I'm sorry that I haven't been posting as quickly as I was doing when this story started. My grandparents have been in the hospital for almost 3 months, and I've been staying with them overnight and sleeping all day. 3 I hope you enjoy this chapter!
"Or I'll make you," John said.
Sherlock's rational mind took over and he went through all sorts of scenarios.
Make me? What could you do? Duct tape my mouth shut? Gag me? Hold your hand over my mouth? Shove your- oh..
"Say, John," Sherlock started.
"Yeah?" the doctor replied, clearly irritated.
"I think we should devise a new safe word."
"What? What for?"
"That part doesn't matter yet. Just think of one that I can assign to something."
"I don't know.. Ace of Spades."
"Ridiculous. I don't want to yell that out. Come on, John. What about-" Sherlock thought for a moment. "Red pants."
"Oh, sure. Red pants is fine, but Ace of Spades is too much."
"It will make sense when it comes to pass."
"Of course it will."
Sherlock stood and walked into the living room, grabbing his coat.
"Where are you off to?" John asked.
"Bart's. Might do a bit of shopping. Do we need anything?"
Silence. John really needed to work on controlling his reactions. Sherlock going shopping couldn't be THAT surprising.
"Uhh.. Maybe some beans, yeah?"
"Got it. Shall return later."
Sherlock descended the stairs and left the building. He began walking the complete opposite direction of Bart's. Sherlock's mind had this ability to either work like mad or not think of anything at all. At the time, it was doing the latter. The only thing it was truly thinking of was the direction in which he needed to go. With no perception of time, Sherlock didn't know how long it'd been since he left until he reached the clothing shop.
He sighed out his anxiety and irritation about having to deal with people, and walked into the store. He eyes glanced over everything in a matter of seconds, and he didn't see what he came to get.
He sought out the first shop worker he could find. It was a short, thin, red-haired girl.
About 19 years old. Recently dumped her fiancé for cheating on her with two- no three other women. Sherlock looked a little harder. And one man. She feels angered and free. Ready to throw herself at the first interested person. Gender of person doesn't seem to matter.
Oh, this is going to go over marvelously.
Sherlock took a deep breath and masked his face with his best faux smile. He took the scarf off his neck, and walked towards the girl.
"Hi," Sherlock said, his voice taking on a higher pitch.
The girl turned to look at him and her entire body language changed from disgruntled to one that resembled insatiable hunger.
"Hello," she said. "How can I help you?"
"Well, I was wondering if you could help me find a pair of red pants."
"Of course. Who are you shopping for today?"
"My boyfriend," Sherlock said, adding a giggle.
The girl's face changed from hungry to friendly, though it seemed to mask a bit of anger.
Disappointed that she won't be getting anywhere. Set herself up for disappointment. Human Error.
She led him over to the mens department, and to the section where all the pants were kept.
"Here you are! If you need anything, just find me or ask for Rachel."
"Thank you ever so much, Rachel."
"No problem!"
Rachel turned and walked away, and Sherlock rolled his eyes behind her back.
"Alright," Sherlock sighed to himself. He began to rummage through all the pairs of pants until he happened upon a pair that seemed to be about John's size. He eyed them closely. Being unsure, he just grabbed the next size up and the next size down - just in case.
Sherlock walked up to the counter, where Rachel was sorting and folding returned/tried-on clothes. She seemed to notice someone had approached, because her body language changed again. Though, once she realized it was Sherlock, it changed back to being more disgruntled.
"Find what you were looking for?" she asked.
"I did," Sherlock said politely, with a cheeky smile. He placed all three pairs on the counter, paid, and left.
Sherlock liked to play this little game when he walked. He would pass people on the street and read their life story like an open book. Even with a quick glance, words would just appear around people, exposing them.
Liar. Adulterer. Office worker. Lives with mother. House full of cats. Formerly obese. Beaten by father. Neglected by mother. Drinks herself to sleep. Signs up for every dating site he can.
Always a fun game. Luckily, all the other people didn't know he was playing. Then, they might start to try to deduce him.
Freak. Show off. Psychopath. Smart are. Jealous.
But, then again, they don't really know him. No one really does. Not Mycroft, not Lestrade, not Molly, not Mrs. Hudson, not John- No. That's not correct. John was the only one who understands him and sees him for how he is. John paints him in a monumental work of art whilst others crumble him like waste. John sees Sherlock.
It's no wonder that I'm in lov-.
