were persistent. That led to me actually asking politely. However, when we got back here, I told you to stay put and do your best to deduce what was inside. Which you obeyed, more or less."
"So, you did another damn experiment on me?"
"It can hardly be called an experiment, John."
"You bloody- no. No. No. And what would have happened if I'd never come up with the right answer?"
"Well, now, that's a funny little story," Sherlock uttered, his voice dropping almost an entire octave as he made his way to stand behind the doctor. "After a few days, if you still hadn't figured it out, I'd have shown you. I'd have taken one of your ties, one of my scarves, or a belt from one of our robes, and tied your hands behind your back after stripping you down to nothing but your pants. And I'd have marked you, John. I'd have turned your skin so red, it'd look like you'd been burned by the sun."
Sherlock heard an audible gulp from John, even though he tried to hide it.
"I would have you begging, John."
"Begging for what?"
"For anything. For everything."
A shuddered breathe was released by the doctor, causing a small smile to appear on Sherlock's face.
Hook.
"Then what," John inquired, the sound of fear and what sounded like the sowed seed of self-disgust.
"Now, John I can't just tell you everything. I could still come home and do all of this to you. And don't feel so ashamed about wanting it, it's perfectly natural."
"Being whipped until I look sunburned - on hopefully my back, chest and abdomen rather than my face - is not exactly natural. Let alone normal."
"Oh, normal. We're back to this, are we? Are you aware of who I am and how little I care about normal?"
"I'm aware that you care very little, Sherlock. I just wish for once in your bloody life you'd remember that other people tend to care."
"Well," Sherlock started. "If I had you tied up, it wouldn't matter. You'd be mine to do with whatever I please."
John gave no further replies. The detective took the silence to get right next to John's ear.
"And you'd love every second of it, wouldn't you?"
Another audible gulp was heard from the doctor.
Line.
"I am not having this conversation, Sherlock," John spat out quickly.
"Why not? Afraid I'm right?"
"No," the doctor replied, his voice shaking.
Sherlock rounded the table and leaned across toward John, studying him.
"Do you want to try that again?"
"I said 'no,' " John stated, voice shaking even more. His eyes were battling his words. The eyes of the doctor were nearly beckoning with a wild hunger.
Something sparked in Sherlock's mind. The Game was making headway.
Sinker.