Disclaimer: I do not own the show, the characters, etc, etc…
Navigating a Pool of Sharks
John knew it was too early to take a case. Sherlock had just spent the better part of 48 hours dealing with a bout of food poisoning, the likes of which John hadn't seen in some time, despite his profession. Sherlock wasn't often ill, but just as he did with everything else, he seemed to outdo the whole world at it.
It had only been 12 hours since what John would carefully refer to as Sherlock's last "incident" when Lestrade called with a case. John had been screening both their phones, knowing that Sherlock was feeling cooped up enough to surpass whatever better judgment he might possess if an escape was offered. Unfortunately, it was difficult to swipe the phone from one's flat mate when one was holding a kettle and two cups. Sherlock had gotten halfway dressed before he'd even hung up with Lestrade.
"This is not a good idea," John had been compelled to reiterate during the cab ride over. Sherlock's face was not the healthiest of colors. The man's lack of response didn't boost the doctor's confidence either, especially when he'd had to practically scrape him off the bathroom floor not very long ago. Still, Sherlock was upright and mobile enough, and John had seen him genius his way to oblivion and back after multiple days of no sleep and no food.
Soon they were working the crime scene...or rather John was hanging about watching Sherlock work the crime scene. The detective was subdued, with none of the typical theatrics, but still productive. He quickly made sense of a puzzling collection of evidence and the killer's probable motive. However, a few rounds of standing, stooping, ducking under crime scene tape, and stepping over the body was all it took to make him look as though a stiff breeze might plough him over.
The day got even better when Anderson came upon them. Sherlock was bent over a foot print, studying it closely with a hand lens, when the forensics officer barked his usual pleasantries.
"I hope you're not engaged in your usual tidy practices, because I'd like to get a mold of that footprint before it's completely obliterated."
Totally oblivious of Anderson's approach, Sherlock visibly and uncharacteristically flinched at the man's voice. John saw it clearly, and so did Anderson, and it was like dripping blood into a pool of sharks that you were about to fall into. John could almost see actual gears whirring up in Anderson's head as he seemed to take in the fact that Sherlock was off his game. He could also see just how much Sherlock did not want to deal with the man right now. In fact, the detective was starting to look like he'd sooner throw up on him than waste energy coming up with any sort of retort. Anderson took a breath.
"Oops!" John called loudly, before any words could leave the man's sour face. His beady gaze sliced over to the army doctor. At least half a dozen others were gawking as well, as his foot had "accidentally" knocked into the blub plate of a ground lamp and cracked it to bits. "Eh, bit clumsy, sorry."
"Seriously?" Anderson snapped. "One has to wonder how manage to tie your shoes in the morning if navigating around an obstacle is really so challenging. If you aren't going to be useful—"
"We're done here anyway," Sherlock said, standing. "Let's go, John."
After exchanging a few words with Lestrade, they were in a cab again, heading for 221B. Sherlock was pale and irritably tugged open a button near the collar of his shirt as they settled into the seat.
"You look like hell," John told him, earning a brief but potent glare from the detective. "You really aren't well enough to be tromping about a crime scene."
"Yes, well, you really aren't that clumsy," he replied. He sounded cross, but his eyes told a different story. John tried to look unaware of the implication, but grinned instead.
"Indeed, one wonders how I manage to tie my shoes in the morning," he spoke, in a fairly decent imitation of Anderson's dulcet tones. Sherlock laughed now, and John continued, in his own voice. "What I wonder is how he can navigate anything with such an incredibly large stick up his-" The shrill ring of Sherlock's phone cut the sentence short, and the detective wheezed a laugh at the inadvertent censorship as he answered.
"Yes? Right, just a moment." He covered the receiving end of the phone, turning to look at John. "It's Anderson." John burst out laughing, and the detective barely maintained a normal speaking voice when he finally got back on. "Yes, what is it? No, I didn't alter the foot print, you idiot, it's not my fault if you didn't extract the mold correctly. Well, why else would you be calling?" Sherlock pointed to the phone and pulled an exaggerated I'm-surrounded-by-morons face at John, who promptly started giggling again.
"No, no, wait, Anderson, John wants to know if you've found a stick at the crime scene. A really big one." John had to turn away and practically eat his sleeve now. Even the cabbie was giving them amused glances at this point. "No? All right then, it must still be in place." He cleared his throat, fighting a laugh. "Trust me, it was relevant. No, I'm not insane. Don't blame me if you can't keep up. My word, that's a lot of syllables for you, Anderson, you might want to go and have a lie down!"
He hung up the phone, and the two friends laughed their way back to Baker Street.