Fic: Alternate Hypotheses (4/5)
Title: Alternate Hypotheses
Rating: T
Genres: Romance, Crack
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Wordcount: 2,523 (this chapter); 13,400 total
Beta: percygranger
Apparently, Sherlock is experimenting on John without his consent. John is going to kill him. Right after he makes a cup of tea.
Chapter 1: John, Guinea Pig
Chapter 2: Uncooperative Test Subjects
Chapter 3: Experimental Error
Chapter 4: The Inappropriate Sofa Incident
John had just finished his second cup of tea when he heard the sound of footsteps downstairs. He sighed and struggled to his feet, one hand absently rubbing the aching muscles in his left shoulder.
He started filling the kettle from the tap as the door opened and Sherlock burst into the kitchen, accompanied by the telltale rustle of shopping bags.
He did not, however, dump the bags on the table, or the floor, or the counter. He stopped dead in his tracks, not making a sound.
John didn't turn to look, willing his hand not to shake as he finished filling the kettle. "Mycroft stopped by. I thought I'd make sure the flat was clean." He paused, remembering the excuse he'd thought of during the second half of his first cup of tea, fifteen minutes prior. "He said he wanted to invite us to some family dinner. Don't worry, I told him off."
"Oh. Thank you."
Thank you? Sherlock must have been more rattled than John realised. He turned to look at Sherlock, and the man was staring at the cameras lying on the kitchen table, looking a tad queasy. His grey eyes were opened wider than normal as he set the three bags of food gently on the floor.
John tried to bite back his smile as he turned back to pour water into the two mugs. As he handed Sherlock his cup, Sherlock's eyes flickered up to John's.
"The funny thing," John said, heart suddenly beating louder in his chest, "was the number of cameras." He took a sip of his tea and steeled himself for the next bit. Sherlock's fingers twitched on his mug, causing the serene surface of the tea to ripple.
John cleared his throat. "There was one in the front hall, one in the sitting room, and two in the kitchen." Sherlock's lower lip protruded in a faint pout when John mentioned the count of sitting room cameras. "Now, I don't see why Mycroft would need more than one camera in a room. And it was quite curious. One of them was angled towards the cooker, and I'm not aware of you ever having used it." Sherlock gazed back at John with wide eyes full of alarm, for just a fraction of a second, before the calm mask fell back in place. John took another sip of tea to hide his smile.
Sherlock fidgeted. "Perhaps my brother is attempting to obtain footage of you, not me."
The thought of Mycroft Holmes planting cameras to spy on John was almost enough to make John cough up his most recent swallow of tea. "Right. What, does he fancy me?"
Suddenly he remembered his conversation with Sherlock about the possibility of cameras in the loo. He thought back to all the times he had leaned up to the top shelf in the kitchen, trying to give Sherlock a better view of his arse.
"Oh God," John blurted. Was Mycroft wanking off to that in his secret government office? "He doesn't fancy me, does he? I don't think I could survive the attention of more than one Holmes."
John realised his mistake almost as soon as the words fell out of his mouth.
"What do you mean, more than one?"
Bugger.
John bit back a mortified groan and waved his free hand in Sherlock's direction. "Just forget it." As if Sherlock would forget anything. He might have deleted the solar system, but he always remembered vital information needed to irritate one John Watson.
A strategic retreat at this point would likely be best. John strode out to the sitting room and flipped on the telly.
Sherlock wandered out, looking mildly puzzled, before he flopped onto the sofa, nearly kicking John's tea as his feet landed with a soft whumpf in John's lap.
"Oi," John scolded half-heartedly.
"Put on the Discovery Channel. There's a special about bees on."
John slouched into the sofa as he frowned at Sherlock, but he still leaned over to fish the remote from between the sofa cushions. "You and bees."
Sherlock just smiled at him, a brief, sincere thing that made the corners of his eyes crinkle slightly. John could do nothing more menacing than grin back in response.
***
A few nights later, John was typing up a blog entry as Sherlock lolled about on the sofa, legs propped up against the sofa back and head hanging off the side in a position that would have caused John's back to seize up if he'd even bothered to attempt it.
Sherlock is an utter prat, but
These past few days have been nice. Sherlock and I haven't had many cases on - there was a minor tussle with a criminal that required us to run through a section of Chinatown that brought back fond memories of last year. Sherlock proclaimed the case boring and he really didn't give me any details, so, that'll have to wait for another day.
Lately, I've
Sherlock has been conducting some experiments. Not too many with body parts, though, so that's a good job. I've been working some shifts at the surgery, and fantasising about. Nothing terribly exciting.
Harry, you were right.
Sherlock
I
BOLLOCKS TO THIS
John was in the middle of angrily deleting his last sentence when Sherlock lolled his head about to look at John upside-down. "Bored."
