Anderson had been working without sufficient rest for days, his marriage was in shambles, work demanded nearly all his time and so far he had been up for nearly 36 hours straight without so much as a break for lunch. He had kept his temper in check with herculean effort during this time - but when he had arrived at work that morning, he had been met with the confusion of his DI.
Lestrade had insisted he get rest, and Anderson had insisted he was still able to work, and refused to go home. What did Lestrade know, anyway? He let Sherlock work cases when he hadn’t slept more than an hour for the week, or had a proper meal in several days.
“UGH! Exterminate! ExterminateExterminateEXTERMINATE” Anderson yelled to the forensics team, increasingly frustrated by their incompetency. Had they completely forgotten the basic foundations of the English language? They all just stared back at him, blankly, occasionally (albeit uncertainly) looking at each other for answers - as if he were speaking bloody Swahili.
Across the crime scene, Sherlock furrowed his brow, listening to Anderson’s hysterics, watching his arms flail wildly to emphasise his claims. Whatever his claims were, he couldn’t be certain. Exterminate: to kill en masse. There was only one body; it certainly wasn’t an ‘extermination’ of any kind.
Anderson was prone to saying the stupidest things, but not repetition. It struck him as odd.
In the absence of conversation, Lestrade followed Sherlock’s line of sight and saw Anderson, "Ah - figured you’d see him, eventually.” He clicked his tongue, as he tried to approach the situation as delicately as possible “...He's overworked.” He explained with a world-weary sigh. “I've tried to get him to take the day off, but he thinks he's speaking normally."
“Overworked?” Sherlock questioned, as Lestrade adjusted his stance, attempting to appear less conspicuous when Anderson came toward them.
"EXTERMINATE!" Anderson growled angrily (no doubt a critique of his team), rejoining the DI. He was flustered, his hair out of place and his collar askew under his scrubs. It was only then that he noticed Sherlock staring at him and he glared over at him, “Exterminate?” he barked accusingly, with all the confidence in the world that he was coherent.
Sherlock raised his brow, but otherwise said nothing. It could have been a sort of Schizophasia but that typically manifested in disordered phrases, not one singular word repeated and emphasised with changing inflection.
"Anderson.” Lestrade chided, exasperated (no wonder, he had to deal with the insufferable nonsense all day - Sherlock had only just shown up). “No-one can understand you, you’re not making any sense!" somehow, despite the volume of his voice, he was rather tender with him. The poor bastard truly had no idea.
"…Exterminate?" the scientist looked legitimately concerned, confused even, but somehow still indignant.
"You keep saying 'exterminate'" Lestrade clarified, cautiously. Anderson had been increasingly volatile, the last thing he really wanted to do was provoke him.
"Exterminate." Anderson responded, which, by his tone, the DI took to be ‘No, I’m not’ with equal measures of annoyance.
"Christ, Anderson. Go home, will you?" It was an order, though he came across as apologetic - more so when Anderson looked to Sherlock and then back to him, his gaze a mite darker than before.
“Exterminieran! Sonst warden wir Sie exterminieren! Sie sind jetzt ein gefangener der Daleks!” Anderson snapped, lingered a moment in the confusion of his peers before he stormed off the crime scene. He didn't even look back.
Lestrade had insisted he get rest, and Anderson had insisted he was still able to work, and refused to go home. What did Lestrade know, anyway? He let Sherlock work cases when he hadn’t slept more than an hour for the week, or had a proper meal in several days.
“UGH! Exterminate! ExterminateExterminateEXTERMINATE” Anderson yelled to the forensics team, increasingly frustrated by their incompetency. Had they completely forgotten the basic foundations of the English language? They all just stared back at him, blankly, occasionally (albeit uncertainly) looking at each other for answers - as if he were speaking bloody Swahili.
Across the crime scene, Sherlock furrowed his brow, listening to Anderson’s hysterics, watching his arms flail wildly to emphasise his claims. Whatever his claims were, he couldn’t be certain. Exterminate: to kill en masse. There was only one body; it certainly wasn’t an ‘extermination’ of any kind.
Anderson was prone to saying the stupidest things, but not repetition. It struck him as odd.
In the absence of conversation, Lestrade followed Sherlock’s line of sight and saw Anderson, "Ah - figured you’d see him, eventually.” He clicked his tongue, as he tried to approach the situation as delicately as possible “...He's overworked.” He explained with a world-weary sigh. “I've tried to get him to take the day off, but he thinks he's speaking normally."
“Overworked?” Sherlock questioned, as Lestrade adjusted his stance, attempting to appear less conspicuous when Anderson came toward them.
"EXTERMINATE!" Anderson growled angrily (no doubt a critique of his team), rejoining the DI. He was flustered, his hair out of place and his collar askew under his scrubs. It was only then that he noticed Sherlock staring at him and he glared over at him, “Exterminate?” he barked accusingly, with all the confidence in the world that he was coherent.
Sherlock raised his brow, but otherwise said nothing. It could have been a sort of Schizophasia but that typically manifested in disordered phrases, not one singular word repeated and emphasised with changing inflection.
"Anderson.” Lestrade chided, exasperated (no wonder, he had to deal with the insufferable nonsense all day - Sherlock had only just shown up). “No-one can understand you, you’re not making any sense!" somehow, despite the volume of his voice, he was rather tender with him. The poor bastard truly had no idea.
"…Exterminate?" the scientist looked legitimately concerned, confused even, but somehow still indignant.
"You keep saying 'exterminate'" Lestrade clarified, cautiously. Anderson had been increasingly volatile, the last thing he really wanted to do was provoke him.
"Exterminate." Anderson responded, which, by his tone, the DI took to be ‘No, I’m not’ with equal measures of annoyance.
"Christ, Anderson. Go home, will you?" It was an order, though he came across as apologetic - more so when Anderson looked to Sherlock and then back to him, his gaze a mite darker than before.
“Exterminieran! Sonst warden wir Sie exterminieren! Sie sind jetzt ein gefangener der Daleks!” Anderson snapped, lingered a moment in the confusion of his peers before he stormed off the crime scene. He didn't even look back.
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Adorably cracktastic work there, writernon.
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