Fic from randomly generated prompt words
...for gameofcards.
Words Used: contract, boxing, fireman, motorcycle, tsunami, marble, smoke, bus
Title: Just Another Day at 221B
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Word Count: 519
“What the bloody hell happened here!?!” John expostulated, as he looked around the flat from the doorway. “Sherlock! The place looks like it was hit by a tsunami!” He strode into the room. “Sherlock! Are you here?”
He rounded the corner and stopped, fists on hips, and glared at the sight in the kitchen: Sherlock, poised moodily, standing at the kitchen table, drooping over-but not actually looking through-the microscope.
Indeed, all around him was chaos. Toppled furniture, papers spread everywhere. A stack of dinner plates smashed on the marble cutting board. Broken glass and sofa cushions awry. John glared for a moment longer; then realizing he was getting no response, pulled off his coat and scarf and began righting furniture and scooping up debris. “Fricking icy wind, breakdown on the bus to work, winter flu season at the clinic-Christ, we’ll have them lined up until Boxing Day,” he muttered as he moved around the sitting room. “And now this.” Heading toward the garbage bin, he drew up next to Sherlock, still poised as though frozen in place. “SHERLOCK! CAN YOU HEAR ME? WHAT HAPPENED HERE!”
Sherlock turned his head to look, and blinked a few times. “Oh, John, there you are. What? Oh, yes, Chinese would be lovely, but Golden Pavilion, please. The Red Sun Café has gone distinctly downhill.” Finally registering John’s expression, a mixture of aghast and furious, he blinked again. “Yes. What?”
“Sher. Lock.” John said distinctly, shifting the dustpan from right hand to left, and reaching up with his right toward Sherlock’s brow. “What happened to you? Are you hurt? What happened here?”
Sherlock shook himself and nodded brightly. “Oh that, it’s nothing,” he said airily, pulling out a surprisingly fresh handkerchief and dabbing at the blood on his forehead. “Minor injury. Apparently there was a contract out on me, some leftover from that Mazarin Stone case. Gave himself away by pulling up on a motorcycle, so I was ready for him. Not to worry, all taken care of. No harm done.”
“No harm? No harm done?” sputtered John.
“Well there is one small thing.” Sherlock looked down again at the microscope. “Somewhere in the fracas I seem to have lost my sample of bacillus anthrasis.” His glance ranged over the table around the microscope, and ended on the dustpan in John’s hand. Seeing the mound of broken glass there, he said mildly, “Best be careful there.”
“Bacillus anthrasis? ANTHRAX? You have anthrax loose in here?”
Sherlock waved his hand and moved toward the sitting room. “John, please, try to control your temper. I do believe I’m getting a bit of a headache.”
“Oh, temper? You think I’m in a temper?” shouted John, and he emptied the dustpan in the bin and slammed it shut with a bang. “Brilliant deduction, quite brilliant.”
“Yes, well. You don’t need a fireman to know which way the smoke blows,” said Sherlock vaguely as he sank down onto the now-cleared sofa. “And I’ll take kung pao chicken, hold the celery, and brown rice.”
“Fireman? Smoke blow? That’s not even a … that doesn’t mean anyth … Oh, why do I bother?” grumbled John, as he pulled out his phone to order the takeout. (519)
Words Used: contract, boxing, fireman, motorcycle, tsunami, marble, smoke, bus
Title: Just Another Day at 221B
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Word Count: 519
“What the bloody hell happened here!?!” John expostulated, as he looked around the flat from the doorway. “Sherlock! The place looks like it was hit by a tsunami!” He strode into the room. “Sherlock! Are you here?”
He rounded the corner and stopped, fists on hips, and glared at the sight in the kitchen: Sherlock, poised moodily, standing at the kitchen table, drooping over-but not actually looking through-the microscope.
Indeed, all around him was chaos. Toppled furniture, papers spread everywhere. A stack of dinner plates smashed on the marble cutting board. Broken glass and sofa cushions awry. John glared for a moment longer; then realizing he was getting no response, pulled off his coat and scarf and began righting furniture and scooping up debris. “Fricking icy wind, breakdown on the bus to work, winter flu season at the clinic-Christ, we’ll have them lined up until Boxing Day,” he muttered as he moved around the sitting room. “And now this.” Heading toward the garbage bin, he drew up next to Sherlock, still poised as though frozen in place. “SHERLOCK! CAN YOU HEAR ME? WHAT HAPPENED HERE!”
Sherlock turned his head to look, and blinked a few times. “Oh, John, there you are. What? Oh, yes, Chinese would be lovely, but Golden Pavilion, please. The Red Sun Café has gone distinctly downhill.” Finally registering John’s expression, a mixture of aghast and furious, he blinked again. “Yes. What?”
“Sher. Lock.” John said distinctly, shifting the dustpan from right hand to left, and reaching up with his right toward Sherlock’s brow. “What happened to you? Are you hurt? What happened here?”
Sherlock shook himself and nodded brightly. “Oh that, it’s nothing,” he said airily, pulling out a surprisingly fresh handkerchief and dabbing at the blood on his forehead. “Minor injury. Apparently there was a contract out on me, some leftover from that Mazarin Stone case. Gave himself away by pulling up on a motorcycle, so I was ready for him. Not to worry, all taken care of. No harm done.”
“No harm? No harm done?” sputtered John.
“Well there is one small thing.” Sherlock looked down again at the microscope. “Somewhere in the fracas I seem to have lost my sample of bacillus anthrasis.” His glance ranged over the table around the microscope, and ended on the dustpan in John’s hand. Seeing the mound of broken glass there, he said mildly, “Best be careful there.”
“Bacillus anthrasis? ANTHRAX? You have anthrax loose in here?”
Sherlock waved his hand and moved toward the sitting room. “John, please, try to control your temper. I do believe I’m getting a bit of a headache.”
“Oh, temper? You think I’m in a temper?” shouted John, and he emptied the dustpan in the bin and slammed it shut with a bang. “Brilliant deduction, quite brilliant.”
“Yes, well. You don’t need a fireman to know which way the smoke blows,” said Sherlock vaguely as he sank down onto the now-cleared sofa. “And I’ll take kung pao chicken, hold the celery, and brown rice.”
“Fireman? Smoke blow? That’s not even a … that doesn’t mean anyth … Oh, why do I bother?” grumbled John, as he pulled out his phone to order the takeout. (519)