A/N: Oh look a third chapter. Bit longer than my other chapters oops. I'm trying to keep the same length but I guess that might not work out after all. Tell me what you think! xx
Chapter 3: The Prat
John has had many rude awakenings since moving into 221B. It'd been a bit of a package deal - messy flat, adrenaline-fuelled cases, and an inconsiderate, petulant, unpredictable alarm clock of a flatmate.
Depending on his mood, Sherlock may feel it necessary to wake John by torturing his violin into screeching like a dying cat, or maybe by yelling at some inane, predictable, worthless drama - Sherlock's words. John just knew it was a terrible idea to get Sherlock into crap telly.
There was one constant to this madness, however, and that was that this always occurred at godforsaken hours of the morning. There was one time when Sherlock had been conducting an experiment and John had been startled awake thinking he was back in Afghanistan, because the explosion in the kitchen had damn well sounded like a IED going off. When he'd gotten a grip and stomped angrily downstairs to check, he wasn't too far off the mark. It had been a while before the kitchen was usable again.
There were the times when it was case-related, too, and John is usually grudgingly fine with that.
Today is a totally different story. It isn't a wailing violin, or shouting, or even an explosion that startles John awake this time. It's a fog horn.
A handheld, blaring, ugly, who's-genius-idea-was-it-to-invent-such-a-monstrosity-and-release-it-to-a-world-where-madmen-can-get-their-hands-on-it-and-torture-John fog horn.
After jerking awake like he's been electrocuted, John pushes himself up to rest against the headboard of his bed, clutching his bed sheets and duvet closer to him as he stares, horrified and wide-eyed, at his lunatic flatmate standing by his bed. His lunatic flatmate who has just blasted a fog horn in his ear.
"What the hell?!" John cries, voice cracking in hysterical frustration.
Sherlock gives him a Cheshire grin, spinning the offending source of the god-awful alarm bell in his agile, spindly hand, "Excellent. Just as efficient as I expected."
"What?" John chokes out, heart racing a mile a minute.
"I needed you awake. The fog horn was quick," Sherlock says airily.
Now that the initial shock is fading, anger is swarming in to take its place. John can feel his blood pressure rising, a monster prowling inside the cage of his chest.
"Quick? Quick! You've got to be joking. You complete prat!"
Sherlock rolls his eyes hard enough to break something, his whole lean frame screaming that he's already bored with this conversation.
"Oh stop being so dramatic and get up already, John. Our appointment's in an hour."
"What? What appointment?" John blinks, valiantly trying to get his rearing temper under control, but before he even finishes voicing the question his bedroom door is swinging shut behind Sherlock, a.k.a. the bane of his existence.
"Sherlock, what appointment?" John yells.
He grumbles incoherently when he receives no reply. It's not difficult for him to hear Sherlock smirking arrogantly from a floor down.
When John makes his stormy, irritable way into the living room after showering, dressing and telling himself ten times that murdering his flatmate will get him nowhere in life, he finds Sherlock on his own laptop for once sitting at the table they share. The screen lights his face up in ghostly relief, accentuating his cheekbones and brightening his eyes.
"Our appointment?" John presses, going into the kitchen to make some world-renowned therapeutic tea. He senses he's going to need it today, what with the terribly rude awakening and the foreboding feeling he has swirling around in his gut.
That feeling seems to have taken up residence ever since Sherlock, well, proposed.
"The tailor's. You need a tuxedo," Sherlock says absently, staring at the screen.
John peers back into the living room to stare at the lowered, curl-adorned head, "And what's wrong with the one I have?"
Sherlock glances up at him briefly, "Nothing at all if you want to turn up to the wedding looking like a mole. Really, John. We're not getting married with you wearing that potato sack."
John almost drops his mug. What the hell is wrong with Sherlock today? John swears he's worse than his usual socially-inept self. John sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. As much as the man aggravates him, Sherlock usually has good intentions behind his actions. Usually being the operative word. They also tend to be buried way down deep and beyond regular human vision.
"Our killer marries up to six couples every fortnight, but there is only one couple victimised in that period of time. We need to make an impression to ensure that he chooses us as his next victims," Sherlock continues at his usual rumbling speed with nary a pause for breath.
"How do you know that making an impression will make him choose us?" John frowns slightly.
Sherlock sighs theatrically, "It's obvious, John. The bodies were carefully dissected and eviscerated; they were almost identical in their post-mortem states. For this killer, it's all about the aesthetics. He's precise and meticulous in his patterns of both his process of killing and cleaning up after himself, hence the lack of incriminating evidence. Not only is he smart, organized and careful, but to him this is an art that needs to be done perfectly with the right bodies and mutilations or not at all. He selects his victims based on how they look, and whether or not they represent what he opposes. What he opposes is yet to be confirmed, but I suspect it's a grudge against happily-married homosexuals. Whether said grudge is personal or not is irrelevant."
John feels slightly nauseous, "That's sick."
Sherlock hums noncommittally before typing away at his laptop like rapid gunfire.
"Serial killers are generally methodical and clear away any incriminating evidence as they see fit. However, with time, they grow arrogant and making a fatal error soon follows. I assume you don't wish to wait for that to happen. Without looking our best, that would be what would happen, John," Sherlock pauses to pierce John with a look.
John assumes a weary expression. Git, he thinks.
"Fine, alright. I'll get the damn suit, but you're paying for it," John glares.
Sherlock merely gives one of his bright, wide, closed-mouth imitations of a smile.