Ultimate Choice series, part 1/3
Title: Ultimate Choice, pt.1
Author: Marumaru, originally in Japanese
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Wordcount: 2,584
Translated by: leopardseals
Beta-ed by: Lilithemm, lazy-like-a-fox
Rating: PG-13~NC-17
Warnings: Swearing, sexual content (part 3)
Summary: John comes to terms with his feelings.
Notes: Any awkwardness in the text is purely my fault -- the original text is absolutely beautiful! Thanks again to Marumaru-san for giving me permission to post this here :)
The original Japanese text for part 1 is located here.
His chest feels heavy when he wakes up sometimes.
He does not know why, exactly - he vaguely thinks that they might be from his nightmares, but he can never remember what they were about. It's puzzling to him that he could be so utterly exhausted upon waking.
To him, though, it seems like a trivial issue, in any case, and he is reluctant to take sleeping pills or seek counseling. He probably could procure the pills easily if he wanted to, but it just seemed like far too much work.
It was always a hassle for John when he had to go out of his way to take care of himself. It was easy to do things for others, of course. Lately it was mostly for Sherlock.
There was just some sort of a mental barrier, or perhaps, really just some laziness, when it came to his own body or mind. It was something of a habit; he’d been this way for ages, ever since he was a resident. He was always ignoring what his body told him, often coming down with the flu or leaving a cut untended until it festered.
There's no doubt that it was easily a part of the reason why he was almost killed in Afghanistan.
“Do you want to die!?”
He had heard those words many times from his army mates, but the truth was that really, he didn't. But he also didn’t particularly have much of a reason to stay alive, either.
He’d worked his ass off to become a physician and made it his life’s goal to save peoples’ lives, but he wasn’t overly attached to his own life.
This was likely John Watson’s biggest, and only real flaw.
It surprised him that in spite of this, he would suffer so much from the flashbacks. Perhaps his subconscious was crying out for help, since he was unable to help himself in the waking world.
But to whom?
---
A thin voice cried out, late at night at 221B Baker Street, in the third floor bedroom.
“Stop-“
His writhing form was the only thing moving in the stillness of the room.
“Please…”
“John?”
“Please - please! Stop…”
“John!”
Who is it? Nobody called me that on the battlefield -
“John!”
He finally awakened when his hand was suddenly tugged away.
“Wha--”
As he raised his body from the bed and cast his eyes across the darkness, he he felt a piercing gaze, a hand holding his own sticky one, a face concealed by shadows.
“Are you all right? It sounded like you were having a nightmare,” the figure said.
“No, I’m...fine, really.”
He looked up at him even before his eyes adjusted to the dark.
Your expression right now doesn’t suit you, Sherlock.
“…It happens sometimes. Really…I’m…sorry, Sherlock. For worrying you.”
Sherlock was silent, so John tried hard to sound upbeat, even while he realized that his flatmate would see right through his façade. Needless to say, he was right, but Sherlock also recognized that he couldn't do anything more to help John right at the moment. He slowly released his hand.
John missed those long, warm fingers instantly once they slid away from him. He instinctively grabbed at them again, his body silently pleading for him to not let him go.
“John?”
“Do you mind if staying like this until…?”
“No.”
John lay down once more on his bed, and like he promised, Sherlock held his flatmate’s slightly smaller hands until he fell asleep.
Comforted by the warmth, John slept soundly until the morning.
---
It was yet uncertain if it would turn into a case that could be featured on the blog, but Sherlock was headed to Antwerp by request from a high-profile client.
“You’re going alone?” John asked.
“I’m just going for the initial consultation. Frankly I’m not even sure if it will be something worth taking on,” Sherlock said drily.
He put his arms through his coat sleeves in one swift motion. As was characteristic for him, he had barely packed anything for the trip, shoving a few necessities into his pockets at the last minute. Mrs. Hudson was the one who had finally gathered together some of his clothes into a small leather suitcase for him, exasperated.
“You haven’t forgotten anything important now, have you dear?” she asked him, looking almost like a worried mother to a small child on his first outing.
“I don’t think I have,” Sherlock answered.
The case went as follows -
There was a large amount of land outside of Antwerp, formerly owned by a wealthy Baron, but now mostly abandoned and in a rough shape. The only remnants from its glory days were several acres of a lush forest and a mansion hidden amongst it.
