Mad As A Hatter Sherlock/John
Title: Mad as A Hatter
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: Uhm...PG-13?
Warnings: Madness this way lies :) Also, just a bit of cussing. And very mild slash
Length: 2900 (including headers)
Disclaimer: I don't own Alice in Wonderland, Alice, or Sherlock BBC, but occasionally I take them out like toys and play with them...
Summary: Every time John tries to insert a little bit of normalcy into his life, Sherlock arrives and smashes it with a hammer. Sometimes he wonder why he bothers.
Sequel to Down The Rabbit Hole
Author Note: At first, this was going to be some sorta sequel detailing a case with John and Sherlock in Won/Underland....But then I changed my mind. So standby for some absolutely random Five Times Sherlock Tipped John's World On Its Head and The One Time He Didn't. :)
I blame the fever. And perhaps, there'll be a proper sequel later <3
1. John never gets to finish the paper. Or have a proper cup of tea.
"Mrs Hud~son!" Sherlock bellows down the stairs. "Tea if you please!"
John puts down his copy of the Underland Times with a sigh, and stands up. He's certain that if Mrs. Hudson were here, she'd call out her usual 'Not your housekeeper,' in that quirky tone of voice that meant she was amused.
Instead, it's John that's resignedly walking into the kitchen, putting the kettle on, and fishing out some mugs.
When he flips on the burner, butterflies come flying out instead of gas. He turns it off, certain that if he ignites them the whole cottage will smell of burning butterflies.
He tries another burner, and flying beetles come out instead. He watches them pour from the infinitesimal holes, meant for gas, and steam up through the hood for a moment, then turns it off.
He leaves the kitchen.
"Mrs. Hudson's not here!" John shouts back up the stairs, rummaging in the mess Sherlock calls the sitting room.
"Two sugars please, John!"
He sighs again, but finds what he's looking for.
For once, there isn't a flammable experiment on the kitchen table. Not to say there isn't any at all, because there is. But somehow, John doubts that he can set petri dishes full of dirt on fire. Well, without provocation and gasoline, anyways.
He pushes them to the side, plunks the tank on the sturdy surface, and proceeds to set up the Bunsen burner and related accoutrements. After eying the rickety stand, he decides to risk one of Sherlock's flasks. He might not have, but it's in the cupboard with all of the rest of the "clean" dishes, so he assumes that he sanitized it at one point. If not, well, it will be Sherlock that's poisoned, not him.
He'll wait until Sherlock's cuppa is boiled, then used the now clean flask for his own purposes.
He places the water on top, reaches for the gas nozzle, then curses.
"Bugger."
"Here," Sherlock sweeps into the kitchen and offers a striker. "Enough for three, please."
"Thank you. Three?" He turns on the gas and lights the flame. It shoots up gratifyingly quickly and he turns it down so that it's short and hot, instead of licking the glass.
Nearly caught his eyebrows, in fact.
"We have company."
"Two of them?"
Sherlock walks around the table and eyes John, puzzled. "No, just one. And there's you," he points out hesitantly.
John mentally curses. Sherlock still doesn't believe that John is here to stay, although he's been here for weeks and hasn't said anything about leaving, and construes just about anything as a threat of departure.
"Yes," he says agreeably. "There's me." He peers at the glass. "Just wasn't sure if I wanted to risk the first batch, is all. Not sure about what the previous contents were."
Sherlock smiles. "Dirt."
John nods, and fetches another two cups. "And God made dirt so dirt won't hurt." he recites.
Sherlock frowns. "How droll, is that a childrens' saying? Where in the world do you get these things? That one about taking one to know one was absolute rubbish, I hope you know. I met a leper the other day and knew what he was immediately." He plants his hands on the table and leans alarmingly close to the open flame, intense gaze trapping John where he stands although he wants to snatch the burner away from this brilliant man. "Am I a leper?" His hair billows about his head like a dark halo and his eyes burn from amongst it all brightly.
