Chapter Seven
Did you Miss Me?
Well, hello! Betcha' thought your narrator had forgotten, huh? Nope, my poor ole five year old computer (ancient, I know) bit the dust in a bad way…heartily eating up several of my outlines…BUT! Since we are all here, let's all grab a drink or five and find out what our next installment brings to light!)
Sherlock is on his knees…
(And omg isn't that the beginning of your favorite line from any Johnlock fic evar? …well, as long as the ending is terribly tear-jerking...)
(Watch the stag night episode again…apparently I am so totally not the only one.)
(Clears throat…)
Sherlock is on his knees in Thompson's former room. He is bent at a weird angle, his posh posterior stuck out in the air and his big hands pushing beneath the mattress.
(Turn the camera. Thanks.)
Now we can see his frown, brows so close they are almost touching the top of his nose.
"What do you see?" Lovely John asks in his lovely I-love-you-even-when-you're-an-arse voice.
"Fibers," Sherlock says unhelpfully then starts pulling his hands from betwixt the mattress and the creaky frame of the hospital bed.
Soon enough, John can see another long, black thing that matches the one that came from poor Thompson's throat. Sherlock holds it up like some macabre fishing trophy.
(Since he was, uh fishing….)
"It makes no sense." The detective mumbles to himself. John keeps quiet because he's good at it. Sherlock frowns at the ropey thing again then twirls about, "John."
John follows him over the threshold of the door and down a generic institutional-standard grade corridor, complete with doctors rushing past and looking busy (they're all extras) and horrible lighting that practically makes poor Be—I mean Sherlock—almost invisible.
Or hideously green.
Sherlock pulls up short and bangs his fist on some random closed door that could be a water closet or well, a real closet. A woman's giggle can clearly be heard then House shouts.
"Go away. Occ-you-pod-oh!"
Sherlock narrows his eyes and John can see start counting to ten. Then he steps back, swings one of those long legs and kicks the door in. Actually, he kicks the door out. As the cheap institutional-standard grade (TV prop) (probably made of sugar) door handle snaps off and the door swings open, he looks pleased with himself for about three seconds until the pain starts.
"Ow!" Sherlock whines, theatrically hopping on the foot he used to kick at the door. He pauses for a split second and changes sides, keeping one eye on John's reaction when he does so.
John thinks, yeah that was stupid. Only in the movies does that not hurt. What he says is, "That was stupid."
Sherlock huffs.
"Hey!" House shouts because we seem to have forgotten about him for the moment. He is standing in nothing but a pair of pale blue boxer shorts and a grey undershirt.
"Either join in or fuck off."
(As if House would share.)
It takes John a full minute to count how many arms he can see…and even longer to realize that two of them belong to Sally Donovan…who doesn't appear to be angry at House anymore. In fact, the way her left leg is wrapped around House's waist, angry is certainly not the word for it.
Actually, quite the opposite if you count the way she's hanging on to his…handle? (The way Mycroft holds onto his brolly or his copper…)
(Yeah, boo! Hiss! I'm sorry, it was just there!)
House's eyes are twin pools of blue flame, but he doesn't even flinch when Sally lets go and the bits of him that are usually covered by clothing are left swinging in the breeze.
Or not really.
John rolls his eyes and puts his back to the strange tableaux. Sherlock merely shakes his head and heads back towards House's office.
"Good God, man, even an old whore like you could do better!"
Behind John is the sound of feet slapping against the tile and he casually raises both arms so that when Sally plows into his back on her way towards Sherlock who has actually had both the audacity to lay down yet another gauntlet towards house but is also waving about the hand signal for international peace and brotherhood (Americans use one finger)(Like a lot)…
John manages to turn so that he's holding Sally back. He sighs, thinking that he needs a hobby that doesn't start with saving-Sherlock's-arse-because-his-mouth-just-has-to-keep-running-full-tilt.
"Sally, stop. Will you? Just stop?" John has had about enough of her sharp claws raking into his arms. Her eyes snap to his and she lets out a long breath.
"Sorry, John, not your fault."
"Yeah, I'm aware of that, thanks," he states blandly. "What the hell, Sally?"
