O. Obsequious
"John..." Sherlock's voice is hesitant, meek, and it catches my attention with its softness. It's a strange effect, and I realise too late that that might be exactly what he wants – but by then I've looked up, my expression warmly expectant.
After half a moment's consideration, the detective throws himself at my feet, clasping his hands atop my knees. I sit forward in my chair, alarmed by his demeanour, and nearly pull away from the sudden contact. "What the hell are you doing?"
"I need something from you," Sherlock says solemnly. He bites his lip and casts his eyes downward, as though he is ashamed or hesitant to ask. He takes a breath to steel himself and swallows apprehensively.
I'm becoming concerned now, and I can feel myself frowning as I squirm under his interlocked fingers. Carefully, I watch my friend's face, examining his features for any signs of – well, of an experiment. It wouldn't be the first time he'd accidentally poisoned himself with something that made him completely delirious. "Sherlock," I prompt after the silence has dragged on, "what is it?"
"Can I... that is, may I... borrow your laptop?"
My shoulders sag. "Don't you usually? Without asking?"
"Yes," he says, straightening up, "but I wanted to see how you'd react if I begged."