Next part. One of the main problems with using someone as famous as Victor Frankenstein is that it's hard to keep secrets from the reader about what he does etc.
Disclaimer- Victor Frankenstein is Mary Wollstonecroft Shelley's. Sherlock Holmes is the property of the estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The setting of this particular incarnation of Sherlock Holmes is the property of Stephen Moffat/Mark Gatiss/BBC.
Two
"... And it's like he's completely forgotten me, or marginalized. I just feel unappreciated," John said before taking another sip of his beer. Across the table, Sarah was obviously trying very hard to be sympathetic. Finally, she sighed.
"John, do you realize that you spent the last three hours talking about Sherlock?" she said gently.
"Well, yeah, I mean..." John bit his lip, and then smiled sheepishly. "Hell, I'm so sorry, Sarah. Feel free to smack me if I mention him again."
"I'll keep that in mind," Sarah grinned, and they left the restaurant.
Avatar was, as Sherlock said, visually stunning, and both John and Sarah could forget the inane plot and dialogue. They walked out with their minds blown.
"Definitely better than District 9," Sarah said with a bit of a woot.
"You did not just say that!" John said, eyes widening. "District 9 was definitely better, in terms of script, plot..."
"Yeah, but the special effects!"
"Yeah, they were great," John conceded, and, giggling like teenagers, they walked to her place. He didn't dare to mention that his cell phone hadn't rung once in the five hours since their date had started.
He returned to 221b Baker Street to hear snatches of German emanating from the shared flat.
Weitere Nachrichten über die Grabräuber ... immer noch nicht begriffen ... Ermittler sind durch das, was scheint eine unlösbare Verbrechen verwirrt ...
He opened the door cautiously to make sure that Sherlock was alone before he came in. Sure enough, he saw the detective's hunched silhouette in the room. John walked in, trying to appear casual.
"You checked to see if Victor was here," Sherlock said amused. "I never saw you as the jealous kind of person, John. Merely overprotective."
"Sorry if I assumed because of the German radio, and the... why are you listening to German radio anyhow? You know German?"
"Anderson knows German," Sherlock said darkly. "I'm intimate with German."
"And when did this start?"
"I think you know very well when it started."
Sherlock smiled, and slapped another nicotine patch onto his pale wrist.
"Well, I'm glad that you enjoyed the evening with your new acquaintance, at any case," John said.
"Friend."
"Beg pardon?"
"He's my friend."
There was an awkward silence that lasted a full thirty seconds before John finally offered to make tea.
Tea was quiet and strained. Sherlock didn't move from his compact position on the chair, busy as he was listening to the radio, and met John's attempts at conversation with non-committal grunts. Finally, John stood up.
"Well, this was pleasant. I'm going to turn in. G'night."
"Night," Sherlock said, watching John as he left to the upstairs room. He stayed perfectly still for forty-five minutes more before springing up and grabbing his scarf to leave.
He met Victor Frankenstein at a little Cambodian place they both preferred over the Vietnamese place they went after Hamlet. Victor was reading a book of Greek myths while waiting. In the dim light of the restaurant, his auburn hair gleamed a dull gold and his wan features were thrown into sharp relief. He looked up when Sherlock slumped in the chair opposite him.
"Hallo," he smiled. "Prompt as always."
"You should be flattered. I usually arrive late to most everything," Sherlock said, amazingly without a hint of disdain. Victor laughed, and it was then Sherlock noticed the dirt under his fingernails. God knows why people laughing caused Sherlock to look at their hands. Maybe a nervous twitch.
"You like to garden, then?" he asked offhandedly. Victor stopped laughing. Sherlock cocked his head, worried, even faintly, that he'd said something to offend his new friend.
"The dirt, underneath your nails. It's planting season. I know I've started with my belladonna," Sherlock said. Victor looked at him for a quarter of a second longer, and then started to laugh, though this time there was a bit of an odd edge to it.
"Yes, I'm a gardener. I have tomatoes, though, not belladonna. Just who are you planning to kill?"
"Belladonna and tomatoes are from the same family," Sherlock said, choosing not to answer Victor's question. "There's not that much of a difference between life and death. It fascinates me, when I bother with botanical philosophy."
"Huh," Victor said quietly.
They talked about other such relations between life and death until the Cambodian place closed and they were kindly told to leave.