John shifts in his sleep, turning over onto his left to let his right cool down. His dreams are erratic, that night, but not the horrifying, haunting images of war that usually occupy his REM. Tonight, they are bizarre and jumbled.
He and Sherlock are running through London, leaping from rooftop to rooftop until their feet are no longer touching the buildings, and John is just following right behind as he always does, not daring to look down at the city below them. They just barely miss the London Eye as Sherlock's great belstaff coat spreads open in the wind, keeping them aloft.
John is brewing tea and trying to spread jam on three slices of toast at once, and Sherlock is standing over his shoulder, shouting at him, how he's doing it wrong.
Suddenly, Sherlock backs away with a look of depressed horror in John's general direction, "I never wanted to be a sociopath," he starts, ripping off his suit jacket to reveal beneath it, not his tight purple shirt but plaid flannel- "I wanted to b
Peer prompt: Massage
Sherlock glanced up from his newspaper at John, who had set his laptop aside and seemed to be pinching his own hand. His face slowly fell from an agitated state to a more relaxed one, the wrinkles in his brow decreasing in depth as he leaned back into his armchair with a soft sigh. Finally, he let go of his odd grip and reached for his tea.
"What was that?" Sherlock leaned forward a bit in his chair, folding the paper in half to better keep it out of the way.
"What was what?" John tilted his head and Sherlock inclined his nose down in the direction of John's hands, mimicking the motion on his own. "Oh," John smiled softly, almost surprised Sherlock didn't know this one either, "Just a trick my therapist taught me." John scooted forward in his chair and reached out to grasp Sherlock's hand, using it as a visual (and tactile) aid, "There's a pressure point just here, between the metacarpals, at the top of the thenar crease-"
Sherlock looked on in curiosity as John began to gently massage
Peer prompt: Gloves
John shook his head as Sherlock barged into another crime scene, leaving him behind on the roadside as he struggled to put on his hasmat suit as quickly as possible. Lestrade was wearing one, as were Donovan and Anderson. Only Sherlock had the impudence to glide in against the body to integrate himself into the facts, wearing nothing more protective than a pair of latex gloves. It was a familiar scene, and John still wondered how Sherlock managed to get away with it every time.
Lestrade looked pained as John caught a glance of him before heading out to join Sherlock in the bed of pine needles. He was reminded again of that first night when they'd met, and the competent-but-not-quite-competent-enough Detective Inspector had ruefully admitted his need of Sherlock's assistance. These days, through trial by fire, Lestrade hardly even spoke up against Sherlock's farfetched conclusions, never questioning his antics or the thoughtless way he took liberties at a crime scene that nobody else wo
It had been a week, and Sherlock was close to giving up. He was no closer to finding the crucial, missing piece of evidence (the victim's neck tie after all) as he had been at the start of the case. The frustration was starting to get to him, his curls becoming frazzled around the edges and his behavior becoming more manic than usual. He swung from polar opposites, depressed and lethargic on the couch to wild and pacing between the kitchen and the restaurant at the end of Baker street. Lestrade had stopped asking him about it after the third attempt had found him with his nose nearly snapped off in a fit of Sherlockian rage.
John couldn't take much more of it. Pride be damned, he thought, as he started searching for help. "Professional finder" on google turned up a surprisingly promising lead- Promising until John read that the Finder was located in Florida. He was about to move on to something else, until he read at the bottom of Sherman's website, "Have case, will travel. Call for de
Sherlock groaned as he tried to open his eyes, and found that one of them had crusted and swelled itself shut, throbbing nearly as painfully as his left kidney. Two voices conversed somewhere to his left, but his brain was not yet ready to comprehend them.
A while later, Sherlock came to good and proper, though kept his eyes closed (from pain) to listen to his surroundings. "What do you suppose the boss will do with him?"
"Don't care." A gruff voice seemed tired of being there.
Sherlock cracked open his better eye and found himself tied to an uncomfortable wooden chair. "Where am I?" he creaked in a low baritone. The two large men in black suits turned towards him, one amused and the other almost seeming to not notice him at all.
"You're in our custody, Mr. Holmes," said the first one, "and that's all you need to know."
"Who are you?" His further quest for knowledge earned Sherlock a firm-knuckled grind to the collarbone, along with an answer.
"I'm Mr. Town," spat the more stoic, short
John fanned himself lazily with the front of his tee shirt as a bead of sweat rolled between his pectorals. It had been a particularly hot morning, and the rising heat had collected in his upstairs bedroom, forcing him out of bed and into the kitchen for some fresh air.
He'd been up for awhile now, and had sat down at his computer to check on the blog and see if there might be a new case. Sherlock's boredom was starting to become extreme; yesterday he'd resorted to pulling out the phone book and (mentally) sorting all the surnames by frequency. Today, he was still holed up in his bedroom, sound asleep. It was odd to have the house so quiet, as John was used to being last to rise. Finally, however, he heard the sounds of Sherlock stirring, and called back to him, "There's a new client asking about you, sounds interesting. Might be a 7 or an 8." John stood to put a kettle on and some bread in the toaster.
Sherlock rushed out to the computer, eager to take on something to dull the boredom