A/N: I'm not sure what to make of this one. -csf
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'Sherlock?'
'Bored!'
'Yeah, alright. You're bored. But where are you?'
'Bored in the living room!'
'What? I'm in the kitchen and I can't see you! Are we playing hide-and-seek?'
Slight pause.
'No, I don't feel up to it, too bored.'
'Sherlock? Where are you?'
'We've been through that part already, John.'
'Yeah, but I'm in the living room now.'
'Look behind the left-hand side window curtains.'
Determined footsteps march onto said window, the curtain is violently drawn back.
'Sherlock, what are you doing here?'
'John, I'm bored.'
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Rescued out of a cosier-than-previously-assumed hideout, the consulting detective is brought back to the common areas of the flat, leaving behind a window nook. John steals a glance at the hardwood sill, looking for a cushion, a cuppa, a book, or any similar comfort solutions, but finds nothing. The stoic detective had nothing more to distract him from behind the drawn curtain than to metaphorically – and possibly literally – press his nose against the window pane and watch the quietened covid-quarantined London through the window pane.
'Yes, I know, Sherlock, you're bored. I'd be bored too, if I had been playing window shop mannequin for the past three hours. I swear, sometimes you're just like a big kid, you know that?'
'You don't fail to mention it as often as you can, John, I would think you'd trust me to know of your perception of me by now.'
John blinks up to the cold, distant act of the rumpled dressing gown clad flatmate. He knows a challenge when he sees one, and more often that not it's got Sherlock's name on it. John crosses his arms in front of him and tilts his head.
'Go on, indulge me with your secret. What did you think you were doing?'
'Practising, John.'
'Oh, is that right?' John comments quietly. 'Practising what?'
'My clairvoyance skills on the passers-by, obviously. With my incredible deducing skills I can read just about any client that comes searching for their future to be read to them.'
'You're missing the future part, though.'
'How cute, you believe in reading palms, or auras, or Ouija boards, John!'
'No, but— Don't want to rule everything out without, hmm, thinking about it.'
'John, may I remind you the clairvoyants get paid before the foretold future checks out?'
The doctor blinks. Surely Sherlock is not serious...
'You already have a job. You're a consulting detective, the best in the world.'
'Thank you, John', he preens. 'I have seldom cases coming to me at this time. Naturally, I will keep the detective work going, as it is essential, vital even, but I need to expand my professional skills.'
'Sherlock, you don't believe in runes, crystal balls and tea leaves.'
'Tea leaves?' Oddly, the detective perks up at that. Tea seems to have become a positive stimulus in the detective's life after he met John. 'Oh, I don't strictly need to believe in those, the client does.'
'You can't charge them for something you don't believe you can actually do!'
He shrugs, stubbornly sticking to his deranged idea. 'I can do it for free, to start with. Or be paid upon proof of correct divination of fate.'
'Why would you—?' John stops, utterly rendered speechless.
'I am bored.'
'Yeah, you said that', John states flatly.
'I will need an assistant, of course. Someone with a kind heart, that listens well, and gives good advice. Know anyone, John?'
The doctor hesitates to be embroiled in such morally dubious schemes. But the truth is... he's bored too.
'Alright, but— anonymously. No one can know it's us. And if they need proper help, mental support, police, or something, we will make sure they get it.'
Sherlock shrugs, feigning lack of interest now.
'John, make us some tea. We need to practice. I'll start by reading your tea leaves, and you read mine.'
John struggles to keep a straight face. 'You really are bored out your wits, aren't you?' he sympathises, as he goes for the kettle. 'Shall I source a Ouija board too?'
'Certainly not. My great-grandfather had a terrible lisp.'
John can't quite make something out of that.
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I can't quite believe I'm using the good tea for this, the one with the loose tea leaves and not portioned rations. Pot brewing, I return to my flatmate, who has cleared the centre of our living room from the smaller items of furniture, light fixtures and clutter, and now sits, cross legged, on the oriental rug. His silk dressing gown has been spread in front of him on the rug, as a fancy cloth on a séance table. There are two fine china cups and saucers waiting solemnly. I smirk, and toss my mad friend a packet of biscuits. He seems appalled by the offering for a moment, but soon his restless fingers seek entry.
I bring the pot over, and serve the tea with none of the expected annoyances from Sherlock. It's as if he's very serious about this, concentrating hard and harnessing his mind's eye potential.
