Authors Note: I do apologize for no mini update this week, this chapter just got away from me and I started a new story(!) if you were interested in where my brain power went. However, I hope you do enjoy this!
Sherlock's P.O.V
Another one.
How was that possible? Wasn't Hallohan, had to be whoever had paid him then. That bit was obvious. What wasn't was who had paid him. Was it the name he hadn't told John? Perhaps he should mention something. But why use Hallohan? Who had the sponsor used this time? What was the pattern? The reason? How was that possible? How? Data. Need to find data if he was going to solve a puzzle. A puzzle.
Fantastic.
Brilliant.
Neat.
"Oh, really?" he asked in his very best I could not be less interested in the events of your dreary existence, do shut up John voice.
"Yes, really. And that's not going to work Sherlock."
"What isn't?,"soft green eyes asked innocently, picking at an invisible piece of lint on one of the horrid excuses for a blanket the hospital had given him.
"You, pretending you don't care about a case. You always care about cases. I've been bracing myself for when you leave a Valentine's card at a crime scene in February. " John told him with a hint of a tired smile, looking as if Sherlock's acting was on par with a first graders spring play. Insulting in the highest degree.
"Well, I'll have you know I'm much too focused on my health to be bothered with trivia like murders and nursery rhymes," the detective countered with a sniff, looking as dignified as one could manage in a backwards butt robe.
John had burst out laughing for a full seven minutes, 37 seconds before he was able to contain himself. Sherlock had counted the time and narrowed his eyes at his flatmate who was obviously becoming more cracked from all the extra Sherlock-exposure of late. It was the only explanation.
""Sherlock, I'm sure you'd cut off all your limbs and maybe even a few of mine for a 'proper serial killer doing something interesting for once'," the good doctor told him, dropping his voice and using an exaggerated accent at the end of the sentence in what was apparently meant to be an impression of Sherlock Holmes himself.
The detective took back ever thinking that John was funny.
"I might not be a genius but I'm not that stupid. No case details. Three weeks. Doctor's orders Sherlock, you promised."
When had he allowed John to get so clever?
Sherlock scowled deeply as he turned away from John to bury his head in his pillow in frustration. He had a rant about the unjust action of holding a person to a promise made without all the pertinent data lined up on the tip of his tongue when a different thought blossomed in his head. Setting off a wicked grin on his lips which Sherlock was pleased as punch John couldn't see, what luck. What he realized was that John, of course, was not a genius just as the man himself had said. Annoyingly well-versed in mad detective perhaps but no genius. Sherlock Holmes, however, was frightfully brilliant and most certainly of genius status. Therefore, what he had to do was obvious. He would simply trick John into telling him all the important facts. One ex-army doctor was small potatoes for a brain such as his after all.
Perhaps his first course of action was too obvious. It wasn't easy to tell with John. Sometimes he saw right through the taller man and at others Sherlock was filled with glee at having fooled the good doctor once again. John Watson was a mystery and one of the few which could make Sherlock Holmes risk being too obvious.
Foolish eyes and caring. I did warn you.
"You do realize how dangerous not telling me is, don't you John?," the detective said after waiting two hours, 24 minutes to ask in a solemn voice.
"I think I can manage to keep you alive when I've got you confined to a bed, it's almost like a vacation," John replied with that warm smile which caused the wing flapping in Sherlock's stomach, wholly disproving the theory that a rogue appendix had been to blame for the sensation. Apparently it was something else caused only by the face of a good doctor. Still, Sherlock frowned deeply.
You're doing that thing again. Deliberately obtuse. It doesn't suit that three centimetre scar under your right ear, not one bit he thought.
"If ever there was a time for that lead pipe-honey bee look, this would be it," he drawled, gesturing to John's face as if the other man's expression would fill with intense thought simply because Sherlock wished it so. Alas, dare to dream.
All he received was a confused, somewhat annoyed scowl.
