Fill: Two Things (6/?)ganymeadOctober 29 2012, 14:20:24 UTC
Two weeks later, he receives another email. This one contains barely anything of "actual substance," but John thinks that it's probably his favourite one so far (not that there were exactly many to hold a competition over, but that's entirely besides the point).
Sherlock Holmes sholmes@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk to me (25th Aug)
[If you have received this email, it means two things. One: I am dead. Two: you are not.]
The date is currently January 6th, 2011.
I take back what I said about rubbish birthday presents. A string of murders, all featuring chimeric humans? I don’t know why I doubted you at all.
SH
PS: It should hardly need to be said at this point, but these emails are queued to send exactly a fortnight apart. See you in two weeks, John.
John laughs, recalling the case with ease. Chimera human: One human, two sets of DNA, already a nightmare on any normal day, only this case was closer to four humans with ten sets of DNA between them. John had been surprised it'd taken Lestrade as long as it had to call them in.
Sherlock, of course, had eagerly snatched up the opportunity. If John remembered right, it had taken a grand total of two and a half days, during which Sherlock ate little and slept even less. Not only that but he'd obviously decided that John had to share his suffering, if his tendency to drag him off every time he got anywhere near sleep had been anything to go by.
It had been worth it, though. More than a few adrenalin-fuelled chases through the backstreets of London, and the inevitable discovery of his hideout (where, as it turned out, the perp had kidnapped a further three victims for "experimentation, obviously, how often would a disgraced surgeon get this kind of opportunity?").
To be honest, most of the finer details had flown right over John's head. He simply shared in Sherlock's manic energy and the smug glee that was rolling off him in waves.
"Right, I'm off to bed," he'd announced
"Bed? But it's two in the afternoon!" Sherlock protested, which told John a lot more than he thought he'd be able to pick up. Namely, that Sherlock desperately wanted someone to bounce ideas off (and possibly shmooze some coffee out of, too).
"Don't care. Been running for 55 hours. Unable to string sentences together," John replied, only to trip over something in the kitchen and go crashing to the ground. He groaned. "On second thought, I think I'll just stay here," he mumbled, his mouth in an awkward position considering how it'd been mashed against the floor.
And with that, he promptly went to sleep with all the efficiency of a soldier sleeping in the trenches.
Two and a half days without sleep had been the only thing that kept him from waking completely when Sherlock had effortlessly picked him up and dropped him into his bed.
Even so, he still woke enough to tell vaguely what was happening around him, which was how he knew that Sherlock had hesitated for a second after dropping him on the mattress. And then, while John was desperately pretending to be dead asleep, Sherlock had leaned down and planted a swift kiss on his forehead.
"Thank you. For the birthday present. And, for everything. I suppose."
Sherlock had left after that, and the 55 hour debt John paid finally compelled him to sleep.
Sherlock Holmes sholmes@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk
to me (25th Aug)
[If you have received this email, it means two things. One: I am dead. Two: you are not.]
The date is currently January 6th, 2011.
I take back what I said about rubbish birthday presents. A string of murders, all featuring chimeric humans? I don’t know why I doubted you at all.
SH
PS: It should hardly need to be said at this point, but these emails are queued to send exactly a fortnight apart. See you in two weeks, John.
John laughs, recalling the case with ease. Chimera human: One human, two sets of DNA, already a nightmare on any normal day, only this case was closer to four humans with ten sets of DNA between them. John had been surprised it'd taken Lestrade as long as it had to call them in.
Sherlock, of course, had eagerly snatched up the opportunity. If John remembered right, it had taken a grand total of two and a half days, during which Sherlock ate little and slept even less. Not only that but he'd obviously decided that John had to share his suffering, if his tendency to drag him off every time he got anywhere near sleep had been anything to go by.
It had been worth it, though. More than a few adrenalin-fuelled chases through the backstreets of London, and the inevitable discovery of his hideout (where, as it turned out, the perp had kidnapped a further three victims for "experimentation, obviously, how often would a disgraced surgeon get this kind of opportunity?").
To be honest, most of the finer details had flown right over John's head. He simply shared in Sherlock's manic energy and the smug glee that was rolling off him in waves.
"Right, I'm off to bed," he'd announced
"Bed? But it's two in the afternoon!" Sherlock protested, which told John a lot more than he thought he'd be able to pick up. Namely, that Sherlock desperately wanted someone to bounce ideas off (and possibly shmooze some coffee out of, too).
"Don't care. Been running for 55 hours. Unable to string sentences together," John replied, only to trip over something in the kitchen and go crashing to the ground. He groaned. "On second thought, I think I'll just stay here," he mumbled, his mouth in an awkward position considering how it'd been mashed against the floor.
And with that, he promptly went to sleep with all the efficiency of a soldier sleeping in the trenches.
Two and a half days without sleep had been the only thing that kept him from waking completely when Sherlock had effortlessly picked him up and dropped him into his bed.
Even so, he still woke enough to tell vaguely what was happening around him, which was how he knew that Sherlock had hesitated for a second after dropping him on the mattress. And then, while John was desperately pretending to be dead asleep, Sherlock had leaned down and planted a swift kiss on his forehead.
"Thank you. For the birthday present. And, for everything. I suppose."
Sherlock had left after that, and the 55 hour debt John paid finally compelled him to sleep.
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