Sherlock fic request: 3
This one for beruthielfrodo. Short form of her request - Basically I want a lonely Sherlock who misses his John and tries everything to get his attention. (Full details here.)
The Case of the Made-Up Mystery
"Did you make up the bloody case, Sherlock?" said John incredulously.
There was a long moment of silence.
"Yes."
John stared at his flatmate.
"For God's sake, why?"
*
It had started innocently enough. Sherlock was just so bored. It had been two weeks since their last case. The weather was sunny, people were happy, the local news was filled with reports about record numbers going to Southend's pleasure pier... It was ghastly. Lestrade had even gone on holiday.
"Why are you going to this conference? I might need you," Sherlock said. John sighed.
"We don't have any cases on, and you know I've felt a bit out of the loop, professionally. It'll be interesting to learn about medical developments. Keep my hand in, you know."
"Can't you just read The Lancet?" asked Sherlock.
"And Sarah asked me to go."
Was John blushing? It was hard to tell, but Sherlock thought he might be.
"Oh, I see," he said sardonically. "It's not a conference. It's a date."
"No one goes on dates to conferences," said John.
"I would. If I dated."
"No one normal."
Sherlock threw himself onto the sofa with an exaggerated sigh.
"Fine then. Leave me for four days. I'm sure if anything does turn up I'll manage perfectly well. I might even manage to complete a whole case without you blogging about it."
John picked up his holdall.
"I'll see you on Monday."
"Yes, good, whatever."
When John was gone, Sherlock threw his slipper at the door.
*
The first day had been absolutely fine. Sherlock came up with a new system of cataloguing his books based on a formula of how frequently he consulted them, with which other books he associated them, and whether they had useful indexes. Toward the end of the day he had a call from Lestrade, asking for his help on a case. Sherlock texted John triumphantly.
Lestrade called about a murder. Come at once.
There was no reply, not even by the time Sherlock got to the police station.
Do you have your phone switched off? What if there was an emergency?
Still no reply. And unfortunately the case proved to be ludicrously simple.
"You came back from your holiday for this?" said Sherlock incredulously. "It was the girl's mother. Look at the scraps of nail polish under her fingernails."
"I might still make the last train down to Cornwall," said Lestrade hopefully, dashing back to his holiday and leaving Sherlock to be bored. Again.
His phone chimed.
Sorry, I was in a session. Anything interesting?
Oh very, but I solved it without you, Sherlock typed spitefully, and then reconsidered. He deleted all but the first two words and pressed SEND.
Sherlock sent half-a-dozen texts through dinnertime that evening, and made sure to send a couple in the middle of the night. He hadn't asked if John was hoping to share a room with Sarah, but John had taken his best pyjamas and a bottle of aftershave and so Sherlock deduced that he was, which made sending texts throughout the evening seem like a particularly good idea. Especially ones that would mean John would have to go and talk to other people. What do you know about VATS lobectomy? was one such text. Half an hour later John diligently texted back the phone number of an expert in video-assisted thoracoscopic surgery. Sherlock found himself hoping that he had texted during dessert. Sarah must be getting so annoyed.
Sherlock smiled to himself, and started to tap in another question.
He continued with this over the next couple of days. He never asked John to come back. No, that was too obvious, and besides, of course he didn't really want him to return. He had his skull to talk to, after all, having persuaded Mrs Hudson to return it, and he had an entire box of nicotine patches to work through. The milk had run out, true, but before John he had managed quite well without milk, thank you. He just wanted to annoy John, because - Oh, did he really have to have a reason? Sherlock went back to texting, shutting that train of thought away as irrelevant.
On the Sunday afternoon Sherlock decided to take a nap, realising he hadn't bothered sleeping in about twenty four hours. He awoke, sweating, from a nightmare where the waistcoat of bombs around John had exploded, and drawing his knees up to his chest he typed in another message.
Going to interview a suspect tonight. Could be dangerous.
John arrived less than two hours later. He must, Sherlock calculated, have left at most ten minutes after he received the text.
"So where are we going?" said John, breathless, and Sherlock shrugged.
"Oh, that. I cancelled it."
"You could have bloody let me know!" said John indignantly. "I came all the way - " He stopped and looked around the room. There were no notes tacked above the fireplace, no notes scattered by the sofa and across the table, and there was a half-eaten sandwich on the coffee table. "You don't eat when you're working," he said flatly. Sherlock didn't meet his eyes. "Did you make up the bloody case, Sherlock?"
"Yes," said Sherlock after a little while. He could feel John staring at him.
"For God's sake, why?"
He shrugged with one shoulder.
"Don't know. Bored."
"You were bored? You made up a case because you were bored? What, and you wanted to torment me? Ruin my chance to have a few days away from your violin playing and body parts in the fridge? Sarah was pissed off, I can tell you. She said I'm always dancing to your tune - " Sherlock couldn't help the corner of his mouth turning up into a smile, and John stopped. "Is this about Sarah? Is it?"
"Of course not," said Sherlock briskly, getting up and putting a couple of books back on their shelves. "I was just annoyed with you."
"Because of Sarah."
Sherlock didn't say anything. It was important to ensure these books went back exactly where they were supposed to in his new system. He felt a muscle in his cheek twitch as he heard John move across the room, and he jumped when John put his hand on his shoulder even though he was half expecting it.
"Sherlock."
There wasn't any anger in his voice, now, and Sherlock swallowed once.
