John settled into the armchair across from Sherlock with a bit of a sigh. He had already written up their last case, replied to all the comments, checked his email, done the shopping, put away the clean dishes, and visited with Mrs. Husdon for a while. Now he found himself in the curious predicament of boredom. He steepled his fingers under his chin in an imitation of his friend, who was occupied with a thick textbook on pathology.
Sherlock lifted his gaze to meet John's and lifted an eyebrow, unamused. "And?"
John smiled wistfully and wished he'd learned an instrument as a child, so as to practice on it at times like these. He wondered if anything good was on the telly, but the prospects on a Saturday morning were grim. "Let's go somewhere," he whined, "I'm sick of just sitting around with nothing to do."
"YOU can go somewhere," Sherlock drawled, turning to a new page on influenza, "I'm busy." He read for a moment longer, skin burning under John's focused gaze, before adding,
Sherlock collapsed onto the side of his cot and gingerly tugged the hem of his jeans up to his knees, drawing a sharp intake of breath as the shredded fabric pulled out and away from a savage wound. Sherlock reeled a bit at the sight of where he'd been bitten, surprised by the rough edges and the blood-saliva mix which had streaked down his calf and been spread around as he ran.
The lonesome detective ran through John's process in his mind, trying to recall all the steps that the doctor would go through. His small accommodations didn't include an antiseptic in the bathroom cabinet, so the bottle of vodka he'd been carrying as a part of his disguise would have to do. He nervously ran his fingers though his hair, only to find with a renewed sense of surprise that his hair was no longer there to indulge his habit. The thoughts of John had put him in a familiar state of mind, and he'd momentarily forgotten how different he would look in a mirror.
Coughing a bit into his sleeve at the alcoh
It had rained for a week. Sometimes it was just a light drizzle, and sometimes the skies cracked themselves open as though they had a fatal wound. Perhaps the clouds which frequently assaulted the little islands of Great Britain meant to finally finish them off in one fell swoop. While they didn't succeed, the barrage did leave the earth remarkably soggy.
On the first day the sun dared to show itself, Mycroft took his 18th birthday present for a test drive. Excited and still a bit unruly behind the wheel, he streaked down the driveway and swerved into the yard a bit, leaving a deep tire trench in the muddy grass. A firm scolding from Mummy ensured that he would be more careful next time, or she would simply take the car back, and he would simply be chauffered for the rest of his life, and how would he like that.
It rained again later that day, trapping the boys inside once more with their schoolwork and reading.
Three days later, it seemed the clouds had finally exhausted their efforts
John cracks an eye open and stifles a yawn through his nose, getting a lungful of Sherlock's sweet, familiar scent. The stubborn detective has managed to pilfer John's right arm in the middle of the night, and has trapped it under his chest, hugging it firmly to himself. John lets his nose rest in the dark curls for a moment more before gently nudging at Sherlock's shoulder with his free arm. A deep-voiced moan of disapproval makes itself heard from somewhere near John's shoulder, and the grip on his arm becomes fractionally tighter. Though at this point, John wouldn't notice anyway, as he has lost all feeling in the appendage sometime in the last three hours. Another firm nudge at the bony shoulder, and Sherlock gently digs his fingernails into John's arm before reluctantly rolling back onto his side, freeing John's arm in the process.
John curls the stiff limb up into the air and in every which direction, shuddering a bit as the pins and needles of circulation trickle their way down
Life without Sherlock was much like life BEFORE Sherlock. Or at least, John had to keep telling himself that. If he really stopped to analyze the differences, he invariably found himself curled uncomfortably into his armchair, trying not to sob loudly enough to warrant a trip up the stairs from Mrs. Hudson. It wasn't that her visits didn't help, so much as he didn't want to exacerbate her hip. But yes, a hot cup of tea, a slow rub of the back, and a fond anecdote or two were usually enough to distract John from the detective-shaped hole presiding in the other armchair. As Mrs. Hudson was leaving after one such occasion, John blinked away his last tear and thanked her again for her company.
"Don't mention it, dear, I know what it's like to deal with heartache. You should have seen me after I found out my husband wasn't the man I thought he was." With a smile and a blown good-night kiss, the kindly little landlady carefully worked her way down the stairs, leaving John to stare pointedly
John could hardly remember the series of events which had brought him to the firm, posh couch in Mycroft's sitting room. He, Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock were to stay in his brother's custody for the next two nights while their flat was fumigated for malaria-infested mosquitoes. Thank goodness the miniature plague had been contained from spreading into the streets of London, but it would be quite a hassle to make sure 221 Baker St. was safely habitable again.
In the meantime, Mycroft's two guestrooms and plentiful accommodations had been more than adequate to put the three guests up for a short time. Mrs. Hudson couldn't help herself from poking around with the servants, helping them in the kitchen, while John spent some time searching through heirlooms and other family possessions which Mycroft had inherited from their mother. The curious doctor now found himself perched on the unfamiliar couch, with a wide leather-bound book propped across his lap. Every other page was adorned with old