John smiles, and turns away to fetch more water. "Of course not, you're albino."
Sherlock snorts. "Implausible."
"Tell me, then, how do you know we have company?"
"Sherlock!" the Cheshire cat whirls into existence above the table, causing John to drop a cup.
Sherlock snatches it out of mid-air. "The butterflies told me."
Indeed, a blue one, nearly the same shade as the cat, clings to his hair delicately.
"Cheshire," Sherlock scolds. "What have I said about warnings? And perhaps using the door?"
"The Sheriff needs you!" he declares breathlessly. "Oh, it's wonderful! A case better than finding Mycroft's shoes!"
John grumbles under his breath, "That's because Sherlock is the one who took them."
"Finally!" Sherlock yells, tossing his arms up in the air. On the upswing, John grabs the mug, saving it from its fate of being hurled at the ceiling. The mad detective stalks out of the room, arms akimbo. “I must get my coat. No, I must change! One must meet adventure head on with impeccable clothing!” His voice fades and John and the Cheshire cat listen to his feet pound up the stairs.
Just in time, the water begins to boil.
The cat twitches his tail, and the flame dies.
"Thank you," John smiles, reaching for the tongs. "And the gas too?"
The cat smiles. "Of course."
"JOHN!" Sherlock bellows from upstairs. "Retrieve your coat! We must leave at once!"
"Not until you've drunk your tea!"
"No time!!"
“What about our company?”
Somehow, Sherlock has changed and strides into the kitchen in a flurry, wearing a dapper set of clothing. His purple shirt has the first few buttons unbuttoned, as per usual, and his long black coat matches his slim trouser.s
But not his shoes.
“Irrelevent,” Sherlock announces, grabbing John's arm and nearly causing him to slosh hot tea all over the table.
John switches the tongs to his other hand and sets the flask on the table. It immediately singes a perfect circle on the wood, but both he and the Cheshire cat are preoccupied with something else. They stare at Sherlock, who flicks his gaze between the both of them, and the silence stretches for several moments.
“What?” Sherlock demands. “Have I got something on my face?”
John swallows a smile, and tries first. “Sherlock are those...” his gumption abandons him and he has to fight down the laughter, so the cat finishes.
“...Converses?”
They both burst out into laughter
2. His sleep schedule is atrocious non-existent.
If there's one thing that John brought back from Afghanistan that doesn't have to do with being a crack shot and having nightmares, it's his ability to wake up immediately when something feels wrong.
This is one of those moments.
He keeps his breathing even, all of his muscles relaxed, and darts his senses into his room for whatever is bothering him.
“Fascinating,” Sherlock breaths above his face, close enough for hot air to drift across his face. “One could almost believe that you were still asleep.”
John sighs, scowls, and opens his eyes. In that order. Then he glares.
“Sherlock,” he exhales grumpily. “What on God's green earth are you doing in my bedroom?”
“No panic,” Sherlock notes. “Brilliant. Instant awareness. Hullo John. No tension.”
John closes his eyes. “Sherlock, are you...floating? Above my bed?” John slits his eyes open, takes in the knees wrapped criss-cross in mid-air and the toes flexing as Sherlock thinks and then closes them.
“Hm. Yes. I thought the depression of the mattress would wake you.”
“You being in my room woke me, Sherlock.”
Sherlock taps his fingers together in prayer position. “Prone to irritation. Would you have reached for your gun given another moment, John?”
“Not since I knew you were so close. I would have assessed how easily it would have been to strangle you. You're lucky you have a scent.”
“A scent?” His voice ascends in surprise. “Surely not! I bathe quite regularly!”
“You smell of dirt, sulfur, and experiments,” John replies shortly. “Now go away, I'm back to bed.” His eyes already closed, he simply ignores Sherlock's presence and begins to drift off.
“Interesting, didn't even show any surprise at my....”
He takes sleep where he can.