Sherlock's eyes twitched up to the sign that read "St. Bartholomew's" and walked through the doors. He weaved through people and rounded corners and landed himself inside his area of the building, in a chemical laboratory.
Finally. Time to solve this nettling case.
Sherlock placed his shopping bag, and shed off his coat to hang up. He briskly walked to his waiting instruments. It must be hard for people to understand Sherlock's desire to delve in experiments and crime solving. Sure, it's an alternative to getting high, but it's also an art. Like his violin, Sherlock can create a beautiful masterpiece. The clinks and taps of the slides, the hum of the centrifuge motor, the smell of chemicals and solutions wafting through the air. A scientific symphony, a gorgeous melody if one were so inclined to hear it.
Sherlock located his mobile and sent a text to Lestrade.
I assume you lot have discovered who the victims are. SH
We have. Any leads with the blood? GL
Not yet. Just got to Bart's. I should have something by the time I leave. SH
Alright. Get going, then. GL
Sherlock placed the phone on the table next to his microscope. He had some of the remaining flakes from the chains spinning on the centrifuge. While waiting for the separation, Sherlock was looking closer at the mixed blood through the microscope. There seemed to be an anomaly among the mixture - a spheroid with multiple projections.
One of the victims was infected with HIV.
Sherlock kept studying the blood carefully, until the silence began to wear him down. He needed accompanying sound.
Unusual.
Sherlock took his phone and brought up Sarasate's Op 25, "Carmen Fantasy." A quick paced concert piece, that Sherlock felt would fit nicely to the insane case he was working on.
With the music to pair his crazy experimenting and deducing, time seemed to blow by.
The next thing Sherlock knew, it was late at night, and the stores would be closing soon.
He finished his last bit of work - for the time being - and grabbed his things from the front of the room. As he walked out towards the street, he rapidly wrote his text to Lestrade.
One of the victims had HIV. Another was anemic. SH
So, do you think it's a doctor picking off his patients in some weird way to allude to "survival of the fittest" ? GL
… That might be the worst deduction you've ever had, Graham. SH
Greg. GL
Whatever. SH
Sherlock hailed a cab and took it to the closest butcher. He had the cabbie wait for him while he just popped in for a moment.
Taking the shopping bag with him, Sherlock approached the butcher.
"Hello, Sal," Sherlock said, taking on a higher tone once more.
"Ah, Sherlock! What can I get for you?" Sal asked, his Italian accent very prominent.
"I have a gift for someone-"
"And you bring it to Sal to wrap for you. Unmarked as usual, I take it?"
Sherlock smiled a convincing mask.
"You always know, Sal. You can text or call whenever it's ready. No rush."
"Nonesense! I can wrap it right now!"
"Sal, really, it's no trouble at all."
"Hush, now, Mr. Holmes. You helped clean my name, the least I can do is wrap this for you as soon as possible."
"You're amazing, Sal."
"I know this."
Sal disappeared into the back of the shop and returned with a small box. He took the shopping bag from Sherlock and removed the pants from it.
"Ah," Sal said with an amused smile.
Sherlock pretended to blush with embarrassment.
Sal slipped the pants into the box, and wrapped it in brown paper, accenting it with paper ribbon. Identical packaging to the first gift, though of different proportions. He handed the package to Sherlock.
"You're a life saver, Sal. If you need anything, you let me know."
"I shall! Thank you again, Sherlock. Come back any time! Give my best to your- to the person that receives the gift."
Sherlock chuckled. "Will do! See you later."
"Goodbye!"
Sherlock turned and his fake smile dropped from his face like toxic waste. He got back in the cab and headed to the store. He ran in and got some beans as fast as possible, and finally made his way back to the flat.
He ascended the stairs as quietly as possible. Of course, he took a few at a time as to avoid all the stairs that creak to be sure John didn't hear him coming. From the sounds - or lack thereof - John seemed to have gone to bed already.
Excellent.
Sherlock quietly went up the rest of the stairs and into the flat. He dropped the cans of beans off on the kitchen counter, then went in his room and stashed the package away under his bed. He walked into the living room for another sleepless night of thinking. Background noise was still required, oddly enough. As quietly as he possibly could, Sherlock bounded up the stairs towards John's room. He cracked open the door so the sound of the doctor's snoring would carry down to the living room.
And with that, Sherlock settled in a laying position on the couch - feet propped on the arm rest, hands steepled under his chin. It was time for thinking.