Snow, pt.1
"John."
It was seven days until Christmas. London was in the middle of snowy weather that made John Watson think the man stood outside Baker Street tube station proclaiming 'the end is nigh' was, perhaps, on to something.
"John."
But it didn't matter to Sherlock Holmes. He lounged, stewing in his own cleverness, dressing gown, messy dark curls, long legs outstretched by the fire.
With no case to wring out the frustration in his mind, he took to administering one nicotine patch a day, instead of his usual case-worthy three. His current experiment was placing the patch on different parts of his body.
John could not see the patch today, and did not like where his mind went to when wondering where it was.
"John."
Nothing mattered to Sherlock Holmes.
"John."
Sherlock Holmes didn't even leave the house unless there was something interesting going on.
"John."
John snapped. "Why... can't, you, just... take an A-level or something? Or a degree, that would be... or a PhD! Yes. Do a PhD in a month. No, a day! I'll time you."
Sherlock sighed. "Make me a cup of tea, John," he said, his deep voice giving authority to a child's whimsy.
John's nostrils flared; defiance. "I can hold a gun to your head while you're doing it?"
Sherlock smiled one of his 'John's quite sick sometimes, isn't he? I like that' smiles and said nothing.
"There's no teabags. And we all remember why that is..." said John.
"Don't get passive aggressive with me." Sherlock shifted slightly on the sofa. "Absinthe... is... an essential."
John turned away his body, arms folded. "Last time, I... ever send you anywhere to buy anything, ever." He looked at the detective.
Sherlock moved into the foetal position on the sofa, back to John, face embedded in the cushion.
"Sherlock." John closed his eyes.
"Sherlock." No answer.
"SHERLOCK. We needed normal, human things. Things that humans need, like milk, and bread, and cheese and-"
"Mmrph." Translation from Sofa-Sherlock: 'Shut up.'
"I sent you to Tesco, you went to fucking Kensington to meet some guy who imports absinthe."
Sherlock's deep and impressive voice was somehow tiny as he spoke. "The rubbish they sell here... I can't drink."
John gave a despondent look to no-one and stood up. He grabbed his coat.
Sherlock pretended not to notice the movement at first, but after John offered no explanation, his voice vibrated through the sofa.
"Where are you going?"
"Out."
Despite the snowstorm, John needed a break from Sherlock. When he was like this, John could barely remember how brilliant he was. It was like looking at him through black and white stained glass.
"Specificity. That's why I keep you around, John."
Sherlock rubbed a nicotine patch on his left cheek and closed his eyes. John closed the door with more force than usual.