3. His sense of reality has become unbelievably skewed.
Somehow, John has managed to start his morning with not only a cup of tea, but the Underland Times and a piece of toast as well. And some jam. With plenty of time before he is to start his morning rounds. He pats the crumbs from his lips, drains the dregs of his tea, and stands, waiting for a catastrophe.
The cottage is silent.
He shakes his head, but continues as though he believes his morning routine won't be interrupted. He folds the paper, placing it on the tea table for Sherlock to tear to shreds later, washes his plate and cup, refills the kettle for later, and stands in the middle of the kitchen wondering what could possibly be next.
He has no idea.
His morning is going absolutely without any sort of hitch, and it feels like his world is sliding to the side.
He pins a glare on the clock, which, until then, was oozing into a runny and lopsided oval, and it rights itself. Well, as close to righting itself as it is going to get: the numbers are still backwards and mirrored, but John can read it well enough.
At this rate, he is going to be early for his appointment with Mrs. Oyster and her many children.
He shakes his head again and mutters, “Perish the thought.”
But his good luck persists all the way up the stairs and into his bedroom. He dresses in his favorite jeans and sweater, a nice button-up underneath, and toes on his favorite pair of loafers.
Sherlock does not come barging in. Elephants do not come rampaging up the stairs. The Cheshire cat does not spook him so badly in the loo that he cuts himself while shaving.
Not a single damned thing happen.
He sets his razor down with a sigh, slaps some water on his face, and treads down the stairs.
No one is in evidence.
He shrugs on a jacket, the gray light from outside forbodes a dreary day, picks up his medical bag, opens the door....
Then shuts it.
He opens it again, closes his eyes, opens them, then slams it shut as hard as he can.
“SHERLOCK!!” He bellows. “I cannot leave the house if the world has been turned on end!”
“Not the world, my dear doctor!” Sherlock yells back. “Merely the house! Just a tick, my dear man, it'll be as right as rain in no time!”
John drops his bag, retreats to his favorite chair, and settles in for the cross word.
Mrs. Oyster, will have to wait.
4. He used to like to go for walks.
“Sherlock?” John calls out hesitantly. “Sherlock? Are you there?”
John doesn't like this part of the forest. When the Queen of Hearts took over, all of the forest was scary and claustrophobic. Just the same as when he met the Cheshire cat. Then the drought came and killed most of it off. After Alice, the forest grew back into its lush magnificence.
There are still a few terrifying pieces, however.
“Leave it to Sherlock to ditch me in one of the few places I'm afraid of,” John mutters as he yanks a vine from around his neck. “Bugger off,” he snarls, pushing it away and stumbling backwards.
“Hoo-hoo!” something cries out.
John startles and trips over a root. After the forest obligingly raised it off of the ground, of course.
“Fuck!”
He hits the ground, which proceeds to sink beneath him. The grass blurs into inconsistent mush and sucks him down slowly. He tries to lift a hand out and the slime releases his appendage with a reluctant and gooey squishing sound.
John curses again.
“Sherlock! If you've just left me here, so help me!”
Only the sound of birds can be heard in reply.
“Probably not even birds,” John mutters, dropping his hand back into the marsh by accident. The hole sucks it back up greedily and he sinks another two inches. He holds still, but he can still feel himself slowly but surely being drawn in. Knowing better, he stays seated.
“Want to go for a walk, John?” John mockingly imitates Sherlock. “I know you like walks, John. It'll be fun.” He scowls. “Fun my arse.”
“Looks like your arse is having fun!” Sherlock calls out happily.
“Sherlock?” John whips his head up, but doesn't see him. “Where are you?”
“Up heeeere!”
John looks up just in time to see Sherlock swing by on a vine. “You should see the view up here! It's magnificent!”
John glares. “Just wait until I get my hands on you...”
“Doesn't look like that will happen anytime soooooon!” Sherlock sing-songs.
John reluctantly agrees.