"Not me, of course I'll be fine- haven't I been suffering through that scratching sound these sheets make when I so much as wiggle a toe silently? No, other people John. Dangerous for other people," Sherlock explained, in his best serious tone which involved lowering his voice further than normal. He did not pretend to not notice how this affected John. An interesting side effect to study later perhaps.
"Other people? How on earth are you going to manage to hurt other people laying around like that," the doctor asked, though to his credit John did not look as though he believed this to be impossible. He merely looked as though he was waiting for Sherlock to give a legitimate explanation so that he could nod and say that sounds about right.
Endearing a quality as ever, but the man was still being so slow on the uptake that Sherlock found himself wondering which of them he'd choose if he managed to find a lovely skeleton to go with the Skull.
"Murdered, John. People will be murdered, it's the kind of thing that happens when you don't actively pursue a killer."
Ah, there it is. Finally. My clever John, I was beginning to wonder where you'd went.
John pursed his precious, lovely, stop using them to look like that lips. "The police are investigating it, I'm sure the professionals can handle it themselves while you're in the hospital."
Sherlock scoffed almost instinctually.
"The police can't handle anything," he defended adamantly, unable to keep his eager desire for answers at bay. Perhaps it had been a bit of a whine. The world's only consulting detective would never admit to such a thing.
"This conversation feels very familiar, tell me how did it go last time?" John asked sarcastically, giving Sherlock a look that made the detective feel as if he should question the genius title he'd given himself earlier.
He chose to remain silent. John couldn't get a checkmate if Sherlock stopped playing.
"In fact, could you remind me whether it was you or the police I found bleeding to death in an alley recently. I can't seem to remember," the blonde added in much the same way.
Sherlock stood corrected, apparently chess is a game John Watson could easily play alone.
The case was put on hold for a grand total of 28 hours when Sherlock was happily discharged into the care of a certain ex-army doctor. He had found it difficult to focus on being cross or trying to chip away at John's resolve when the other man brought him enough tea to satisfy the Queen herself. Sherlock fancied that perhaps a stronger man than he could have resisted the attentions of a doctor with a rather spectacular new freckle on the underside of his chin and a mother-hen complex. Still, it had only been 28 hours and Mr. Holmes had decided that was as much a grace period as John ought to have hoped for.
It had started innocently enough, in fact it might have been John's fault.
Yes, now that he thought about it, Sherlock was sure the good doctor had no one to blame but himself.
"What do you want for lunch?" John asked him in that I was an army doctor who had bad days voice that both brooked no argument and made Sherlock want to take John's larynx out for just a little while so that he might dissect it more accurately.
"Hmm?"
"Lunch Sherlock, that meal around the middle of the day. Perhaps you've heard of it?"
"Of course I have."
"Well then."
"Nothing thank you, I'm not the least bit hungry," the detective informed John from the couch he had been terribly busy lazing about on. With a dressing gown wrapped tightly around him, Sherlock glared defiantly up at the doctor despite feeling around eight years old whenever he was forced to resort to actions such as that. John Watson too often left him with no other weapons for the battles they had.
"You've got to eat something."
"There is nothing I have to do," Sherlock defended, crossing his arms with very little thought.
"Doctor's orders Sherlock," the good doctor reminded him in what Sherlock sensed was more forced patience than the real thing.
"I'll make you a deal."
John sighed. Predictable, hurtful, Sherlock would confiscate those lungs if the doctor insisted on using them in such a way.
"What deal would that be?" the shorter man asked, already dreading the answer apparently.
"I'll eat whatever you like, as much of it as you like," Sherlock offered, hoping to have hooked John on the good part enough to ignore any misgivings he had about the other end of the deal.
"In exchange for what?"
"A tinsy tiny bit of data John," the consulting detective started carefully but was stopped by the raised hand of an army doctor.