The proprietress of the mansion had been found two days ago in a small cottage containing a greenhouse near the building. She had been shot in the head with a handgun, but there were no traces of anyone else being there. All doors were locked from the inside, and despite that, the murder weapon could not be found. From the state of the body, it was determined that she had been killed during the day, but there were no witnesses and nobody who had a motive for killing her.
The local police, not even able to determine if it was a suicide or murder, had been unhelpful, and the woman’s husband had heard about Sherlock’s reputation and contacted him.
“I’ll text you if it seems worthwhile,” Sherlock said.
“All right.”
Despite the fact that his words suggested that he was pessimistic about how interesting the case was going to be, Sherlock seemed excited to take on solving a new problem. This time, though, he didn’t ask John to come - “I’ll be lost without my blogger” - and John once again realized that without that, he felt like he couldn’t move an inch.
And yet, If you’d told me that it “could be dangerous”, I would have followed you to the ends of the earth.
“Have a safe trip, dear! Don’t worry about bringing us back anything!”
“I’ll try not to forget, Mrs. Hudson.”
Even while Mrs. Hudson went to see Sherlock off at the door, John sat unmoving from the sofa.
---
John laid his head against the armrest.
Perhaps, he thought, even while I pitied Molly back at Bart’s for being manipulated by Sherlock’s cruel words, a different, uglier part of me was looking down on her.
Sherlock knew fully well what Molly felt, but he was always using that to his advantage to get exactly what he needed, complimenting her on her hair or makeup. To Molly, it might have seemed like his interest in those little details translated to his budding interest in her, but to anyone else, it was clear it was just an extension of his constant, obsessive observations and his manipulations.
Did I even really feel bad for her? No - I was feeling superior for being different from her.
I'm Sherlock’s best friend; his only friend.
But now - look at me. I’m acting like a dog who was told by his master to “sit” and, “stay”. The only thing I can do is lie here and wait for him to come back. Where’s my sense of pride?
...A sense of pride -- for what?
“…Ha.”
John chuckled deprecatingly to himself, and stood up after a minute. He picked up his coat, which was hanging on the wall.
“John, dear - are you leaving too?”
“Yes, Mrs. Hudson. I’ll probably be coming home late tonight.”
“Oh,” she said knowingly.
When John went out on his own, if it was not for work, it was to Tesco’s, or the bank, or to Sarah’s flat. As it was already dark out, it was obvious which one of those he was headed to. Mrs. Hudson, however, didn’t pry any further and saw him out.
---
He took out his mobile and phoned Sarah as he walked.
“Hey, Sarah.”
“Hi, John - what’s going on? I didn’t expect a call from you at this hour,” she answered warmly.
“Is it okay if I pop over?”
“That’s fine…um, did you get into another fight with Sherlock?”
“…Why do you ask?”
“Because whenever you call like this and ask to come over, no doubt about it, you two have had a spat.”
“Right…well, if it helps any, I couldn’t even manage to get into an argument with him tonight.”
Sarah sighed lightly into the phone.
“I’m making dinner now, actually. Are you hungry?”
“That sounds great. I’ll pick up some wine along the way.”
“That’s all right - I’ve got some here. Get here as fast as you can - alone.”
“OK, see you soon.”
Sarah was one of the brightest people he’d gone out with. They had a comfortable rapport, no doubt in part because of that.
John was attracted to intelligence, far more than looks, or academic background or class - he’d always thought that true intelligence was something one had to earn, through hard work and experience.
Was it because they had something I didn’t? Was it the flip side of a complex - of myself, because I never became a successful physician?
I’m utter rubbish at psychoanalyzing myself, he thought, as he shoved his mobile back in his pocket and walked on.
---
Sarah answered the door in an apron.
“Wow, you look different in that. Quite good, actually,” John said with a smile.
Sarah rolled her eyes. “Sure I do. Hurry up and close the door - and sit!”
John looked over at the fry pan, where some pasta and tomato sauce sat inside, steaming. He quickly took off his jacket and laid it over the sofa in the living room.
“Need help with anything?”
“Nope. Just sit down and get comfortable.”
“…All right.”
They ate and laughed over trivial matters, and afterwards sat and watched some telly. It was all so comfortably ordinary, and quite good; being with Sarah and her calm, gentle nature seemed to relax the tension out of John’s wreck of a heart. This sort of warmth was just what he needed, and what he craved so much.