5. John's love life goes slowly is in tatters.
“Sherlock! I've got a date! Have you seen my jacket?” John calls down the stairs, digging through his wardrobe.
“Which one?” Sherlock yells back.
“The black one. The one you call cheap?”
“Ah yes. The blend,” Sherlock's voice announces derisively from the doorway.
“Yes, that one.” John look expectantly at Sherlock's scowling face. “Where is it?”
“I dismantled it.”
John draws his hand out of the wardrobe and turns to look at the mad detective properly. “You, dismantled it.”
“Yes.” Sherlock crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe. “You have a problem with that?”
“Yes,” John says slowly, as though he is addressing a small child. “I do indeed have a problem with that. That was my favorite jacket, Sherlock!”
“It's also the only one you wear on dates,” Sherlock points out pragmatically.
John blinks. “What?”
Sherlock frowns and looks away. “Whenever you go on a date, you shower, apply a delicate cologne, a musk I assume, don any jumper but your favorite, and wear that cheap jacket. You never go on a date without it.”
“Are you saying,” John tries after several gaping moments, “That you destroyed my jacket to keep me from going on my date?”
“No jacket, no date.” Sherlock pins him with a challenging gaze. “Am I correct?”
John sighs. “Let me call Lucille, I'll tell her I've got to cancel thanks to my mad flatmate.”
Sherlock smirks. “Already done.”
John sighs again.
“Don't you wear your favorite jumper on cases with me? I call that prioritizing.”
John just scowls.
And the one time John sent everything topsy turvy.
“What?” Sherlock whips his head around to stare at John incredulously. “What did you just say?”
John waves imperiously at the body Sherlock is inspecting with a smug smile. “You've got a crime scene to inspect. Later.”
Sherlock frowns. “I could have sworn that you just said....”
John smiles enigmatically and Sherlock can only curse. “Right. Later. Lestrade! I know who's done it!” He stands and strides away, coat billowing. “I can't believe you didn't see it right away! Of course it was Mycroft.”
Beside John, the Sheriff crouches to the ground and pins his nose with a heavy paw.
“He's got to stop dragging his brother into everything,” the hound sighs.
“Not a chance,” John replies cheerfully. “Just accept it as one of his quirks.” He smiles. “Besides, I bet you that he really does already know who did it.”
The hound drapes another paw over his nose. “And I'm sure you're correct.”
“John!” Sherlock demands. “I'm done with these idiots, attend me!”
“I've been called,” John smiles down at the Sheriff. “You've got everything from here?”
The hound stands slowly and stretches with cracking joints. He woofs. “Got to go see what Sherlock told Lestrade, but yes, you two can probably go.” He blinks blearily up at John. “Good luck.”
“Luck hasn't got anything to do with it,” John grins, tilted his head to listen as Sherlock bellows for him again. “It's got everything to do with madness, and impossibility.”
He strides away from the crime scene, and Sherlock, and makes straight for the cottage. He knows the detective won't be far behind, once he's figured out he's gone.
He's correct. The water is barely boiling when Sherlock comes bursting in the kitchen door, coat and scarf askew, hair wild, and breath ragged.
“There you are!” he says breathlessly. “You can't just leave me there after saying that!”
John smiles, and shuts off the Bunsen burner. He leans again the counter and looks the disheveled Sherlock up and down. “Can't I though? You turn my world upside down every day.”
Sherlock blinks. “But. Well. That's what I do!”
John nods seriously. “Yes, it is. But don't you keep me around for my unpredictability? Besides, was there a better place to say it than at a crime scene?”
“Over Mr. Turtle's cousin's corpse?”
“Of course,” John agrees.
Sherlock smiles slowly, pulling off his gloves by the finger-tips and shoving them in his pockets. He crosses the kitchen in a flurry, but slows when he gets close to John, looking him up and down. “Yes,” Sherlock breathes. “Oh God yes,” he slips his hands around John's cheeks and leans in close to brush noses.
