Overflow Post II
This post is for responding to prompts from prompt posts that are full, or continuing WIPs that were started on prompt posts that have since filled up or are close to full.
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John had a fairly predictable schedule, even when he was helping Sherlock with a case. Sherlock waited until the doctor had gone to the clinic before running up to John’s room. There wasn’t a real curiosity in Sherlock’s searching. He just needed something that he couldn’t (loathe as he was to admit it) deduce from John himself.
Shuffling through the desk draw that held John’s gun and a few other very personal items, he unearthed a photo, creased with years. It showed a much younger John and a girl that had to be Harry. There was no notation anywhere, and the picture itself had been taken in a field, rather nondescript but early summer based on the plants.
Sherlock returned the photo to its hiding place and went back downstairs. He’d call Harry for the details. If that didn’t invade John’s personal space then the man didn’t have any.
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John had been shooting him odd glances since the meal started. This was hardly surprising - Sherlock usually didn’t eat with John so much as he was present while John ate. But John was a decent cook and Sherlock wasn’t trying for subtle bonding between flatmates.
“Sherlock?”
“Mm.”
“Not that I don’t appreciate your company, but…you don’t like eggplant.”
“No, I don’t.”
John shrugged via his utensils. “So why are you eating it?”
“I wanted to talk about a picture in you room.”
“OK.”
“The one in your gun drawer.”
“I told you to leave my gun alone, Sherlock.”
The detective frowned. “I wasn’t using your gun. I went through your stuff.”
“That would be how you found the picture, yes.” John took another bite. Sherlock laid his fork down.
“I called Harry about it. The photo.”
“How’d she take that?”
“What?”
John grinned. “She would have been at work. She hates being interrupted more than you do, I think.”
Sherlock was glaring now. “John, I went through you things.”
“Evidently.”
“And called your sister.”
“I got that.”
“Aren’t you upset?”
John shrugged, this time with his shoulders. “I assumed you did that ages ago.” Another bite. “Why the questions this evening?”
Sherlock blinked. “Nothing. Just…trying to make small talk.”
“Well stop,” John chided gently. “I’ll worry you’re being blackmailed again.”
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