“This is a bit sudden, Sarah, but I think we should -“
Be together, he was going to say, but he paused.
She would probably say yes, he knew, but he was hesitant to speak. Humans were hardwired to go with whatever was the easiest step to take, weren’t they? Even so…
At that moment, as if sensing the silence, the sudden trill of his mobile alerted him to a new message.
Send me the HDS file via email. It’s in the cabinet. SH
“What? It’s from Sherlock, isn’t it?”
“…Yeah.”
John quickly turned off the phone, not wanting Sarah to sense his sudden rush of excitement.
“It’s nothing urgent.”
“Oh? It seems like it’s always an emergency when he texts.”
Sarah sounded much calmer he did. His mobile beeped again.
You’re not at 221B?
John answered immediately.
Not at the moment.
The response came just as quickly - You can be back in 15 minutes if you’re at Sarah’s flat.
John felt a jolt of annoyance go through him. A normal individual would realize that it might be rude to ask one to step out of his girlfriend’s flat, especially at such an hour. He doesn’t bother to hide what he feels.
I can’t now.
“Everything all right? You look like you’re trying to pick a fight with him.”
“That’s not entirely inaccurate, I suppose…”
And then, another text arrived.
In that case, I will wait 30 minutes. Get dressed in that time and go back to our flat.
John’s blood rushed to his head and he held the phone up, ready to slam it against the ground. He was immediately stopped by Sarah, who looked bewildered.
“What are you doing? Sherlock isn’t here, John.”
“...”
“It’s okay. You can go.”
“Sarah -“
“I probably won’t get to hear what you were starting to say before, in any case...not tonight, it seems.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Take care.”
He kissed Sarah’s cool, sober cheek and left her flat.
---
The night air was cold, but John felt lighter somehow. Sarah’s smiling face seemed to fade away as soon as he was outside, his mind focusing on remembering where a file named “HDS” was back home.
Well, it is Sherlock we're talking about here -- I bet he’s got all his records and files in a database somewhere, he mused.
It would be impossible for him to unlock his flatmate’s laptop, even if it was child’s play for Sherlock to break into his own. Since he had his smartphone on him, it shouldn’t have been hard for him to reference the files through it. Perhaps he needed John to look through his paper files, something he couldn’t access, and the “cabinet” he had been referring to was an actual, physical cabinet…
John felt his pace quicken almost automatically, and he started processing his thoughts.
Why was it that he was practically running back to their flat? He couldn’t leave Sarah’s flat -- and get out of his declaration to her -- fast enough. It was almost if he had been waiting for that text from Sherlock.
What is this?
Was I waiting for his text?
Of course, his other self seemed to say. You’re only running home now because your Master told you to.
And no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t deny it. He had been waiting for Sherlock to reach out to him. Until just now, he’d just been a dog told to “stay”.
No.
Oh? So if you were asked by Sarah to choose between her and Sherlock, what would you say?
…By Sarah?
Why not? Would it be any wonder if she asked you right now?
I can’t choose between them. It’s impossible…
Of course you wouldn’t be able to say - since your answer would be Sherlock Holmes.
That’s -
Y’know, a typical man, if asked by his girlfriend to choose between either his life’s passion or his love, would probably answer that he couldn’t choose; though both are important, they fulfill him in different ways.
Your first thought, however, was to come up with an excuse for Sarah. You tried to think of a way to pick out words that would hurt her the least; it means you’ve already made your choice. Sherlock is not merely a colleague to your dedication - he’s both a part of your passion and your heart. Inside, you’ve answered already.
The other John inside him - the calm, practical, brutally honest part of him - tormented him as he swayed, caught between his emotions.
---
John opened the door to 221B and crept up the stairs, careful to not wake Mrs. Hudson.
When he opened the glass cabinet door next to their table, he spotted several A4-sized clear files along with some old manila folders. The edge of one of the folders was marked “HDS”, scrawled by hand with a pen.
“Was he talking about this? It looks old…”
To his surprise, the only thing it contained was a floppy disc.
Sherlock’s intensions became clear almost immediately to John, then.
Neither of their laptops had FD drivers - meaning, the data contained in the disc was one that could not be accessed by him immediately. That Sherlock went out of his way to text John about the file meant one thing. He deliberately wanted to get John away from Sarah.
What exactly were you trying to do?
John sent the text quickly, and a second later, his phone buzzed.