“I love you too,” he whispers, then softly kisses John for the first time.
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: Uhm...PG-13?
Warnings: Madness this way lies :) Also, just a bit of cussing. And very mild slash
Length: 2900 (including headers)
Disclaimer: I don't own Alice in Wonderland, Alice, or Sherlock BBC, but occasionally I take them out like toys and play with them...
Summary: Every time John tries to insert a little bit of normalcy into his life, Sherlock arrives and smashes it with a hammer. Sometimes he wonder why he bothers.
Sequel to Down The Rabbit Hole
Author Note: At first, this was going to be some sorta sequel detailing a case with John and Sherlock in Won/Underland....But then I changed my mind. So standby for some absolutely random Five Times Sherlock Tipped John's World On Its Head and The One Time He Didn't. :)
I blame the fever. And perhaps, there'll be a proper sequel later <3
1. John never gets to finish the paper. Or have a proper cup of tea.
"Mrs Hud~son!" Sherlock bellows down the stairs. "Tea if you please!"
John puts down his copy of the Underland Times with a sigh, and stands up. He's certain that if Mrs. Hudson were here, she'd call out her usual 'Not your housekeeper,' in that quirky tone of voice that meant she was amused.
Instead, it's John that's resignedly walking into the kitchen, putting the kettle on, and fishing out some mugs.
When he flips on the burner, butterflies come flying out instead of gas. He turns it off, certain that if he ignites them the whole cottage will smell of burning butterflies.
He tries another burner, and flying beetles come out instead. He watches them pour from the infinitesimal holes, meant for gas, and steam up through the hood for a moment, then turns it off.
He leaves the kitchen.
"Mrs. Hudson's not here!" John shouts back up the stairs, rummaging in the mess Sherlock calls the sitting room.
"Two sugars please, John!"
He sighs again, but finds what he's looking for.
For once, there isn't a flammable experiment on the kitchen table. Not to say there isn't any at all, because there is. But somehow, John doubts that he can set petri dishes full of dirt on fire. Well, without provocation and gasoline, anyways.
He pushes them to the side, plunks the tank on the sturdy surface, and proceeds to set up the Bunsen burner and related accoutrements. After eying the rickety stand, he decides to risk one of Sherlock's flasks. He might not have, but it's in the cupboard with all of the rest of the "clean" dishes, so he assumes that he sanitized it at one point. If not, well, it will be Sherlock that's poisoned, not him.
He'll wait until Sherlock's cuppa is boiled, then used the now clean flask for his own purposes.
He places the water on top, reaches for the gas nozzle, then curses.
"Bugger."
"Here," Sherlock sweeps into the kitchen and offers a striker. "Enough for three, please."
"Thank you. Three?" He turns on the gas and lights the flame. It shoots up gratifyingly quickly and he turns it down so that it's short and hot, instead of licking the glass.
Nearly caught his eyebrows, in fact.
"We have company."
"Two of them?"
Sherlock walks around the table and eyes John, puzzled. "No, just one. And there's you," he points out hesitantly.
John mentally curses. Sherlock still doesn't believe that John is here to stay, although he's been here for weeks and hasn't said anything about leaving, and construes just about anything as a threat of departure.
"Yes," he says agreeably. "There's me." He peers at the glass. "Just wasn't sure if I wanted to risk the first batch, is all. Not sure about what the previous contents were."
Sherlock smiles. "Dirt."
John nods, and fetches another two cups. "And God made dirt so dirt won't hurt." he recites.
Sherlock frowns. "How droll, is that a childrens' saying? Where in the world do you get these things? That one about taking one to know one was absolute rubbish, I hope you know. I met a leper the other day and knew what he was immediately." He plants his hands on the table and leans alarmingly close to the open flame, intense gaze trapping John where he stands although he wants to snatch the burner away from this brilliant man. "Am I a leper?" His hair billows about his head like a dark halo and his eyes burn from amongst it all brightly.