John frowned and attempted another paragraph.
"Bored."
He's always bloody bored. I could strangle him. I could probably get away with it, too, since Greg's on my side and the rest of the yard couldn't tell their arse from their elbow, according to Sherlock.
So why do I like the bloody irritating git so much?
John should probably delete the entire blog entry. Yes. That was for the best.
"Bored."
John frowned as he moved to click his mouse on the "Delete Entry" button.
"John. I'm bored."
"Yes!" John snapped, viciously jabbing "Confirm" at the dialog asking him if he were truly, 100% positive that his idiotic ramblings should be wiped out of existence. "I heard you the first fifty times."
Sherlock shifted on the sofa, curling up into the corner and clutching his knees to his chest. When John finally looked, he was studying John intently, his mouth turned down at the corners and his eyebrows drawn together.
John sighed as he closed his laptop and slid it onto the floor. "What do you expect me to do about it?"
John could have sworn he saw something flash in Sherlock's eyes - some unknown emotion, a strange vulnerability. It was gone before he had the chance to analyse it, and John wondered if he'd just been seeing things.
Sherlock pursed his lips, studying John for a long moment. "Give me a case."
John blinked, taken aback. Sherlock, seeing John's reaction, closed his eyes and leaned back into the sofa cushions. "Never mind."
John thought back to their text exchange of a few days ago.
"I don't have a case for you," John said, after a long moment. He was shocked that his voice remained steady. "Maybe you should check with Lestrade."
Sherlock let his feet drop to the floor and stared at John, gauging his sincerity. After what seemed like an eternity, he broke into a smirk. "Oh, I already asked him. An hour ago."
John bit his cheek, but he could still feel the corners of his mouth twitch upward. "You could always ask Mycroft for something."
Sherlock's nose wrinkled. "Mycroft?"
John giggled. "Right. Forgive me for even suggesting it."
Sherlock relaxed further into the sofa, waving one hand about airily. "I suppose, in this instance, I can forgive you for such an egregious suggestion." His eyes slid sideways, glancing at John sidelong, with a devil's grin tweaking up the side of his mouth. "But that still leaves my problem unresolved."
"Bored?" John asked, not bothering to hide his smile any more.
"Bored," Sherlock agreed.
"We could watch something on the telly, I s'pose."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And what would you want to watch? Something dull, I'm sure."
John raised an eyebrow, wearing an amused grin. "Not everything I watch is dull. Just because you have the attention span of a two-year-old doesn't make my taste rubbish."
Sherlock's eyes glittered as he waved his hand in John's direction. "Take those Bond films you're always on about. A complete waste of time."
John let his mouth drop open in mock anger. "You did not just insult James Bond."
"The plots are completely implausible. They keep giving expensive technology to this man, even though he constantly damages it. And how many STDs must he have by now? He never appears to use a condom when he sleeps with all of these women who inevitably, and inexplicably, fall for him."
"Of course they fall for him, Sherlock! He's Bond."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
John turned away so Sherlock wouldn't see his flush. "Fine, what are we up to, now? Last week was The World Is Not Enough, yeah?" He strode over to the DVD shelf and pulled off Die Another Day. "Right. Pierce Brosnan'll teach you a thing or two."
John was looking forward to Sherlock's commentary on this one. It was one of the more mediocre Bond films, he thought, and Sherlock would surely complain not only about the ludicrous plot twists, but the excessive special effects.
And John had always had a thing for Halle Berry.
When John turned back around, Sherlock was smiling up at John from his spot on the sofa, and John almost dropped the DVD. What he wouldn't give to reach over and nibble on that lower lip. To press his lips against the corner of that smirk. To lick into that mouth, and taste this morning's coffee and the bitter tar of the cigarettes he knew Sherlock had been sneaking on the sly.
John swallowed, his throat suddenly bone dry.
Stop looking at his lips.
"Popcorn," John said, whirling around and striding towards the kitchen before he was caught staring.
When he came back to the sitting room, bowl of popcorn in one hand and lager in the other, Sherlock was idly toying with the remote control as the DVD menu screen played. He didn't look as though he'd moved an inch, but he must have walked over to the DVD player, at least.
John settled next to him and didn't protest when Sherlock's hand snaked in and grabbed a handful of popcorn. Calories were calories.
They started the film, and it wasn't until twenty minutes in, in the middle of a long diatribe about the physics of hovercrafts and waterfalls ("There was no body, John! Falling off the edge of a waterfall isn't necessarily fatal") that John realised just how close Sherlock was.
Sherlock's thigh was pressed up against John's, warmth seeping through John's jeans, and he was resting his head gently against John's shoulder. John looked down at the soft head of dark curls that were currently tickling his chin and attempting to climb into his nostrils and make him sneeze.
