Watson couldn't help grinning behind a sleeve every time he shot a glance at Holmes, trotting away on his little black pony. He still failed to see the fundamental difference between the diminutive equine and a real stallion, but whatever would get the stubborn detective moving Watson supposed he didn't need to add any insult to the injury to Holmes' ego, what with the jeers from the gypsies already teasing him quite enough.
Shaking his head, Watson forged ahead up the mountain. It was still a long ride to go, even with the smoother gait of his longer-legged steed.
Oneword: Festival - the sequel
Sherlock sighed as the festival started to dwindle down, the attractions slowly shutting down one by one as the night grew later and later. Finally, the Ferris wheel came to a slow halt with the last two attendees at the bottom. The operator of the ride had been kind enough to let Sherlock remain on the ride, since it was not one of the ones in high demand, and his companion clearly needed the rest.
It had been a pleasant enough pause in his busy schedule, left to his own mental devices as John kept warm against his side, head draped over his shoulder with the softest of snores. Eventually as the temperature had dropped, Sherlock had carefully and protectively wrapped an arm around the doctor to pull him closer, centralizing their weight to keep the little car from rocking in the accelerating night wind.
With the gentlest of nudges, Sherlock had awoken John at the festival worker's request to leave at closing time. Despite all efforts, the veteran had still awoken with a start, glancin
It always amazed John when a situation arose which called for Sherlock to adopt an alternate persona... The change in his behaviour from cold, calculating sociopath to scared pedestrian, or sympathetic friend, or playful tourist could almost be considered a disguise, though his appearance hardly changed. John knew he shouldn't be surprised that such a brilliant mind would be able to pick up these social facades... But after having become accustomed to Sherlock's usual, uncaring persona, it was still a shock to his system every time.
"You're staring," Sherlock murmured from behind his textbook. "You only do that when you're making an attempt to think."
"Yeah," John sighed a bit. "Just considering myself lucky that you've adopted me as your audience."
Sherlock peered into his microscope, careful not to breathe too forcefully and blow away the delicate wing-scales. This was his last lead on the entomologist, the honey samples had turned up nothing of interest. If he could just glean a few particulates off of these butterfly scales, he might be able to tell where the body had come from, or what had been in contact with it.
It only occurred to Sherlock halfway in that he might look at the scales themselves; Butterflies tended to be very regional, if he could identify the species and even sub-species, he might be able to track it to its natural area. It was a long shot, but without further evidence, it was the best he had. He wondered how John would feel about a trip to a butterfly mating ground, wherever that might turn out to be.
The walls of 221B Baker street could tell stories, even to those not as gifted at reading details as its world-renowned resident. The bullet-hole-riddled yellow spray paint smiley face was, of course, the most distinguishing feature, a playful reminder of a successful case and the ensuing boredom. Alongside the remaining ash from the explosion next door, and the few scattered drops of blood flung about from a harpoon, the smiley face almost seemed to be hiding the secrets of its owner.
John Watson sighed as he ran a hand over this scar in the floral-printed paper. When he'd first moved in, there had been plenty of walls between him and his flatmate. And to be sure, there were still a few remaining. Sherlock did not easily volunteer information about himself, only others. But as the two grew closer, John could begin to see the walls coming down, one by one. Sherlock's giddy laugh of excitement, his smile at a compliment, or his concern for John and Mrs. Hudson when they were
John had been genuinely surprised to learn of Sherlock's ignorance of the Earth's orbit. To be fair, the knowledge would rarely factor in to most human motives. It was just John wondered what else Sherlock was ignorant about. Would he know what chemicals had flammable properties? Which bones would need immediate treatment when broken? How to start a fire when stranded in the woods?
John tried to stop worrying, assuring himself that whenever another one of Sherlock's gaps in knowledge surfaced, he would be there to fill it in.
John had found the large camera in the stairwell, left forgotten in all the excitement over Moriarty's great hostage puzzle. He'd brought it up into his room after the whole affair had calmed down, always sure that such a nice camera must be good for something other than a disguise Sherlock didn't really need it, of course, given his memory. John pondered the prospect of amateur photography over his morning tea.
Sherlock was still down in his bedroom, likely sleeping off the exhaustion accumulated over the past week. John grinned and snuck down with the camera to stand in Sherlock's doorway. The taller man was completely spawled out across the whole bed, the lone sheet just barely keeping him decent. John zoomed the focus in on Sherlock's sleeping face, calmer than it would ever appear while awake, and clicked the shutter.
Though he had no idea what might be happening, or what to do about the dead end they'd just run into, John knew better than to ask Sherlock for clarification. The moody detective had retreated to his mind palace, eyes closed in instense focus. John supposed that if he were constantly irritated by the world around him, as Sherlock was, it would not bode well for any soul who dared disturb his sacred solace.
John only hoped the mental escape would not take too much longer; he missed being let in on his friend's amazing thought process.
Mycroft glowered at the front page of the morning's paper, his brother glowering back at him from under that ridiculous deerstalker. The focus of the older Holmes' attention, however, was the pepper-haired Detective Inspector, with the Chief of Police hovering over him, wearing an expression not unlike Mycroft's.
The tired old government official was reminded once again of his suspicions of corruption in the higher ranks of the police. Perhaps Greg would be able to provide some insight. Mycroft looked forward to the meeting.