"No, Sherlock. No cases until you're at less risk of spilling your guts out through those stitches," John told him fiercely. Sherlock wanted to say that such an outcome wasn't likely, but the look on John's face said that the doctor wouldn't be reassured by the fact that Sherlock would only lose blood if that happened.
"Now, I'm thinking pancakes," was the last thing the good doctor muttered before wandering back into the kitchen. The detective remained firm in his resolve for not praising how whimsical John was, breakfast for lunch indeed.
When a plate of the offending creations was forced on him, Sherlock took great care in drowning the whole pile in roughly half the bottle of maple syrup John had run down to the corner shop to buy. He was determined not to taste an ounce of the hard work the other man put into the meal.
Judging by the triumphant grin on John Hamish Watson's face, Sherlock did not get the impression that he was successful in dampening the good doctor's spirits at all.
Sherlock quickly began a mental list of all the hidden nooks in the flat in which he might make use of the rest of the bottle before him discreetly.
"Sherlock, what are you doing?"
"Bored," he answered evenly, keeping his voice neutral.
That's it John, keep going…
"And the scissors are for?," the good doctor questioned and Sherlock had to resist the urge to beam at him. It was a difficult thing to supress; a star needs to know when it's shining after all.
"My hair," the detective stated calmly, though he was filled to the brim with wicked glee at the way John blanched at his words.
"Why…why do you want to cut your hair?"
"I'm bored, obviously. Hey, you're familiar with military regulation hair styles. When I'm done taking off some of the length, could you trim the rest up for me?"
"No, I won't. You're cutting your hair because you're bored?" John questioned, and Sherlock felt a bit of his happiness die at the suspicion in the good doctor's voice. There was only a hint of it though so the detective pressed on.
"Yes, I've nothing to occupy my mind so I decided to give this a whirl. I didn't think you'd mind."
"Of course I mind!" the shorter man defended, though reddened quickly whilst staring at the floor the way Sherlock stared at crime scenes.
The brunette merely quirked one elegant eyebrow at John's reaction.
"You've got nice hair is all," John mumbled to the ground, before finally looking up to search Sherlock's face.
"You love your hair though."
"I don't love pointlessly like that John, it's just hair."
"You buy the ridiculous salon shampoo just for curly hair and threatened to cut off at least three fingers if I touched it," John accused more firmly and Sherlock did nothing but huff back at him.
"If you're that bored, go ahead," the good doctor said, voice suddenly airy and uninterested which brought a scowl to Sherlock's face.
"I'm not going to trade the case for your hair either Sherlock," was added as John shut the bathroom door behind him.
So close. The detective would have to try harder.
"Mycroft! Dear brother, to what do I owe the pleasure? Have you had your tea yet?" Sherlock asked in his sweetest voice when he came into the living room to see his brother sitting overly comfortably in John's armchair.
The reaction to this greeting was a look of abject horror on John's face and a smug smile on Mycroft's which instantly made Sherlock's blood boil.
Umbrella stands, he simply must remember to get around to those umbrella stands.
"I'm not here to tell you anything Sherlock, certainly you know better than that," Mycroft told him in as joyful a voice as the politician was capable of as he took a sip of tea. The word's turned John's look of disbelief into a very angry cross one directed at the detective.
"Then why on earth are you here?" Sherlock snapped, switching the part of his brain that had been ready to butter up to his brother over to the task of how best to hide a body so it was never found. A subject he studied at great length whenever Mycroft was busy speaking.
"I merely wanted to check in on my baby brother, it's what people do after such an...indiscretion in an alley."
"You shouldn't have bothered. You were doing such a good job of being somewhere else, it was such a pleasant change. Obviously it wasn't your idea, can tell by your waistcoat. Suppose I've John to thank for that then. Now- get out of that chair and out of this flat."
Sherlock decided he would invent his very own poison one day, purely to slip down Mycroft's giant nose in hopes it would turn his brother's brain into the equivalent of a lump of grey mashed potatoes.