She looks like she's going to give him a real answer but instead shrugs her shoulder and says, "I am on holiday."
John lets her go, shakes his head and leans against the wall. He crosses his arms over his chest and points his chin in House's direction. "House, put it away. You do have a job to do."
Sally cruises past with a huff, so close to John that the wind from her movement stirs his hair. He is secretly glad she's still got her clothes on…well, mostly. He's married, after all, not dead and Sally isn't exactly ugly. Granted, since he and Sherlock got together, no one really turns his head, but he is male and men like to look, dammit. One of his favorite things to do is look down and see…
There's a tap on his shoulder. House stands in front of him, back to his normal rumpled self.
"Better?" he asks.
"Yes, thanks. Can we get on with it now?" John states.
"I was trying…"
"House, shut up." Doctor Wilson says from behind House as he smacks the back of his head.
John grins. The three of them head back to House's office. John walks by himself while Doctor Wilson steers House by clutching his forearm and practically driving him forward.
(Here's where the narrator breaks in again…I ship an awful lot of ships…but I just can't ship Wilson/House…because House is pretty much, well, a slut. Wilson needs a partner that is a bit more domesticated. Which is why their friendship works, but I don't see Wilson as a complete Watson foil.)
Alright! I've finished my popcorn and I'm ready to relax and read for a bit for sleeping and starting all over tomorrow. I can't wait to see what happens when House finds Sherlock deleting the porn files on his computer! wink wink )
Chapter Eight
{Homes…Holmes…House. Aw, come on! I know you all already knew this.}
We open our scene to see the long, lanky git that belongs to one Doctor Watson spread all over the top of House's desk, long, lanky digits poking at the keyboard and clicking the mouse at record speeds.
House is going to be pee-oh'ed. Sherlock deftly deletes dozens of disastrous files, dumping them delightedly into the recycle bin. He's wearing a smug smirk of smartness and John is also wearing a smug smirk, but for different reasons, number one of which happens to be plush posh Pinkerton posterior.
(Also, John is a tad bit wicked himself and thinks House does deserve dastardly deletions.)
(I have to stop watching Sesame Street.)
(Also, if you don't know what a Pinkerton is…how the heck are you a fan of detective stories?)
As your narrator finds herself completely sober except for the slowly draining effects of caffeine, the audience needs to be aware of the sound rumbling down the hallway outside of House's office. The rumbling sound is being caused by a large set of bare feet slapping against the shiny linoleum that belong to Gregory House.
Who is being chased by Gregory Lestrade.
(Ok, I have to do it: who said we could put all our Gregs into one basket?)
Of course, this ruckus finally enters the office and Sherlock looks up from his heinous heisting of House's hapless hot hoochies with humongous hooters in time to grimace at certain parts of House's anatomy that no longer seem so enamored of a certain copper who is most certainly not enamored of Holmes.
(No I did not get the dictionary out.)
House is breathing hard and leaning awkwardly on his bad leg. Sherlock's eyes narrow. John tilts his head towards Sherlock, then looks to Lestrade, a question in his expression.
"We found this," Greg says as he holds up a piece of paper. On it are more torn letters, and this one says:
CLUE no. 2 hOspItAl BaseMEnt, 3:30 pm. PanDOrA'S Box WILL OpeN. A WRITe-chus MOnK will ApEAR.They all look at each other. House moves first, going around behind his desk and grabbing the rather moth-eaten duffel bag he's got under it; completely ignoring Sherlock, who has dropped into his chair. He rummages through the bag until he finds another pair of equally moth-eaten jeans and an old Rolling-Stones T-shirt that only has artful holes in it. He ignores everyone else as he pulls the clothing on and steps barefoot into a pair of trainers from the bottom of the bag.
John's sure those shoes were brand new once upon a time, like about 1983 or so. But thinking about old trainers makes him thinks about other things that he doesn't want to deal with at the moment, so he turns his attention back to his husband, who is once again peering at the paper in his hands like a near-sighted squirrel with a bad nut.
John sighs, takes Sherlock's glasses from his pocket and plunks them onto his face. Sherlock's eyes widen as he takes in the much-clearer letters.