"John." After a long time he managed to turn around. "John - "
"Yes."
After that there was no need for further discussion.
The Case of the Made-Up Mystery
"Did you make up the bloody case, Sherlock?" said John incredulously.
There was a long moment of silence.
"Yes."
John stared at his flatmate.
"For God's sake, why?"
*
It had started innocently enough. Sherlock was just so bored. It had been two weeks since their last case. The weather was sunny, people were happy, the local news was filled with reports about record numbers going to Southend's pleasure pier... It was ghastly. Lestrade had even gone on holiday.
"Why are you going to this conference? I might need you," Sherlock said. John sighed.
"We don't have any cases on, and you know I've felt a bit out of the loop, professionally. It'll be interesting to learn about medical developments. Keep my hand in, you know."
"Can't you just read The Lancet?" asked Sherlock.
"And Sarah asked me to go."
Was John blushing? It was hard to tell, but Sherlock thought he might be.
"Oh, I see," he said sardonically. "It's not a conference. It's a date."
"No one goes on dates to conferences," said John.
"I would. If I dated."
"No one normal."
Sherlock threw himself onto the sofa with an exaggerated sigh.
"Fine then. Leave me for four days. I'm sure if anything does turn up I'll manage perfectly well. I might even manage to complete a whole case without you blogging about it."
John picked up his holdall.
"I'll see you on Monday."
"Yes, good, whatever."
When John was gone, Sherlock threw his slipper at the door.
*
The first day had been absolutely fine. Sherlock came up with a new system of cataloguing his books based on a formula of how frequently he consulted them, with which other books he associated them, and whether they had useful indexes. Toward the end of the day he had a call from Lestrade, asking for his help on a case. Sherlock texted John triumphantly.
Lestrade called about a murder. Come at once.
There was no reply, not even by the time Sherlock got to the police station.
Do you have your phone switched off? What if there was an emergency?
Still no reply. And unfortunately the case proved to be ludicrously simple.
"You came back from your holiday for this?" said Sherlock incredulously. "It was the girl's mother. Look at the scraps of nail polish under her fingernails."
"I might still make the last train down to Cornwall," said Lestrade hopefully, dashing back to his holiday and leaving Sherlock to be bored. Again.
His phone chimed.
Sorry, I was in a session. Anything interesting?
Oh very, but I solved it without you, Sherlock typed spitefully, and then reconsidered. He deleted all but the first two words and pressed SEND.
Sherlock sent half-a-dozen texts through dinnertime that evening, and made sure to send a couple in the middle of the night. He hadn't asked if John was hoping to share a room with Sarah, but John had taken his best pyjamas and a bottle of aftershave and so Sherlock deduced that he was, which made sending texts throughout the evening seem like a particularly good idea. Especially ones that would mean John would have to go and talk to other people. What do you know about VATS lobectomy? was one such text. Half an hour later John diligently texted back the phone number of an expert in video-assisted thoracoscopic surgery. Sherlock found himself hoping that he had texted during dessert. Sarah must be getting so annoyed.
Sherlock smiled to himself, and started to tap in another question.
He continued with this over the next couple of days. He never asked John to come back. No, that was too obvious, and besides, of course he didn't really want him to return. He had his skull to talk to, after all, having persuaded Mrs Hudson to return it, and he had an entire box of nicotine patches to work through. The milk had run out, true, but before John he had managed quite well without milk, thank you. He just wanted to annoy John, because - Oh, did he really have to have a reason? Sherlock went back to texting, shutting that train of thought away as irrelevant.
On the Sunday afternoon Sherlock decided to take a nap, realising he hadn't bothered sleeping in about twenty four hours. He awoke, sweating, from a nightmare where the waistcoat of bombs around John had exploded, and drawing his knees up to his chest he typed in another message.
Going to interview a suspect tonight. Could be dangerous.
John arrived less than two hours later. He must, Sherlock calculated, have left at most ten minutes after he received the text.
"So where are we going?" said John, breathless, and Sherlock shrugged.
"Oh, that. I cancelled it."
"You could have bloody let me know!" said John indignantly. "I came all the way - " He stopped and looked around the room. There were no notes tacked above the fireplace, no notes scattered by the sofa and across the table, and there was a half-eaten sandwich on the coffee table. "You don't eat when you're working," he said flatly. Sherlock didn't meet his eyes. "Did you make up the bloody case, Sherlock?"
"Yes," said Sherlock after a little while. He could feel John staring at him.
"For God's sake, why?"
He shrugged with one shoulder.
"Don't know. Bored."
"You were bored? You made up a case because you were bored? What, and you wanted to torment me? Ruin my chance to have a few days away from your violin playing and body parts in the fridge? Sarah was pissed off, I can tell you. She said I'm always dancing to your tune - " Sherlock couldn't help the corner of his mouth turning up into a smile, and John stopped. "Is this about Sarah? Is it?"
"Of course not," said Sherlock briskly, getting up and putting a couple of books back on their shelves. "I was just annoyed with you."
"Because of Sarah."
Sherlock didn't say anything. It was important to ensure these books went back exactly where they were supposed to in his new system. He felt a muscle in his cheek twitch as he heard John move across the room, and he jumped when John put his hand on his shoulder even though he was half expecting it.
"Sherlock."
There wasn't any anger in his voice, now, and Sherlock swallowed once.
"John." After a long time he managed to turn around. "John - "
"Yes."
After that there was no need for further discussion.