Why didn’t you come with me, John?
Part 2
Author: Marumaru, originally in Japanese
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Wordcount: 2,584
Translated by: leopardseals
Beta-ed by: Lilithemm, lazy-like-a-fox
Rating: PG-13~NC-17
Warnings: Swearing, sexual content (part 3)
Summary: John comes to terms with his feelings.
Notes: Any awkwardness in the text is purely my fault -- the original text is absolutely beautiful! Thanks again to Marumaru-san for giving me permission to post this here :)
The original Japanese text for part 1 is located here.
His chest feels heavy when he wakes up sometimes.
He does not know why, exactly - he vaguely thinks that they might be from his nightmares, but he can never remember what they were about. It's puzzling to him that he could be so utterly exhausted upon waking.
To him, though, it seems like a trivial issue, in any case, and he is reluctant to take sleeping pills or seek counseling. He probably could procure the pills easily if he wanted to, but it just seemed like far too much work.
It was always a hassle for John when he had to go out of his way to take care of himself. It was easy to do things for others, of course. Lately it was mostly for Sherlock.
There was just some sort of a mental barrier, or perhaps, really just some laziness, when it came to his own body or mind. It was something of a habit; he’d been this way for ages, ever since he was a resident. He was always ignoring what his body told him, often coming down with the flu or leaving a cut untended until it festered.
There's no doubt that it was easily a part of the reason why he was almost killed in Afghanistan.
“Do you want to die!?”
He had heard those words many times from his army mates, but the truth was that really, he didn't. But he also didn’t particularly have much of a reason to stay alive, either.
He’d worked his ass off to become a physician and made it his life’s goal to save peoples’ lives, but he wasn’t overly attached to his own life.
This was likely John Watson’s biggest, and only real flaw.
It surprised him that in spite of this, he would suffer so much from the flashbacks. Perhaps his subconscious was crying out for help, since he was unable to help himself in the waking world.
But to whom?
---
A thin voice cried out, late at night at 221B Baker Street, in the third floor bedroom.
“Stop-“
His writhing form was the only thing moving in the stillness of the room.
“Please…”
“John?”
“Please - please! Stop…”
“John!”
Who is it? Nobody called me that on the battlefield -
“John!”
He finally awakened when his hand was suddenly tugged away.
“Wha--”
As he raised his body from the bed and cast his eyes across the darkness, he he felt a piercing gaze, a hand holding his own sticky one, a face concealed by shadows.
“Are you all right? It sounded like you were having a nightmare,” the figure said.
“No, I’m...fine, really.”
He looked up at him even before his eyes adjusted to the dark.
Your expression right now doesn’t suit you, Sherlock.
“…It happens sometimes. Really…I’m…sorry, Sherlock. For worrying you.”
Sherlock was silent, so John tried hard to sound upbeat, even while he realized that his flatmate would see right through his façade. Needless to say, he was right, but Sherlock also recognized that he couldn't do anything more to help John right at the moment. He slowly released his hand.
John missed those long, warm fingers instantly once they slid away from him. He instinctively grabbed at them again, his body silently pleading for him to not let him go.
“John?”
“Do you mind if staying like this until…?”
“No.”
John lay down once more on his bed, and like he promised, Sherlock held his flatmate’s slightly smaller hands until he fell asleep.
Comforted by the warmth, John slept soundly until the morning.
---
It was yet uncertain if it would turn into a case that could be featured on the blog, but Sherlock was headed to Antwerp by request from a high-profile client.
“You’re going alone?” John asked.
“I’m just going for the initial consultation. Frankly I’m not even sure if it will be something worth taking on,” Sherlock said drily.
He put his arms through his coat sleeves in one swift motion. As was characteristic for him, he had barely packed anything for the trip, shoving a few necessities into his pockets at the last minute. Mrs. Hudson was the one who had finally gathered together some of his clothes into a small leather suitcase for him, exasperated.
“You haven’t forgotten anything important now, have you dear?” she asked him, looking almost like a worried mother to a small child on his first outing.
“I don’t think I have,” Sherlock answered.
The case went as follows -
There was a large amount of land outside of Antwerp, formerly owned by a wealthy Baron, but now mostly abandoned and in a rough shape. The only remnants from its glory days were several acres of a lush forest and a mansion hidden amongst it.
