A/N: I hope this chapter doesn't break the dynamics of the plotline, I wanted to explore the repercussions of the messed up equilibrium between John and Sherlock. I'll return to Greg's mischiefs and outcomes soon.
Is this "Sitcom Sherlock" genre? -csf
4.
'What's the website, then?' I wait with eager fingers (two of them) poised over the laptop's keyboard.
Sherlock leans closer and shakes his head. 'That's the thing, the original domain got taken down. There aren't even records of having been owned. There are only screenshots and broken links in other people's pages. I can gather very little on how Lupin started.'
I retreat my hands from their keyboard attack position. We need a better strategy. I glance towards the living room windows, with their moth eaten curtains drawn back, revealing London's unnaturally quiet nightscape, we've just turned another calendar page on a fresh new day without having seen our beds yet.
'How did you find those stories you were talking about with Lestrade?'
'He's been sending them to me. It's hateful how much free time a seasoned police inspector has these days, no wonder the Yard's crime solving rate is what it is!'
I feel bad for Sherlock. Greg's this-is-what-mates-do sense of humour can be very trying at the best of times. If Greg has his way, Sherlock will get pinged every time another head spinning case gets solved in the land of liberty, equality and fraternity.
'So what do we actually know about Lupin? Is Lupin actually any good?'
'Everyone seems to think so, particularly his associate, to whom he's bequeathed a car last week, so Jean could avoid the metro.' I glance at Sherlock, he clears: 'Public transportation system, arguably not the least cross-contaminated means of transportation during a global pandemic. A car is a more contained, safer option, wouldn't you say?'
'Oh?'
'Yes, blatantly buying his assistant's loyalties, at least I'm spared of that.'
'Oh.'
'And he's working on a scientific study on the human appendix's ability to regenerate microbial subcultures. He even finds time to play the cello brilliantly, John.'
'Oh, that's like the really big violin one, right?'
Sherlock shrieks as if I had just stabbed his precious musician heart.
'Yes, John', he masters, if a bit strangled. 'The really big violin.'
I hastily move on.
'Did Lestrade say that Lupin was a good baker?'
'Yes, I seem to recall that. We've got Mrs Hudson for that... What is it, John?'
I shake my head. Nothing. Just some foggy idea swiftly crossing the back of my mind, too quick to catch. What was it? Something made absolute sense for a flash of an instant just then. I shake my head, too tired to retrace my own thoughts with efficiency.
'You can't beat Mrs Hudson's blueberry cupcakes', I say instead, with a fond smile.
Sherlock squints to the kitchen, looking very determined all of a sudden. 'I will attempt it, John. No big-violin, half-cooked baker is going to have one up on me!'
What? I worry at once this is competition is about to go to very unnecessary lengths and very dark places. 'But, Sherlock—?'
Too late, my mad mate is arming himself with a spatula already. I groan and shut my laptop.
.
An electric jolt instantly galvanises my body, making my skin crawl and my muscles tense in preparation for attack.
'Don't you dare touch me!' I yell, and the loud shout rings in my own ears for seconds to come, with a violence and panic that is as foreign to me as their origin. 'What the hell—?'
Sherlock is completely immobile, holding up a pillow in his hand mid air, livid in his features to the point that his light coloured eyes actually appear to be dark in contrast.
A shiver runs down my back, crumbling the remnants of my composure, and I hide my scarlet shame face in my hands.
My friend's modulated baritone informs me, in a sentiment and frills free tone:
'You fell asleep, John, on your armchair. From your position I could deduce your neck would be severely compromised by a kink if you were to persist in sleeping here. Going by your delayed reaction times these last couple of days, it was elementary that you would seize sleep for as many hours as you could grasp, no matter the cost to your neck and spinal mobility. I – I brought you a pillow, John.'
I groan from my cocoon of shame. Snuff me with it already, will ya?
'John?'
Finally I man up and face my friend straight on. Sociopath, he's not. How he managed to fool the entire London borough, including at times friends like Stamford and Molly and Lestrade, is really beyond me. In Paris, Jean may have a nice new ride, but I have a very considerate flatmate that uses his gifts of deduction to take care of me, in his own way. He definitely didn't deserve to be shouted at, for starters.
'I'm so sorry, I don't know what happened there.'
'You are physically and mentally exhausted, John.'
'Yes, I reckon I am. Ugh... for the record, you can touch me.'
Sherlock almost, almost smiles at that, and his poised hand completes the circuit to place that pillow behind my head, even if I'm no longer drooling on my shoulder.
'I—' really don't know what to say next.
'Blueberry muffins, John.'
'Right. Yes. What about them?'
'I cannot be expected to judge their quality myself, I wouldn't be deemed an unbiased observer by any standards.'
'You're offering me muffins?'
'Yes, exactly, do keep up, John!'
'Yeah, sure, love some.'
'Great. From batches 2, 3 or 5?'
I chuckle. 'What happened to batch 4?' I ask, disentangling myself from the armchair. My neck feels terribly stiff, and I rub it.
'They got burnt. I was distracted.'
'And batch number 1?'
'They got eaten by me. Same reason. I was distracted.'
'But not the subsequent batches?'
'There's only so many blueberry muffins you can stuff a full grown man with.'
'Is there? Let's find out if your rule, based on a statistics of one test subject, holds up', I volunteer with a soft smile as we reach the fragrant, warm kitchen.
He smiles too. 'I'm glad you understand the necessity of secondary evidence in science, John.'
.
Morning breaks, cold and miserable, outside the house. I've stuffed my pockets with breakfast cereal bars – hoping very hard my flatmate never finds out this is being my "full meal, healthy breakfast, for a great start of the day" – and I'm grabbing my rundown jacket when something jingles in the pocket. Nothing is supposed to jingle in my pocket. It's got essential first aid kit supplies and old receipts, but nothing jingly is meant to find its way inside my pocket. I fish out an engine key.
