Second chapter! I enjoy this one. Tell me what you think!
John woke to a crashing noise from the sitting room and jumped awake, grabbing his gun and heading for his door before hearing a shouted curse and stopping short.
He peeked through the door to see that the room had been trashed. The sofa was overturned, his chair was sitting upside down and the coffee table had apparently been thrown against the wall. Sherlock had just punched the wall in between their flats, leaving a nice fist-sized hole through the drywall, her other hand fisted in her curls. John frowned when he saw her pull her hand out of the fiberglass insulating; that was going to itch later.
He pulled away, trying to make sure Sherlock didn't know he was awake - he didn't need that type of destructive force flying at him, thank you very much. Instead, he texted Greg, figuring that if anyone had any type of experience with Sherlock in these sorts of moods, it would probably be him.
Shit. I'll be over in a few. Try not to - well, do anything, I suppose. Lestrade texted back.
John sighed and pocketed his phone, realizing that there was nothing for it but to hunker down in his bedroom until it was safe to come out. He pulled on his robe, shivering a bit; he hadn't had time to set a fire for a while, ever since Sherlock had pulled him into her sphere, really. He realized he'd never turned the heating up. No wonder he'd been drinking so much tea - it was warming.
"John." Sherlock burst into the room. "You're up. Come." Before he had a chance to protest, he was being dragged into the sitting room by a long-fingered hand on his arm, and Sherlock bent to snatch his chair and turn it right-side-up before forcing him down into it. "Sit. Stay," she ordered.
John sat, and stayed, and Sherlock turned angrily at the wall. "It's so stupid, John, I've tried everything, but there's nothing this bloke can be trying to get across, there's no message to it, no pattern except ABC, and honestly my Mind Palace is USELESS!"
This last word punctuated the air with a shout as she kicked a book, and John watched it sail across the room. What's a mind palace? he thought to himself, but had to dodge another book that flew alarmingly near his face before he arrived at a suitable answer.
"I mean, I've tried everything I can think of, but ABC is connected to everything, hell, this could be a homage to Michael Jackson and the Jackson Five -" each point was accompanied by a book sailing across the room. John just was glad they weren't his books. "- but I honestly can't see what that has to do with it and I can't - I mean, the inanity, John, that's going round and round in my brain, let's start at the very beginning, a very good place to start, when you read you begin with ABC -"
John's eyes widened. Sherlock was singing? Sherlock was singing. Well, apparently Sherlock could sing alto rather well. Good to know. He got up and she reached to push him down again, but instead he grabbed her hand, inspecting the knuckles. She stopped mid-rant to stare at him, then snorted. "I know how to throw a punch, John," she scoffed, and he nodded.
"Never doubted that, I'm more worried about the insulation. The strands of microfiber can give you tiny, invisible splinters. They itch like mad after a while, I want to know how bad it's going to be." There was a slight reddening around the knuckles already; some from the punch, but some of it looked angrier, and John knew he was right, she'd managed to give herself rash.
"It's already terrible," Sherlock groused, somewhat mollified, and John shrugged.
"It will be worse when you're grumping about with a hand that feels like it's on fire," he told her.
"Have a lot of experience with this, did you?" she asked wryly, and he grinned.
"Punched a wall in basic training. Bad idea. And then I had to do push-ups on the sore knuckles," John said, getting up and heading to the kitchen. He heard Sherlock heave a sigh behind him, but when he came back with a bowl of water and a tin of baking soda, she seemed surprised, then held out her hand, resigned, as she sat on his chair.
"I thought you were getting tea," she admitted when he sat her down and put the bowl and soda on her lap, then headed over to the wall to pick up the coffee table. He put it to rights and placed the large bowl on it, sprinkling in a large amount of baking soda and placing her hand in it gently.
"Well, now I will. Hold still, would you, it should draw out the splinters. Doesn't look like it's too terrible, but I don't want to risk it with you in this mood." John gestured to the overturned couch, and Sherlock had the grace to flush as she pulled her feet onto the chair in her favourite crouching position, wiggling her toes.
"Did you - paint those - again?" John said, blinking at the bright red on her toenails. Sherlock waved her free hand lazily. The nails on it also sported the red paint.
"And my hands. Helps me think; means I have to focus."
"I doubt the fumes help you think, but it's better than throwing the furniture about, I suppose," John muttered as he headed to the kitchen.
"Right," came a voice from Sherlock's sitting room a moment later, as John was stirring in the milk. "Sherlock?"
John grinned as he came out of the kitchen with two cups of tea. "False alarm, Greg," he called out as the DI came in warily, looking around like a tiger was about to come out of nowhere and bowl him over. "Well, not false, but it's all handled," he modified.
"You called Lestrade?" Sherlock asked, the implications clear in her tone. John looked benignly down at her as he handed her a cuppa.
"I thought it best not to enter the situation without backup," he said in his soldier voice, the one he used on people who were being unreasonable. He looked up at the Inspector. "Tea?" he offered, and took Lestrade's gaping face as assent, going back into the kitchen. "Sorry it's so cold in here," he called from next to the kettle as he poured still-hot water into a mug. "I forgot to turn the heating up. Normally I set a fire. Though the sofa was Sherlock's fault, I didn't set fire to that," he hastened to add, before peeking his head into the other room to ask, "Sugar and milk?"
"One sugar, and a dash of milk, thanks," Greg finally responded, blinking. "I can start the fire if you like."
"Ta," John said easily. "Starter logs are in the corner by the overturned sofa."
Greg pursed his lips and nodded, walking past Sherlock to get to the sofa, setting it up carefully before picking up a log and crouching by the grate. John left him to it and went back to take the tea out of the mug, adding the sugar and milk.
"Why do you have your hand in a bowl of water?" he heard Greg ask curiously.
Sherlock replied shortly with, "To take the splinters out."
"Aah," Lestrade said, apparently deciding that he didn't want to know anything further. John came out to see him click on a lighter, setting the wrapping of the starter log ablaze.
"Thanks, again. Take a seat. You might as well enjoy a minute off if you can get it," he said, and Lestrade nodded at him, sitting down on the sofa. John sat on the other side, sipping his tea and sighing contentedly. It was so warming, especially in the chill of the flat.
"This case has been bugger-all," Lestrade said after a moment, and rubbed his temples. "It's been chaos down at the yard. Don't suppose you two have anything?"
John shrugged and looked to Sherlock, who tucked a curl behind her ear and grimaced at the water she had her hand in.
"It's alphabetical, but I don't know what that means," she said, and John blinked, realizing what she'd meant by ABC. He tilted his head back.
"Ohh. Abacus, Bailiff, Cactus," he said, and Sherlock nodded in approval, shifting the bowl back to her lap so she didn't have to lean forward. Lestrade blinked.
"What, so it's a pattern? D's next then. Driver? Dance teacher? Doctor? Drummer?" He started to list off ideas, Sherlock's eyes flickering over to meet John's when he guessed doctor. John just smiled at her and took another sip of his tea, adjusting the gun that was in the pocket of his robe inconspicuously. Wouldn't do to have Lestrade notice it, after all; but Sherlock smiled at the movement.
"Disco," John guessed, and Sherlock grinned.
"Dimmock."