Holmesian Science
SHERLOCK
HOLMESIAN SCIENCE
I think I need to see a doctor or something for my Sherlock-psychosis.... I don’t think it’s all that productive really... lol! Meh! What do I care? I’m currently thinking like Sherlock, I’m brilliant! :D
Um... just ignore me and read this... it’s sort of humour I think...
Kasey
~
“Sherlock! What are you doing?” John roared as he ran into the front room and looked around frantically for Sherlock, he had murder on his mind and said murder would be of one Sherlock Holmes!
“What do you mean John?” Sherlock asked looking around as John came careening into the kitchen looking for all intents and purposes like a man who was torn between murder and worry.
John came to a full-stop in front of the kitchen table which was partially clear of crap, crap being various body parts and the likes, and looked at Sherlock in silent fury, “Sherlock,” he began, his voice as calm and controlled as he could possibly manage, “could you please stop your experimenting for one night? I have work in less than six hours and I need to sleep, unlike you I don’t run on nicotine patches alone!”
Sherlock sighed and said dramatically, “I’m bored John, there’s nothing else for me to do; unless you can suggest something to do that is?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow as John spluttered and began to turn red, whether it was from embarrassment or anger Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure but he guessed it was moreso the former than the later. Then Sherlock paused and looked at John with a single raised eyebrow, “so it’s you who’s been using my patches? I had briefly considered it to be Mrs Hudson.”
John simply glared at the obnoxiously annoying man who was now moving out of the kitchen and into the sitting area. He would not grant that a response, no, he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t-
“Shut up Sherlock,” he muttered glumly as he threw himself into his chair as Sherlock began to pace up and down the length of the sitting area, “and sit down for Christ’s sake!” he exclaimed rubbing a hand over his tired face.
“I’m afraid I care not for the sake of Christ since I’m not one to believe in religion John,” Sherlock replied quickly though he did stop pacing, though now he simply looked like he was about to explode; it sort of reminded John of that thing that kids do with a bottle of coke and mentos, add the two together, it fizzes and explodes everywhere.
“Sherlock,” John said as he pierced the tall detective with the same look he’d used on a couple of argumentative patients before he’d joined the army, “please sit down and try to be quiet for the next six hours please,” John’s tone of voice changed from firm to a tone that reminded Sherlock of a child begging for a toy from their parent; it was somewhat strange for John to use such a tone of voice but he simply put it down to tiredness.
Oh... tiredness, he hadn’t actually thought about John when he’d started his experiment three hours ago; if he was honest he’d actually forgot about the army doctor asleep upstairs. Well, perhaps he should and try to be quiet for the sake of a friend? Sherlock nodded and sat down as he looked at John thoughtfully before asking, “I’ll try to be quiet John but what can I do that’s quiet for the next six hours exactly?”
John looked up at Sherlock as though the man had sprouted another head and Sherlock actually had to do a mental-check of his person just to be sure he hadn’t infact grown a second head; it was somewhat disconcerting the stare Sherlock was receiving, “I...” John frowned and blinked tiredly as he looked around the flat, almost like he was desperately trying to find something that Sherlock hadn’t already read before, “uh... I... don’t actually know...” he said lamely and Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes; how typically stupid.
“Well, unless you can think of something John then I will be continuing on with my experiment; though it might be a bit too loud for you to get any sleep for a number of hours,” Sherlock said definitively and he could have sworn that John wanted to actually shoot him; no, John wouldn’t do that... well he might if Sherlock kept pushing him.
John damn-near growled at the other seated man before taking a deep breath and muttering to himself, “lack of sleep, head’s in the deep, tiredness’ starting to seep, into my life my dreams and nightmares...” and then he looked up at Sherlock with a glint in his eyes that Sherlock recognised as being the look of sudden realisation in the army doctor’s eyes.
“I suppose you’ve thought of something then?” Sherlock said airily as he looked up at the ceiling, feigning absolute boredom. He would have much preferred to have simply continued with his experiment but he did have to think about his flatmate and the fact that the man was meant to have work in the morning.
“Oh yes Sherlock...” John grinned and Sherlock looked at the army doctor whose face seemed to have taken on a rather mischievous and evil taint, oh dear, “I’ve definitely thought of something and I’m sure you’ll love it!”
Repressing the urge to shiver at the look on John’s face Sherlock asked impatiently, “well what is it then!” and Sherlock was sure that John’s grin grew even wider.
John grinned at Sherlock for a long moment and if Sherlock had been less proud then he was quite certain he would have given into the urge to squirm under the intense stare. And just as Sherlock was about to speak again John finally said one word that made Sherlock go rigid in his chair, “poetry.”
Before Sherlock could manage to control himself long enough to argue or even call John every name he could think of John happily rose from his seat and moved across the sitting room, out onto the landing and was already ascending the stairs up to his room before he called out, “have fun Sherlock!”
~
It took Sherlock nearly twelve minutes for him to get his body to actually respond to what he was repeatedly ordering it to do; like to get up and go upstairs and then insult John until he cried, but it seemed that his body wouldn’t dare allow him to go as far as insult the one and only John Watson. Traitorous body!
“Damn you John,” he muttered as he slowly rose from the chair and moved across the room to the small desk with the chair in front it, which he threw himself rather unceremoniously into, “bloody damn you and your need to sleep!”
He refused to write... poetry... he absolutely refused! Poetry was... depressed and stupid and boring and he was just not a poet at heart; since there was always the debate as to whether or not he actually had a heart so that was a mute point for him really.