John smiles, and turns away to fetch more water. "Of course not, you're albino."
Sherlock snorts. "Implausible."
"Tell me, then, how do you know we have company?"
"Sherlock!" the Cheshire cat whirls into existence above the table, causing John to drop a cup.
Sherlock snatches it out of mid-air. "The butterflies told me."
Indeed, a blue one, nearly the same shade as the cat, clings to his hair delicately.
"Cheshire," Sherlock scolds. "What have I said about warnings? And perhaps using the door?"
"The Sheriff needs you!" he declares breathlessly. "Oh, it's wonderful! A case better than finding Mycroft's shoes!"
John grumbles under his breath, "That's because Sherlock is the one who took them."
"Finally!" Sherlock yells, tossing his arms up in the air. On the upswing, John grabs the mug, saving it from its fate of being hurled at the ceiling. The mad detective stalks out of the room, arms akimbo. “I must get my coat. No, I must change! One must meet adventure head on with impeccable clothing!” His voice fades and John and the Cheshire cat listen to his feet pound up the stairs.
Just in time, the water begins to boil.
The cat twitches his tail, and the flame dies.
"Thank you," John smiles, reaching for the tongs. "And the gas too?"
The cat smiles. "Of course."
"JOHN!" Sherlock bellows from upstairs. "Retrieve your coat! We must leave at once!"
"Not until you've drunk your tea!"
"No time!!"
“What about our company?”
Somehow, Sherlock has changed and strides into the kitchen in a flurry, wearing a dapper set of clothing. His purple shirt has the first few buttons unbuttoned, as per usual, and his long black coat matches his slim trouser.s
But not his shoes.
“Irrelevent,” Sherlock announces, grabbing John's arm and nearly causing him to slosh hot tea all over the table.
John switches the tongs to his other hand and sets the flask on the table. It immediately singes a perfect circle on the wood, but both he and the Cheshire cat are preoccupied with something else. They stare at Sherlock, who flicks his gaze between the both of them, and the silence stretches for several moments.
“What?” Sherlock demands. “Have I got something on my face?”
John swallows a smile, and tries first. “Sherlock are those...” his gumption abandons him and he has to fight down the laughter, so the cat finishes.
“...Converses?”
They both burst out into laughter
2. His sleep schedule is atrocious non-existent.
If there's one thing that John brought back from Afghanistan that doesn't have to do with being a crack shot and having nightmares, it's his ability to wake up immediately when something feels wrong.
This is one of those moments.
He keeps his breathing even, all of his muscles relaxed, and darts his senses into his room for whatever is bothering him.
“Fascinating,” Sherlock breaths above his face, close enough for hot air to drift across his face. “One could almost believe that you were still asleep.”
John sighs, scowls, and opens his eyes. In that order. Then he glares.
“Sherlock,” he exhales grumpily. “What on God's green earth are you doing in my bedroom?”
“No panic,” Sherlock notes. “Brilliant. Instant awareness. Hullo John. No tension.”
John closes his eyes. “Sherlock, are you...floating? Above my bed?” John slits his eyes open, takes in the knees wrapped criss-cross in mid-air and the toes flexing as Sherlock thinks and then closes them.
“Hm. Yes. I thought the depression of the mattress would wake you.”
“You being in my room woke me, Sherlock.”
Sherlock taps his fingers together in prayer position. “Prone to irritation. Would you have reached for your gun given another moment, John?”
“Not since I knew you were so close. I would have assessed how easily it would have been to strangle you. You're lucky you have a scent.”
“A scent?” His voice ascends in surprise. “Surely not! I bathe quite regularly!”
“You smell of dirt, sulfur, and experiments,” John replies shortly. “Now go away, I'm back to bed.” His eyes already closed, he simply ignores Sherlock's presence and begins to drift off.
“Interesting, didn't even show any surprise at my....”
He takes sleep where he can.