His level of engagement reels me in, and I could get lost in those out-worldly green eyes, intense and deep. I find myself sitting on the rug, facing Sherlock, silent and transfixed by the act. Even the warm whiff of tea calms my tense muscles for, perhaps, the first time in many weeks or months.
Hey, I'll pay the man just for this quiet moment, so detached from the world's worries.
'John, the tea...' he beckons, in a flat monotone of a man "in the zone".
Sipping some tea – nice, sharp, richly flavoured – I notice: 'You'll have to chat up the clients, you know?'
'If I do that too, what's left for you to do?' he shakes his head. 'Menial, inconsequential conversation is really not my forte, John.'
'But— How will I know what I should ask them?'
'Do as you do with our clients, John. Ask them little of importance while detracting their attraction from my scrutiny. Works like a charm... Speaking of which, we could sell charms. Make a note, John! Memorabilia stand by the exit door.'
'There's only one door and it's the front door', I rebate, less than kind.
'Keychains and t-shirts too. You can autograph them for me, John.'
'Sherlock, this is way too ridiculous!' I snap, annoyed now.
'Wait!' he begs, just as I'm about to get up and leave. I wait; don't really know why, but I wait.
He gulps down and rolls his shirt sleeves up his forearms (he's getting the clairvoyant act mixed with the magician act, I gather), before he pleads: 'A moment, John. You mustn't think I'd forget. Just drop it, John, your tea cup.'
Reluctantly, I hand over the used tea cup. He takes it as if it was precious and fragile, as one would hold a Faberge eggshell. He frowns on it, and studies its minutiae.
'John, please don't leave yet. I believe this tea cup says your life is in grave danger.'
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'That's ridiculous! And, furthermore, you made that up! You don't know how to read tea leaves to predict the future, Sherlock. You don't even believe in such gimmicks!'
No, not usually, but John does; Sherlock thinks to himself. And now that he has John's full attention bulls eyed on him, he'll be damned he let's go.
'There's no other logical option, John. You are my trained assistant, I need to protect you, therefore you must not leave my sight for the remainder of the day.'
'Oh, so the tea leaves are that accurate?' John spits out angry sarcasm.
'You're right, we should take it all the way to midnight, to be on the safe side. It's your day off, you didn't have plans, right?'
John splutters protests, loses in breath in wasted words, and caves in, as predicted.
'If you're that bored, yes, I can keep you company, mate.'
Sherlock nearly hisses. For a non-genius, John can be dastardly insightful. He must, of course, never know that.
'How amusing. I'm trying to save your life and you think I'm trying to tag along on your most entertaining life for a day!'
John lowers his head, bashful. 'I guess you're right, you're only trying to help me. It's just... you can't really believe tea leaves have told you I'm going to die today!'
Sherlock's treacherous body shudders at the idea. Luckily, that falls in with the plan and John raises placating hands in the air between them.
'It's alright, Sherlock, if it's that important to you...'
Sherlock allows himself a victory smile. He's got John for the remainder of the day.
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'Wait a minute, Sherlock. You said I'd read your tea leaves next.'
'I don't believe in esoteric messages from the afterlife in boiled plant leaves.'
'So I'm not really in grave vital danger?' I retort, squinting at him.
Caught by his own logic, Sherlock glares daggers at me.
'Here's my cup, don't gloat, I'm doing you a favour', he pre-empts, machinegun style.
You'd think he'd manage to be nicer if he really thought I was about to succumb to great tragedy. I may not know how to read tea leaves, but I know how to read Sherlockian and I can tell he doesn't really believe the fortune he foretold. For one, he's not panicking and running around locking all doors and covering all windows.
'Okay, let me see what I can... see... in these dregs.'
'You can't see a thing. I'm going.'
I grab him by the shirt fabric and force him back down. He elegantly returns to the rug, as if getting up from the floor at his age was effortless. He's ruddy flexible, he is.
'Hmm. I think, yes, something. Hang in there, Sherlock, it's coming to me.'
I'll keep him waiting a long while yet, as a petty payback for trying to kill me by clairvoyance.
'Anytime now would be good, John...'
'Yeah, yeah, you can't rush a gift.'
For some reason, Sherlock smirks fondly and retorts, sitting back against the sofa's structure: 'Alright, I won't.'
'Oh.'
'Oh?' his eyes spark as he meets mine.
'Yes. It says you are receiving a fortune today.'
'Today?' he repeats, amused.
'No one likes to be kept waiting for a good thing, so yeah, today.'
