Still have mixed feelings on the CBS Sherlock Holmes. Seems a bit too close for comfort.
The Science of Deduction
They were in a taxi now, as they had been for about twenty minutes, riding in silence. Sherlock seemed to be focused with an extraordinary intensity on his cell phone, his alabaster face sometimes giving way to an annoyed look or a scathing glare as his fingers pecked back a retort to whomever he was talking to.
John tolerated this, but the silence was still prodding at the back of his head, alerting him of its presence. Sherlock finally seemed to notice this, his eyes creeping to peer at John surreptitiously. "Okay," he said finally, putting his phone down and glancing out at the rose-colored sunset over the Thames. "You've got questions."
"Yeah," answered John immediately. "Where are we going?"
"Crime scene. Next?"
"Wait, crime scene? I thought we were going to meet a Lestrade."
"We are. He's at a crime scene, he texted me earlier today. Next?" repeated Sherlock pointedly.
John stifled an irked huff. "Who are you? You're a college student working for Scotland Yard. What's your major? Crime? Are you joining the police force?"
Sherlock's answering look was smug. "I'm a science major, actually. But my occupation is a consulting detective. Only one in the world—I invented the job." (He hadn't, actually; it was actually a clever name Lestrade had come up with as the official position to give Sherlock a paycheck; the name had stuck and the young man quickly claimed credit. Lestrade kept silent about all of it.)
"And what does that mean?"
"When the police are out of their depth—which is always—they consult me."
John grinned, looking at Sherlock in amusement. "The police don't consult amateurs."
Sherlock just turned his head to stare at John for a second and he felt a squick of unease at the almost condescending look in the other man's eyes.
"…They don't, right?" (Hoping that Sherlock would respond "No" and restore his faith in Scotland Yard, which had dropped several notches within the past thirty seconds or so.)
"Twenty-three days ago I made the comment that because you were an ex-army man, you'd come rushing to the occupation I was offering you and then I asked you how your shoulder was. You seemed surprised."
"Yes, how did you know about that? I thought I'd done a good job hiding it."
"The way you stand and walk suggested military training," Sherlock began in a monotone, as if he'd done this before. "You're well-built, which means continued training in athletics despite your service being over. If you were still in the service, you wouldn't be working in that coffee shop to support your schooling; the military would be paying for your education. You favor your left arm over your right despite being naturally right-handed, as seen by the way you jumped over the counter and open doors with your left hand. Shoulder is the logical choice of guessing where the injury was because those require strain on the shoulder. You're lucky that you're ambidextrous; anything that causes even the slightest pressure or strain with your right arm is automatically taken care of by your left, whether it's twisting or lifting something or writing down an order. Must be a sensitive wound."
"I didn't realize you were so observant," commented John after a moment, looking at Sherlock from the corners of his eyes curiously. "You also commented— that first night that we met— about how you could tell I'd been writing."
Sherlock smirked. "Another easy one. These, I may mention, are all things that would be evident and easy enough to figure out for a child…if they took the time to look. I knew you'd been up late writing because your eyes were bloodshot, but not in a taking-drugs-bloodshot way, and had rings beneath them— that meant insomnia or staying up late to work. It was the latter, because of your left wrist."
"My left wrist?"
"Ink smudges," replied Sherlock in an almost sing-song voice; John noticed that his tone had become more enthusiastic as his explanations had gone on. "You're right-handed but writing on a desk makes your right arm feel strained, so you use your left when writing anything of length; this is evident by the chicken scratch you call handwriting and the ink smudges from the pen you used on the side of your hand. You were right about one thing."
"I was right?"
"The police don't consult amateurs."
There was a heavy silence in the taxi as John processed this and Sherlock languished in his victory. Then, he asked, "Why write by hand? Why don't you use a computer?"
"Can't afford one," John finally answered, seeming a little embarrassed.
"Ah. We'll see about that next then, shall we?"
"I don't want you to buy me a computer."
"Why ever not?"
"…It's a bit of a pride issue."
"Ah."
John seemed to swallow, and then remarked, "Sherlock. That…was amazing."
Sherlock blinked, looking around in bemusement as if wondering if the compliment was really directed at him. "Was it?"
"Of course it was; it was extraordinary…quite extraordinary."
"That's not what people usually say."
"Well, what do people usually say?"
"'Piss off'," responded Sherlock with a smirk. John grinned, chuckling a little.
XxXxXxXxXxX
"Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock questioned as they got out of the car at the crime scene. "Oh, I may need your help when we get inside."
"I was in the military; I trained at Bart's," confirmed John. "I was shot in the shoulder. I was staying up late, writing in pen with my left hand."
"Spot on, then," said Sherlock complacently, "I didn't expect to be right about everything."
"I wasn't writing an essay, though," said John, "I was writing in a notebook— a journal entry." Sherlock froze, inhaling sharply. "Now, what is it you want me to do when we get in?"
"Therapy," realized Sherlock suddenly.
"No, seriously, what am I doing here?"
"Therapy!" Sherlock spat out the word like it was a curse. "It's always something. Figures that would be your recommended PTSD work…"
John smirked as Sherlock quickly walked to the crime scene, pouting at his near-victory. Couldn't resist.
Prompt was #36: rose