3. His sense of reality has become unbelievably skewed.
Somehow, John has managed to start his morning with not only a cup of tea, but the Underland Times and a piece of toast as well. And some jam. With plenty of time before he is to start his morning rounds. He pats the crumbs from his lips, drains the dregs of his tea, and stands, waiting for a catastrophe.
The cottage is silent.
He shakes his head, but continues as though he believes his morning routine won't be interrupted. He folds the paper, placing it on the tea table for Sherlock to tear to shreds later, washes his plate and cup, refills the kettle for later, and stands in the middle of the kitchen wondering what could possibly be next.
He has no idea.
His morning is going absolutely without any sort of hitch, and it feels like his world is sliding to the side.
He pins a glare on the clock, which, until then, was oozing into a runny and lopsided oval, and it rights itself. Well, as close to righting itself as it is going to get: the numbers are still backwards and mirrored, but John can read it well enough.
At this rate, he is going to be early for his appointment with Mrs. Oyster and her many children.
He shakes his head again and mutters, “Perish the thought.”
But his good luck persists all the way up the stairs and into his bedroom. He dresses in his favorite jeans and sweater, a nice button-up underneath, and toes on his favorite pair of loafers.
Sherlock does not come barging in. Elephants do not come rampaging up the stairs. The Cheshire cat does not spook him so badly in the loo that he cuts himself while shaving.
Not a single damned thing happen.
He sets his razor down with a sigh, slaps some water on his face, and treads down the stairs.
No one is in evidence.
He shrugs on a jacket, the gray light from outside forbodes a dreary day, picks up his medical bag, opens the door....
Then shuts it.
He opens it again, closes his eyes, opens them, then slams it shut as hard as he can.
“SHERLOCK!!” He bellows. “I cannot leave the house if the world has been turned on end!”
“Not the world, my dear doctor!” Sherlock yells back. “Merely the house! Just a tick, my dear man, it'll be as right as rain in no time!”
John drops his bag, retreats to his favorite chair, and settles in for the cross word.
Mrs. Oyster, will have to wait.
4. He used to like to go for walks.
“Sherlock?” John calls out hesitantly. “Sherlock? Are you there?”
John doesn't like this part of the forest. When the Queen of Hearts took over, all of the forest was scary and claustrophobic. Just the same as when he met the Cheshire cat. Then the drought came and killed most of it off. After Alice, the forest grew back into its lush magnificence.
There are still a few terrifying pieces, however.
“Leave it to Sherlock to ditch me in one of the few places I'm afraid of,” John mutters as he yanks a vine from around his neck. “Bugger off,” he snarls, pushing it away and stumbling backwards.
“Hoo-hoo!” something cries out.
John startles and trips over a root. After the forest obligingly raised it off of the ground, of course.
“Fuck!”
He hits the ground, which proceeds to sink beneath him. The grass blurs into inconsistent mush and sucks him down slowly. He tries to lift a hand out and the slime releases his appendage with a reluctant and gooey squishing sound.
John curses again.
“Sherlock! If you've just left me here, so help me!”
Only the sound of birds can be heard in reply.
“Probably not even birds,” John mutters, dropping his hand back into the marsh by accident. The hole sucks it back up greedily and he sinks another two inches. He holds still, but he can still feel himself slowly but surely being drawn in. Knowing better, he stays seated.
“Want to go for a walk, John?” John mockingly imitates Sherlock. “I know you like walks, John. It'll be fun.” He scowls. “Fun my arse.”
“Looks like your arse is having fun!” Sherlock calls out happily.
“Sherlock?” John whips his head up, but doesn't see him. “Where are you?”
“Up heeeere!”
John looks up just in time to see Sherlock swing by on a vine. “You should see the view up here! It's magnificent!”
John glares. “Just wait until I get my hands on you...”
“Doesn't look like that will happen anytime soooooon!” Sherlock sing-songs.
John reluctantly agrees.
5. John's love life goes slowly is in tatters.
“Sherlock! I've got a date! Have you seen my jacket?” John calls down the stairs, digging through his wardrobe.