"Why can they never spell?" he mutters.
Lestrade and John roll their shoulders simultaneously as the Captain stops in the doorway, clutching a cup of coffee with a familiar round green logo emblazoned on the front of it. House sees the cup and makes a whiny sound in the back of his throat. He has finished tying his shoes and is now perched on the edge of his desk.
(Idly, John wonders if he washes it off after he sits on it.)
(Probably not.)
"Don't worry, we've got enough for everybody," Thirteen announces as Captain moves to allow her into the room. She's got a cardboard drink carrier filled with about a hundred and fifty coffee-chia-latte-mocha-expensive- things in it. She hands them out and nods her head in Sherlock's direction.
John nods back and she sets a cup down in front of him. Funnily enough, it's the only one that's got a straw in it.
A pink bendy straw.
We'll get back to that.
"What's he got?" Captain asks.
"Another note from Monk's kidnappers," Lestrade says with a nod in Captain's direction. He switches his cup to his left hand and turns his wrist over. "According to that note, we are to meet them in the basement of this hospital at half past three, so that gives us about fifteen minutes, I think."
"Hospitals don't really have basements," Thirteen pipes up, her eyes on Sherlock.
John sees that and inches closer. So close in fact, that he's got one hand wrapped around his coffee-thing and the other resting on the back of Sherlock's neck. Thirteen smiles at him and shakes her head slightly.
John gives her a curt head-tuck and relaxes. He waits for Sherlock to chime in with some sort of correction, but instead he says:
"She's right."
All eyes turn towards him and he shrugs, pulling his glasses off his face and holding them in midair. John tucks them back into their case then tucks the case back into his pocket.
"They don't have basements, they have morgues."
It takes three seconds for them all to cotton on. Lestrade, Captain, Thirteen and House grab the first lift while John shadows Sherlock down the stairwell.
o-o-o
The morgue laboratory, when they all finally reach it, is as empty as morgues can be in the middle of the afternoon in the middle of the week. House pushes open the door and steps into the main room. Long steel counters (benches) run the length of the walls, only interrupted by a couple of sinks. Above them are a row of cabinets (cupboards). Miscellaneous tools and boxes of gloves adorn the counters. Everything is sparkling clean and well cared for.
Nothing looks out of place.
Except for the large steamer trunk in the middle of the floor where it is bracketed by the steel tables. It is surrounded by chains and padlocks. House frowns at it. Thirteen raises a hand to her mouth.
Captain steps towards the box, hands outstretched as if afraid to touch it, bushy mustache bristling. He jerks back in surprise when the box mutters and mumbles and shakes. Lestrade looks over at John, horrified that there is someone in the box. John glances around the lab, trying to decide the best tool to use to crack open the box without harming the person (who, like all of them, he really thinks is our missing Monk) inside it.
A bone saw perhaps? He starts towards it, but Sherlock makes a clucking noise with his tongue. He's on his knees working his lock picking set into the first padlock. In no time at all, he's got three of them off and is working on the fourth when the person in the box begins banging on the top of it. Sherlock starts talking.
"Mr. Monk, it's going to be alright. Just let me…." He pokes his tongue between his lips as the last padlock snicks open. Captain and Lestrade reach down together and pull the chains off the trunk. "Just stay still Mr. Monk, we'll have you out in a bit…"
Sherlock frowns as the person in the trunk falls silent. "We need to get him out, now." He yanks at the mildew covered clasp until it gives by falling onto the floor. Captain and Lestrade move back, Thirteen and House step in closer. Sherlock opens the trunk and leans over it. When he stands back up, he's holding another one of the long, black, ropey things complete with the black orchid on the end of it.
He glares at it, snorts and offers his hand to the person in the trunk. Captain steps forward to offer his assistance then freezes as the man unfolds from the depths of the box that could have easily been his coffin.
(Cue the 'dun dun dun' music.)
For a minute, Captain looks horrified, then completely confused. The man from the trunk steps out on shaky legs and looks about, eyes narrowed against the light.
"Oh my god," House rumbles, "I do believe we've got the wrong Monk."