“I will not write poetry,” he said quietly, almost as if to reiterate the fact that he would not write something as mundanely boring as a poem, “I refused to write the blasted things when younger I am not going to start writing them now!” Sherlock groaned loudly as he belatedly realised that it was either write a poem or re-read everything in the flat and he knew that since he had already read every book there was that he’d be bored far quicker than he wanted to be since John did indeed need his sleep, “I am going to have retribution for this, that is a promise,” he said decisively as he looked at the skull on the mantelpiece, “he’s going to regret making me do this...”
~
He pulled a piece of paper and one of the many biro pens that littered the flat towards him and stared at it for a long time before he did anything, what was he even meant to write? He wasn’t one for poetry, he wasn’t one for using words to show how he felt; well, beyond irritation and annoyance of course. There was a reason why he didn’t discuss feelings damnit! He really was going to get revenge on John and that was a promise that he was definitely going to keep.
He had nothing to do besides this and it bored him, it bored it and it bothered him in a way that no-one could understand; it truly did, he felt like he was going crazy...
Why did that seem like something he could twist into some sort of verse? He must be even crazier than he’d originally believed himself to be... surely... no, aren’t poems meant to be depressed and all about the heartbreak one feels when a loved one leaves them and the likes?
Well... maybe he could possibly break the trend then couldn’t he?
Silently he picked up the pen and began to write, pausing every now and then as he thought and pondered over the words and the manner in which he should write them; it was quite important as to how the words should be on the page. It mattered greatly to him and Sherlock couldn’t actually figure as to why that was; he normally didn’t care about such a thing yet here, now, he cared about how his words sounded more than he’d ever done. Poetry obviously was much more precise than normal thoughts and speech. Damn...
~
When John finally woke up, after having five hours of uninterrupted sleep before a nightmare finally took hold; which had been incredibly unusual since he rarely had nightmares these days, though he did reason that that was because he was normally too tired for his mind to actually formulate a nightmare for him to experience, he blinked and was amazed by the fact that the flat was... silent.
It was almost scary as to how quiet it actually was and John couldn’t help but wonder whether Sherlock had left at some point because the man hadn’t been able to stay quiet enough. But... that wouldn’t explain the fact that John still felt like there was someone in the flat; and no, they weren’t a danger. Not directly at least.
He quickly rose from his bed, dressed and cleaned himself up in the bathroom so he looked presentable, before heading down into the sitting room partially expecting to see Sherlock glaring at him from the opposite side of the room surrounded by scraps of paper with various poetic lines on them. It would have actually made for quite the image really.
But what he did see when he entered the sitting area somehow made John want to go ‘aww’ and he mentally told himself to shut up as he tilted his head slightly and smiled wistfully. It was almost sweet what he was seeing right then and there. He had never before in his life seen something that could elicit such a paternal sort of response from him but it seemed that Sherlock Holmes had managed to do what others had never before done so; not even Harry when they’d been younger and he’d had to essentially raise her because they’re parents were far too busy with their important lives to think about their children.
There was Sherlock Holmes, the great consulting detective, the man who was able to take John apart and put him back together in less than five minutes, slumped in his chair, his head resting on the polished desk, his hair fluffy and ruffled, his face heart-wrenchingly vulnerable and innocent looking, asleep.
He carefully moved towards the slumbering man, ignoring the paternal urge to brush one of Sherlock’s locks off his face, and he noticed that there were several pieces of slightly crumpled pieces of paper around Sherlock. He frowned in curiosity and silently picked up one of the nearest pieces, which had what looked to be the most discernable handwriting. He read it and silently mouthed the words, his lips quirking into a smile as he did so.
~
My brain’s not busy, my mind is bored, I’m going crazy and the world’s getting hazy!
I want a puzzle, I want a game but there’s none forthcoming, life’s still mundane!
Someone help me, give me something to do, a body to dissect oh and an explosive charge too!
Look at this John, this is how bored I am, I’m not a poet so this isn’t on!
Just find me a case or get me a gun, I’ll go make up a crime so my boredom will be done!
Oh God! I must stop this, I’m not Shakespearean, I’m Holmesian so this poetry I shalt not miss!
Perhaps even my brother will pass my time, he’s always working on something shadowy, but his tooth hurts him so he’s now just a mime!
John shoot me please right now, it’s for the greater good, just put an end to this poetry, I don’t care how!
~
He couldn’t help it, he laughed out loud and his laughter caused Sherlock to jerk awake. He looked down at the blurry-eyed young man and smirked as he said, “well... it looks like I should ask you to write poetry more often.”
Sherlock blinked and looked up at John, his mind sharpening as it shook off the last residues of sleep, and fixed John with a pointed glare, “really, and why is that John?” he asked, his voice deceptively calm and John felt his entire body tense as he readied himself to run.
He smiled and waved the piece of paper in his hand in an attempt to distract Sherlock’s gaze, which worked; for all of two seconds, “because it seems to be more effective than a lullaby,” he grinned at Sherlock who suddenly lunged for him, and John was sure he saw murderous intent in the man’s gaze before dodged and darted out of the door and down the stairs with Sherlock hot on his heels.
He dived at the door which he managed to fling open and was out on the street shouting over his shoulder at Sherlock, who was stood on the doorstep giving him one of the most murderous looks John had ever been on the receiving, “I think I’ll get something on the way to work!”
And just as John darted across the street he was very sure that he heard Sherlock calling him quite the colourful name. He had to remember that poetry seemed to be the best lullaby for one Sherlock Holmes.
~
END