'And it's not a dark stranger, a hidden enemy, or a grave danger? Just that? A fortune? How am I enticed to return? Am I supposed to give you a nice tip because you gave me good news?'
I shrug, topped with an eye roll. 'I don't know, do what you like!'
'John, you are a kind simpleton. No wonder I need to protect you from harm the rest of the day.'
'Mate, you're already sticking around with me all day, and getting rich, you can start by paying for the takeaway.'
'Hmm. You're not so much the fool I thought you were, John.'
'Thank you. I think.'
'There's guile in you yet. You have undiscovered depths to you, John.'
'Remind me to teach you how to compliment someone like a regular person...'
'You'd be disappointed with me', he jests.
By golly, I really think I would. For starters, I wouldn't trust anything Sherlock would say without a heavy dose of awkwardness, he's ever so fluent when he's being manipulative. It's a good thing his inflated ego prevents him from noticing the difference in his genuine approach and a carefully planned agenda. It may well be the last self-defence weapon to my mental sanity.
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'John, you're making tea again.'
'We live together, how does that still surprise you?'
'I've already read your day's fate, and you "read" mine.'
'Don't think I didn't hear those inverted commas, mate. I read your fortune just as well as you read mine!'
'Then why another round of the nice tea?'
'Don't you think you can have more than one fate coming your way today?'
'I'm not sure loyalty cards are going to wash with the paying clients once the first readings fail to materialise, John.'
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Alright, this time we don't sit on the rug. Our armchairs are far more comfortable and suitable enough. Sherlock holds up a steamy cup of tea while I ponder:
'Will you need an alias? It will be confusing if a client shows up for either a consulting detective or a clairvoyant.'
'Or a matchmaker.'
I choke on my tea. 'A matchmaker?'
'This deduction reading of a client can be applied in multiple and varied ways, John. I'm really surprised how I'm only discovering it now.'
'You might be stretching yourself too thin, mate.'
'I suppose so. So you reckon I shouldn't advertise as a therapist?'
'A therapist?'
I cough my tea out through my nose. It's so violent that Sherlock comes over to pat my back.
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'I think it looks like a dog', I reckon.
'Could be. Or a chair', he tells me.
'What sort of divination includes a chair?'
'A sitting down one?'
We've spent the last hour throwing guesses at soggy tea leaves. When we felt confident, we found ourselves a volunteer to practise with.
'I see a romantic entanglement', I say.
'No, grave danger, same as John!'
She isn't impressed.
'Really, boys, you aren't very good at this, are you?' Mrs Hudson laments, shaking her head. Our landlady takes control and grabs the tea cup back and starts washing it on the sink, after the rest of our early entrepreneurial effort.
'But, Mrs H, what about your future?'
'We're in lockdown, dear, nothing exciting happens, just like always', she even sighs and gives us a one over look.
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'Face it, mate, we just don't have what it takes to make it as clairvoyants.' John sighs and rubs his face.
The sterile bluish light from the starting up laptop frames his tired face. Those premature ageing lines don't belong there, Sherlock muses, as for a crystalline moment in time he discovers new, insidious cracking lines spreading on the unhealthily pale face of a man bound indoors for too long. It's a long winter, and a longer lockdown.
'You're just saying that because it's now past midnight and no grave danger befell on you, John', Sherlock returns, easily slipping back into conversation with John. It's always easy for Sherlock to converse with John. Sometimes, the detective admits, John's presence isn't even required, although it's always desirable.
'And you've not received an inheritance from an estranged great uncle you never heard about', John finishes, with a slight giggle.
'I wasn't holding my breath. Mycroft would have gone berserk... Oh, wait, that was something to look forward!'
John smiles along, with that fondness he gets in the crinkles of his eyes when he's looking at Sherlock and laughing along some silly thing. It nearly always pulls Sherlock's brainwork to a standstill. The genius should feel troubled, frightened about short-circuiting like that, but somehow he can't. He feels tranquil, aligned, at home.
See, their mistake was elementary, really. They can't quite predict fates and futures when time is at a standstill. Everything changes and everything remains the same. That's the effect John's presence has. It enraptures Sherlock's attention until it's pinpointed into the here and now, it quietens the detective's darkest thoughts, it clears his mind cogs of the unwanted grit and dirt.
'Sherlock?'
'Yes, John?'
'If you stick with detective, I'll get the Ouija board out.'
He chuckles. 'Deal.'
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