The proprietress of the mansion had been found two days ago in a small cottage containing a greenhouse near the building. She had been shot in the head with a handgun, but there were no traces of anyone else being there. All doors were locked from the inside, and despite that, the murder weapon could not be found. From the state of the body, it was determined that she had been killed during the day, but there were no witnesses and nobody who had a motive for killing her.
The local police, not even able to determine if it was a suicide or murder, had been unhelpful, and the woman’s husband had heard about Sherlock’s reputation and contacted him.
“I’ll text you if it seems worthwhile,” Sherlock said.
“All right.”
Despite the fact that his words suggested that he was pessimistic about how interesting the case was going to be, Sherlock seemed excited to take on solving a new problem. This time, though, he didn’t ask John to come - “I’ll be lost without my blogger” - and John once again realized that without that, he felt like he couldn’t move an inch.
And yet, If you’d told me that it “could be dangerous”, I would have followed you to the ends of the earth.
“Have a safe trip, dear! Don’t worry about bringing us back anything!”
“I’ll try not to forget, Mrs. Hudson.”
Even while Mrs. Hudson went to see Sherlock off at the door, John sat unmoving from the sofa.
---
John laid his head against the armrest.
Perhaps, he thought, even while I pitied Molly back at Bart’s for being manipulated by Sherlock’s cruel words, a different, uglier part of me was looking down on her.
Sherlock knew fully well what Molly felt, but he was always using that to his advantage to get exactly what he needed, complimenting her on her hair or makeup. To Molly, it might have seemed like his interest in those little details translated to his budding interest in her, but to anyone else, it was clear it was just an extension of his constant, obsessive observations and his manipulations.
Did I even really feel bad for her? No - I was feeling superior for being different from her.
I'm Sherlock’s best friend; his only friend.
But now - look at me. I’m acting like a dog who was told by his master to “sit” and, “stay”. The only thing I can do is lie here and wait for him to come back. Where’s my sense of pride?
...A sense of pride -- for what?
“…Ha.”
John chuckled deprecatingly to himself, and stood up after a minute. He picked up his coat, which was hanging on the wall.
“John, dear - are you leaving too?”
“Yes, Mrs. Hudson. I’ll probably be coming home late tonight.”
“Oh,” she said knowingly.
When John went out on his own, if it was not for work, it was to Tesco’s, or the bank, or to Sarah’s flat. As it was already dark out, it was obvious which one of those he was headed to. Mrs. Hudson, however, didn’t pry any further and saw him out.
---
He took out his mobile and phoned Sarah as he walked.
“Hey, Sarah.”
“Hi, John - what’s going on? I didn’t expect a call from you at this hour,” she answered warmly.
“Is it okay if I pop over?”
“That’s fine…um, did you get into another fight with Sherlock?”
“…Why do you ask?”
“Because whenever you call like this and ask to come over, no doubt about it, you two have had a spat.”
“Right…well, if it helps any, I couldn’t even manage to get into an argument with him tonight.”
Sarah sighed lightly into the phone.
“I’m making dinner now, actually. Are you hungry?”
“That sounds great. I’ll pick up some wine along the way.”
“That’s all right - I’ve got some here. Get here as fast as you can - alone.”
“OK, see you soon.”
Sarah was one of the brightest people he’d gone out with. They had a comfortable rapport, no doubt in part because of that.
John was attracted to intelligence, far more than looks, or academic background or class - he’d always thought that true intelligence was something one had to earn, through hard work and experience.
Was it because they had something I didn’t? Was it the flip side of a complex - of myself, because I never became a successful physician?
I’m utter rubbish at psychoanalyzing myself, he thought, as he shoved his mobile back in his pocket and walked on.
---
Sarah answered the door in an apron.
“Wow, you look different in that. Quite good, actually,” John said with a smile.
Sarah rolled her eyes. “Sure I do. Hurry up and close the door - and sit!”
John looked over at the fry pan, where some pasta and tomato sauce sat inside, steaming. He quickly took off his jacket and laid it over the sofa in the living room.
“Need help with anything?”
“Nope. Just sit down and get comfortable.”
“…All right.”
They ate and laughed over trivial matters, and afterwards sat and watched some telly. It was all so comfortably ordinary, and quite good; being with Sarah and her calm, gentle nature seemed to relax the tension out of John’s wreck of a heart. This sort of warmth was just what he needed, and what he craved so much.
“This is a bit sudden, Sarah, but I think we should -“
Be together, he was going to say, but he paused.
