Disguise, part 5d/?
anonymous
April 21 2011, 03:11:02 UTC
~*~
Hours later. Sherlock has finally extricated them from the exhaustive questioning and they've returned home and ordered far too much take away for two people. John's ravenous; he can't remember if he ate lunch or not, and Sherlock always eats like an adolescent boy after a case. Their chase had taken them on quite a tour of the back streets of Central London; it was about time they finally got some food. They eat in silence for a few minutes. John is still pleased with himself for actually figuring out that Tina was one of the couriers of the virus, and Sherlock stops eating every few minutes to beam at him.
John polishes off the beef with broccoli, licks his fingers, and sits back with a contented sigh. "Food," he says, "definitely one of the better inventions of modern times."
Sherlock looks at him curiously. "Invention? John, people didn't invent food. It already existed. Eating is a biological necessity."
John rolls his eyes. "Alright, then, biological-stickler." He thinks for a moment while Sherlock awkwardly uses his left hand to tear into a container of chicken with cashew nuts. "Alright, how about this: making food taste good. Definitely one of the better inventions of modern times."
Sherlock makes a small noise of pleasure at his first bite and smiles at John. "Alright. I'll give you that one, then."
"Seriously. How would you like to be sitting around a raw deer carcass, ripping flesh from the bones right now instead of licking brown sauce off our fingers and then taking a bloody shower?"
Silence looms for a moment and John's mind just cracks open with it. He swallows. A mental image of just that -- Sherlock pressed against him in the shower: wet, pliant, and gasping -- fills his mind and he takes a low, shallow breath. He can feel his cheeks heat and he looks down for a moment.
"Sherlock, I ... I didn't mean--"
"How did you know it was Tina, John?"
"What?"
"How did you know to follow her?"
"Oh. Well, I--" he thinks for a minute. "It was a lot of things, actually."
"What do you remember?"
"Well, the first, I reckon, was that she just gave me an odd feeling."
Sherlock frowns.
John grins inwardly; he failed that one. Sherlock doesn't put stock in feelings. But, then... what would he do? Sherlock would detail all of the little pieces, the facts, then bind them together into a logical deduction. But, John reasons to himself, isn't that what his initial feeling was most likely based upon? Observations, little facts that he noticed, which his brain put it all together and he recognized it as a gut feeling. That's what people do all the time. Sherlock just knows how to recognize each single step.
"Okay, hang on, then." John starts ticking things off on his fingers. "Her eyes never stayed in one place when she spoke to me... her eyebrows were too light for her hair... she hit on me far too often--"
Sherlock snorts. John's tempted to pull his tongue, but he's not, in fact, nine years old, so he resists the urge and simply looks at him and shakes his head.
"Also... we weren't in need a new supply of vaccine, so we shouldn't have got one in the first place. The address on the box was from a supplier in West London, and we always get our supply from the one in South... well, and the--" this sounds silly, even to his own ears, "--the vials were in packs of five across, and I know that our supplier always sends them in packs of four."
"Go on." Sherlock is watching him with a bemused expression.
"And outside. Well, you were there, Sherlock, you saw her. I noticed her first as the blonde by the building because she was striking, but then I saw the strap of her bra, which was the same colour Tina was wearing, and she was looking around like she was nervous... then there was a flash of red from her satchel that clinched it. It had to be a wig. It had to be Tina."
"You're learning," Sherlock says. John goes warm with pride.
Hours later. Sherlock has finally extricated them from the exhaustive questioning and they've returned home and ordered far too much take away for two people. John's ravenous; he can't remember if he ate lunch or not, and Sherlock always eats like an adolescent boy after a case. Their chase had taken them on quite a tour of the back streets of Central London; it was about time they finally got some food. They eat in silence for a few minutes. John is still pleased with himself for actually figuring out that Tina was one of the couriers of the virus, and Sherlock stops eating every few minutes to beam at him.
John polishes off the beef with broccoli, licks his fingers, and sits back with a contented sigh. "Food," he says, "definitely one of the better inventions of modern times."
Sherlock looks at him curiously. "Invention? John, people didn't invent food. It already existed. Eating is a biological necessity."
John rolls his eyes. "Alright, then, biological-stickler." He thinks for a moment while Sherlock awkwardly uses his left hand to tear into a container of chicken with cashew nuts. "Alright, how about this: making food taste good. Definitely one of the better inventions of modern times."
Sherlock makes a small noise of pleasure at his first bite and smiles at John. "Alright. I'll give you that one, then."
"Seriously. How would you like to be sitting around a raw deer carcass, ripping flesh from the bones right now instead of licking brown sauce off our fingers and then taking a bloody shower?"
Silence looms for a moment and John's mind just cracks open with it. He swallows. A mental image of just that -- Sherlock pressed against him in the shower: wet, pliant, and gasping -- fills his mind and he takes a low, shallow breath. He can feel his cheeks heat and he looks down for a moment.
"Sherlock, I ... I didn't mean--"
"How did you know it was Tina, John?"
"What?"
"How did you know to follow her?"
"Oh. Well, I--" he thinks for a minute. "It was a lot of things, actually."
"What do you remember?"
"Well, the first, I reckon, was that she just gave me an odd feeling."
Sherlock frowns.
John grins inwardly; he failed that one. Sherlock doesn't put stock in feelings. But, then... what would he do? Sherlock would detail all of the little pieces, the facts, then bind them together into a logical deduction. But, John reasons to himself, isn't that what his initial feeling was most likely based upon? Observations, little facts that he noticed, which his brain put it all together and he recognized it as a gut feeling. That's what people do all the time. Sherlock just knows how to recognize each single step.
"Okay, hang on, then." John starts ticking things off on his fingers. "Her eyes never stayed in one place when she spoke to me... her eyebrows were too light for her hair... she hit on me far too often--"
Sherlock snorts. John's tempted to pull his tongue, but he's not, in fact, nine years old, so he resists the urge and simply looks at him and shakes his head.
"Also... we weren't in need a new supply of vaccine, so we shouldn't have got one in the first place. The address on the box was from a supplier in West London, and we always get our supply from the one in South... well, and the--" this sounds silly, even to his own ears, "--the vials were in packs of five across, and I know that our supplier always sends them in packs of four."
"Go on." Sherlock is watching him with a bemused expression.
"And outside. Well, you were there, Sherlock, you saw her. I noticed her first as the blonde by the building because she was striking, but then I saw the strap of her bra, which was the same colour Tina was wearing, and she was looking around like she was nervous... then there was a flash of red from her satchel that clinched it. It had to be a wig. It had to be Tina."
"You're learning," Sherlock says. John goes warm with pride.
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Sherlock beaming at John's brilliance! John remembering to use facts not feelings to deduce. John learning!!!
I LOVED THIS BIT! ♥♥
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