"Sherlock, do you know who would send you flowers? All the card says is 'Sorry for letting him get so handsy!' and it's a dozen ro-….what are you doing?"
"Nothing at all," Sherlock said morosely from where he was laying starfish on the living room floor.
"You know most people enjoy the occasional day off."
Oh, how could John think now was the time to talk about those irritating most people people. Sherlock hated them. All those bland smiles and polite words crawl across his skin like an army of fire ants.
"Could I borrow your stethoscope?" he asked in the same resigned tone, only bothering to shift a pair of pale grey eyes to look at John without turning his head an inch. Too much work.
"What for? It's not a toy. It's an expensive piece of equipment."
"I just wanted to use it for a minute, would have been interesting."
"What would have been?"
"Getting to listen to my heart when I die of boredom."
Cue absolutely unnecessary excessive exhale of oxygen from a certain ex-army doctor.
"You are not going to die Sherlock."
"A shame, it's so boring being stuck here all day. I think even my eyelashes are bored, I can feel it," the taller man argued with the beginnings of a pout while looking up from the worn rug had put in the flat years ago.
"Come here," John replied, hauling the detective up from the ground and flopping Sherlock down on the couch like a boneless fish. The flopping may have been the taller man's doing, though he was sure he kept it dignified.
Almost as quickly John was sitting beside him with one tan, impossibly warm arm wrapped around Sherlock's sharp shoulder blades tightly.
The detective grudgingly admitted to himself that this had a soothing effect.
"What's this all about," Sherlock asked, confusion winning out over remaining impassive to his own inevitable demise in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street.
"We're having a cuddle, "John informed him plainly.
"Oh, why?"
"It's the only available treatment option."
Sherlock hummed in response, his brain making the decision, without consultation, to begin cataloging how the weight distribution of John's arm over him in this position felt. It was a task that allowed for a peaceful quiet to fall over the flat.
"Mummy use to give me hugs, when I was quite young and she thought I was in a mood," Sherlock told his wonderful doctor after indulging in a few more minutes of nothing but John.
He smirked when John shivered.
"I still can't believe you and Mycroft didn't just pop up, ready-made just like you are. I'll need to meet the woman who managed it before I can believe you're not making that all up."
"Once you've ruled out the impossible, whatever remains –however impossible-"
"Must be true, yeah yeah I know. Doesn't make me feel better about it. You could still turn out to be an alien, not sure that's impossible yet. It really isn't decent for someone who looks like you to get to be so clever too."
Sherlock was going to fuse his body into the fabric of his bed. He was going to melt and become nothing but high thread count. His mind was a blank and it was painful.
He would give anything to make it go away. The detective had tried telly which was as mindless as he remembered, had tried the horridly stupid crossword in the paper that John hadn't finished the other morning, he even read the latest update on the blog for a third time. Nothing had helped.
A string of equations was dancing along his ears, balanced and perfected over time. A lovely 7% which would certainly do for a quick fix.
"Is this another trick?" came a soft voice came from beside the bed, starling Sherlock as he hadn't heard his precious John come in.
"What do you mean?"
"This lying in bed for a day and a half. Is it for the case?"
Sherlock scoffed.
"Why should my lying in bed matter? No, I've given up on getting you to tell me John. You are senselessly stubborn, it can't be helped or reasoned with," the world's only consulting detective replied with the air of a man being sent to the gallows.
John stared back at him for a moment as if trying to decide something. Sherlock was too busy trying to think of hidden stashes Mycroft might have missed for John to be staring at the moment. It was terribly distracting, couldn't the good doctor ever leave a bad mood be?
"Just the case files."
"What?" the startled tone couldn't be helped.
"Only the files. I'll get Lestrade to bring them over but you are not allowed to leave this flat if I do. Doctor's orders."
Ah yes, this was why having one's own live-in doctor was such a wonderful thing.
Authors Note: I hope you all liked receiving flowers just then. Till next week, possibly sooner!