“Which one?” Sherlock yells back.
“The black one. The one you call cheap?”
“Ah yes. The blend,” Sherlock's voice announces derisively from the doorway.
“Yes, that one.” John look expectantly at Sherlock's scowling face. “Where is it?”
“I dismantled it.”
John draws his hand out of the wardrobe and turns to look at the mad detective properly. “You, dismantled it.”
“Yes.” Sherlock crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe. “You have a problem with that?”
“Yes,” John says slowly, as though he is addressing a small child. “I do indeed have a problem with that. That was my favorite jacket, Sherlock!”
“It's also the only one you wear on dates,” Sherlock points out pragmatically.
John blinks. “What?”
Sherlock frowns and looks away. “Whenever you go on a date, you shower, apply a delicate cologne, a musk I assume, don any jumper but your favorite, and wear that cheap jacket. You never go on a date without it.”
“Are you saying,” John tries after several gaping moments, “That you destroyed my jacket to keep me from going on my date?”
“No jacket, no date.” Sherlock pins him with a challenging gaze. “Am I correct?”
John sighs. “Let me call Lucille, I'll tell her I've got to cancel thanks to my mad flatmate.”
Sherlock smirks. “Already done.”
John sighs again.
“Don't you wear your favorite jumper on cases with me? I call that prioritizing.”
John just scowls.
And the one time John sent everything topsy turvy.
“What?” Sherlock whips his head around to stare at John incredulously. “What did you just say?”
John waves imperiously at the body Sherlock is inspecting with a smug smile. “You've got a crime scene to inspect. Later.”
Sherlock frowns. “I could have sworn that you just said....”
John smiles enigmatically and Sherlock can only curse. “Right. Later. Lestrade! I know who's done it!” He stands and strides away, coat billowing. “I can't believe you didn't see it right away! Of course it was Mycroft.”
Beside John, the Sheriff crouches to the ground and pins his nose with a heavy paw.
“He's got to stop dragging his brother into everything,” the hound sighs.
“Not a chance,” John replies cheerfully. “Just accept it as one of his quirks.” He smiles. “Besides, I bet you that he really does already know who did it.”
The hound drapes another paw over his nose. “And I'm sure you're correct.”
“John!” Sherlock demands. “I'm done with these idiots, attend me!”
“I've been called,” John smiles down at the Sheriff. “You've got everything from here?”
The hound stands slowly and stretches with cracking joints. He woofs. “Got to go see what Sherlock told Lestrade, but yes, you two can probably go.” He blinks blearily up at John. “Good luck.”
“Luck hasn't got anything to do with it,” John grins, tilted his head to listen as Sherlock bellows for him again. “It's got everything to do with madness, and impossibility.”
He strides away from the crime scene, and Sherlock, and makes straight for the cottage. He knows the detective won't be far behind, once he's figured out he's gone.
He's correct. The water is barely boiling when Sherlock comes bursting in the kitchen door, coat and scarf askew, hair wild, and breath ragged.
“There you are!” he says breathlessly. “You can't just leave me there after saying that!”
John smiles, and shuts off the Bunsen burner. He leans again the counter and looks the disheveled Sherlock up and down. “Can't I though? You turn my world upside down every day.”
Sherlock blinks. “But. Well. That's what I do!”
John nods seriously. “Yes, it is. But don't you keep me around for my unpredictability? Besides, was there a better place to say it than at a crime scene?”
“Over Mr. Turtle's cousin's corpse?”
“Of course,” John agrees.
Sherlock smiles slowly, pulling off his gloves by the finger-tips and shoving them in his pockets. He crosses the kitchen in a flurry, but slows when he gets close to John, looking him up and down. “Yes,” Sherlock breathes. “Oh God yes,” he slips his hands around John's cheeks and leans in close to brush noses.
“I love you too,” he whispers, then softly kisses John for the first time.