She would probably say yes, he knew, but he was hesitant to speak. Humans were hardwired to go with whatever was the easiest step to take, weren’t they? Even so…
At that moment, as if sensing the silence, the sudden trill of his mobile alerted him to a new message.
Send me the HDS file via email. It’s in the cabinet. SH
“What? It’s from Sherlock, isn’t it?”
“…Yeah.”
John quickly turned off the phone, not wanting Sarah to sense his sudden rush of excitement.
“It’s nothing urgent.”
“Oh? It seems like it’s always an emergency when he texts.”
Sarah sounded much calmer he did. His mobile beeped again.
You’re not at 221B?
John answered immediately.
Not at the moment.
The response came just as quickly - You can be back in 15 minutes if you’re at Sarah’s flat.
John felt a jolt of annoyance go through him. A normal individual would realize that it might be rude to ask one to step out of his girlfriend’s flat, especially at such an hour. He doesn’t bother to hide what he feels.
I can’t now.
“Everything all right? You look like you’re trying to pick a fight with him.”
“That’s not entirely inaccurate, I suppose…”
And then, another text arrived.
In that case, I will wait 30 minutes. Get dressed in that time and go back to our flat.
John’s blood rushed to his head and he held the phone up, ready to slam it against the ground. He was immediately stopped by Sarah, who looked bewildered.
“What are you doing? Sherlock isn’t here, John.”
“...”
“It’s okay. You can go.”
“Sarah -“
“I probably won’t get to hear what you were starting to say before, in any case...not tonight, it seems.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Take care.”
He kissed Sarah’s cool, sober cheek and left her flat.
---
The night air was cold, but John felt lighter somehow. Sarah’s smiling face seemed to fade away as soon as he was outside, his mind focusing on remembering where a file named “HDS” was back home.
Well, it is Sherlock we're talking about here -- I bet he’s got all his records and files in a database somewhere, he mused.
It would be impossible for him to unlock his flatmate’s laptop, even if it was child’s play for Sherlock to break into his own. Since he had his smartphone on him, it shouldn’t have been hard for him to reference the files through it. Perhaps he needed John to look through his paper files, something he couldn’t access, and the “cabinet” he had been referring to was an actual, physical cabinet…
John felt his pace quicken almost automatically, and he started processing his thoughts.
Why was it that he was practically running back to their flat? He couldn’t leave Sarah’s flat -- and get out of his declaration to her -- fast enough. It was almost if he had been waiting for that text from Sherlock.
What is this?
Was I waiting for his text?
Of course, his other self seemed to say. You’re only running home now because your Master told you to.
And no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t deny it. He had been waiting for Sherlock to reach out to him. Until just now, he’d just been a dog told to “stay”.
No.
Oh? So if you were asked by Sarah to choose between her and Sherlock, what would you say?
…By Sarah?
Why not? Would it be any wonder if she asked you right now?
I can’t choose between them. It’s impossible…
Of course you wouldn’t be able to say - since your answer would be Sherlock Holmes.
That’s -
Y’know, a typical man, if asked by his girlfriend to choose between either his life’s passion or his love, would probably answer that he couldn’t choose; though both are important, they fulfill him in different ways.
Your first thought, however, was to come up with an excuse for Sarah. You tried to think of a way to pick out words that would hurt her the least; it means you’ve already made your choice. Sherlock is not merely a colleague to your dedication - he’s both a part of your passion and your heart. Inside, you’ve answered already.
The other John inside him - the calm, practical, brutally honest part of him - tormented him as he swayed, caught between his emotions.
---
John opened the door to 221B and crept up the stairs, careful to not wake Mrs. Hudson.
When he opened the glass cabinet door next to their table, he spotted several A4-sized clear files along with some old manila folders. The edge of one of the folders was marked “HDS”, scrawled by hand with a pen.
“Was he talking about this? It looks old…”
To his surprise, the only thing it contained was a floppy disc.
Sherlock’s intensions became clear almost immediately to John, then.
Neither of their laptops had FD drivers - meaning, the data contained in the disc was one that could not be accessed by him immediately. That Sherlock went out of his way to text John about the file meant one thing. He deliberately wanted to get John away from Sarah.
What exactly were you trying to do?
John sent the text quickly, and a second later, his phone buzzed.
Why didn’t you come with me, John?
Part 2