Ugh. So. Ugh.
Sherlock will be hurt if I refuse his copycat gift to the assistant, won't he? I'm not even sure he's gifting me this – what, a car? – and not to his own ego. And, a car? Where am I to park a car in the centre of London that won't cost me a fortune in parking lots?
I sigh. Can't imagine how long it will take me to repay Sherlock for this foolish gift.
Didn't even know he could afford it, let alone bequeath it to someone else. I'm definitely not going "halfsies" again with Sherlock next time he busts the microwave by trying to light up a light bulb inside it. Although in fairness it should not happen again. There is now a sticker on it saying "off-limits to Science". Or should I say, a sticker Sherlock amended to say "Noxx-limits to Science". I'm still thinking up a good reply.
The mad man is a ninja type gifter too. He gifts in the dead of the night. He gifts and disappears into thin air as you look down on the gift. He gifts as if you're never meant to acknowledge it and thank him.
And, occasionally, he giftwraps using tape like a true ninja uses nunchucks. Which is patently odd when he decides to gift me with buying groceries for the flat. It can take up hours to unwrap stuff. I think we still have some mysterious food parcel gift in the fridge from a month ago. I've decided we can order in deliveries every time since. Which eased getting milk out for a cuppa a lot. On the other hand, we're now down to the last supermarket within reach distance that has delivery people who have not yet been insulted by Sherlock's devastating deductions of their lives and secrets when they show up. The others patently refuse to come.
I sigh and glance at my wristwatch. I'm getting late. I wonder where Sherlock left his completely disproportionate gift to me.
Only had to open the front door to find out, apparently. Parked up in front of our doorstep is a brilliant, testosterone attesting, slick motorcycle (and helmet, my safety is paramount). As I lay unsure eyes on the extravagant, lavish piece of road beast, next to it one of Sherlock's network folks nods his head with a curt acknowledgment and heads off. Guarding it for me? Is there anything Sherlock haven't thought of?
I brush enamoured fingertips over the well shaped metal frame and imagine it purring its engine at me. The only thing Sherlock didn't think of is whether I know how to ride a motorcycle!
And the answer is yes, godamn yes, I do.
I climb on it, groan as the key slides effortlessly into the engine, and get on my ruddy way to my duty calling.
It's not until two streets away that I realise I didn't look up, Sherlock was probably watching me from the living room windows. Can't really believe he'd slip this through. I could have said thank you straight away. I'll spend the next few years thanking him anyway.
.
Sherlock Holmes, wrapped up in his camel coloured dressing gown over bed clothes – that is to say, literally a bedsheet – turns away from the living room window a few moments after John's small form disappeared round the curb, wrapped around the gifted motorcycle. Sherlock looks pleased with himself, and pleased that John has not refused his gift on ridiculous grounds like "it's too expensive" or "friends don't gift friends things like body parts, historical murder weapons, and road bound vehicles". In fairness, John never made Sherlock feel uncomfortable after gifting the doctor a particularly tumours riddled gallbladder in a formaldehyde filled jar, he even thanked the awkward detective – no need, John, why single out actions to praise whilst simultaneously stating Sherlock didn't have to; next time, when Sherlock didn't, John looked fleetingly hurt before putting on a brave face. John is a conundrum. Sherlock is intent at not listening to John, rather deduce the real meanings, so often betrayed by indoctrinated layers of polite societal norms.
John's body looked pleased, as John straddled the motorcycle, leaning closely to the slick metal. And so Sherlock feels nice, warm on the inside. He paradoxically smiles when he was not the party on the receiving end. That too is something new to the lonesome genius, so used to going about independently from the crowds, avoiding useless interactions with non-Holmes persons.
John is the spark plug in Sherlock's many first times. The doctor is probably not fully aware of this. Sherlock avoids mentioning it too, as if afraid to allow that last barrier to fall, and John to have full control over Sherlock's repressed emotions by knowing the power he holds to manipulate the lonely genius. John wouldn't, would he?
Sherlock wraps the dressing gown tighter, before ambling back to a cold bed.
.
Congratulations on your successful case, M. Holmes. A very fishy business indeed, but so plain, so simple, and no red herrings? Certainly England's renowned detective can master more intricate cases?
In the meantime, to fend off my ennui, I have successfully foiled a bank robbery by redirecting the robbers to the a different part of town. In my little amusing replica, the bank robbers finalised their dug up tunnel in the local precinct jail, draped with theatrical backgrounds of the vaults and vivid holograms of security guards. Armed with feeble flashlights the robbers have only succeeded in locking themselves inside the vault where the Gendarmes could collect them in the morning. It only took a swift replacement of the robbers' city map by my own altered version, a few decor changes, and no need to work through the night.
I commend your attention to this, my little entry in our friendly competition, respectfully hoping it meets your approval. You will, I hope, understand the sensitive nature of this case prevents it from reaching the public, but my old school friend Gregory will vouch for it as he will be able to verify it through the Interpol. Greg has informed me that you have deduced our acquaintance, very well done.
Eagerly awaiting your turn of play, your faithful servant,
A. Lupin
Ps. Regrettably not my real name.
A bientot, Sherlock Holmes!
.
Black plastic melt fumes swirl and sharp white sparks fly from the ruined microwave before Sherlock can feel some inner sense of satisfaction again. The senseless destruction matches his sour loser anger, and without John available as a distraction, this dark mood is about to destroy a portion of 221B if Sherlock doesn't get a handle on himself fast.
'Lestrade, give me good case!' he venomously hisses as the DI finally picks up his call.
.
TBC