Even if he didn't have Sherlock, even if Sherlock wasn't his - if he could have this, John thought, he could be happy.
Then, of course, Sherlock had to go and ruin it by squirming away and shoving positively frigid toes under John's thigh.
"Bloody hell, Sherlock! Cut it out!" He swatted at Sherlock's feet (long, elegant, and bare, with a few light hairs dusting the tops, the ankles sharp knobs just visible under the hem of Sherlock's pyjama bottoms) and scrambled backwards, towards the other end of the sofa.
"What?" Sherlock asked, batting his eyelashes in mock confusion.
"You wanker, you know exactly what." He glared. Bloody cold feet trying to steal John's body heat.
Sherlock simply pouted, his lower lip sticking out (just asking to be nibbled), and said, "I've no idea what you're talking about, John." He looked over at John with a sidelong glance, and the intensity in his gaze made John's insides boil.
John hadn't even realised he was holding his breath until Sherlock flopped onto him, head resting on John's leg, and it all came out in a rush of air.
Sherlock rolled over, falling onto his back, his head turning towards John's stomach. The heat of Sherlock's breath caressed John's belly through the thin layer of his shirt.
While you're down there, Sherlock, if you wouldn't mind...
John's nerves, already frayed, finally reached their snapping point. John started giggling.
Sherlock's eyes snapped up and he craned his neck to examine John's reaction, but before he could get a good look, John shoved him off his lap and bolted to hide behind the sofa.
Taken off balance by John's shove, Sherlock fell onto the floor, legs sprawled over the sofa cushions, and propped himself up on his elbows to stare at John. "You don't make a terribly good pillow."
"For God's sake, Sherlock!" John said, trying to reign in his ridiculous laughter. "I'm a doctor, not a pillow!"
Sherlock smiled and John knew he had to escape before he did something stupid. Like crawl over the back of the sofa and bury his hands in wild curls.
"You ate all my popcorn," John said, throat tight, as he turned and fled into the kitchen.
***
Three days after what John was privately calling the "inappropriately arousing sofa incident," John's watch went missing. The watch that, less than a month ago, Sherlock had given to John as an apology for destroying his good watch in some bloody experiment with acid or flames or something similarly destructive.
Later that morning, when he saw Sherlock scribbling something frantically on a notepad as his missing watch melted into a puddle of goo in the microwave, John decided it would be safer for all involved (but especially Sherlock) to remove himself from Sherlock's immediate vicinity. He decided to go on a walk - which would have been much more soothing if it hadn't been drizzly and miserable outside, and he hadn't had mud smeared all over his trouser leg when a cab drove too close and splashed gutter water on him.
When he got back to the flat, Sherlock was ignoring him, fully absorbed in some other stupid experiment, and he didn't get a word of acknowledgement when he very pointedly called out "I'm going to sleep, you prat" and stomped off to his bedroom. At half past nine in the evening.
The following day, John saw nothing of Sherlock until three in the afternoon, at which point, Sherlock stormed out to the sitting room, glared at John, demanded to see his phone, and stormed off to his bedroom again. He didn't emerge for another thirty minutes, and when he did, he stalked over to John's armchair, dropped John's mobile in his lap, and returned to his bedroom.
It occurred to John then, that he hadn't made eye contact with Sherlock since he'd gone off to the pub with Lestrade on Tuesday, a few days after The Incident. It was Thursday now, and Sherlock was acting a right arsehole - more so than normal - so something must have changed.
Bloody hell.
Sherlock knew.
Chapter 5: Results
Rating: T
Genres: Romance, Crack
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Wordcount: 2,523 (this chapter); 13,400 total
Beta: percygranger
Apparently, Sherlock is experimenting on John without his consent. John is going to kill him. Right after he makes a cup of tea.
Chapter 1: John, Guinea Pig
Chapter 2: Uncooperative Test Subjects
Chapter 3: Experimental Error
Chapter 4: The Inappropriate Sofa Incident
John had just finished his second cup of tea when he heard the sound of footsteps downstairs. He sighed and struggled to his feet, one hand absently rubbing the aching muscles in his left shoulder.
He started filling the kettle from the tap as the door opened and Sherlock burst into the kitchen, accompanied by the telltale rustle of shopping bags.
He did not, however, dump the bags on the table, or the floor, or the counter. He stopped dead in his tracks, not making a sound.
John didn't turn to look, willing his hand not to shake as he finished filling the kettle. "Mycroft stopped by. I thought I'd make sure the flat was clean." He paused, remembering the excuse he'd thought of during the second half of his first cup of tea, fifteen minutes prior. "He said he wanted to invite us to some family dinner. Don't worry, I told him off."
"Oh. Thank you."
Thank you? Sherlock must have been more rattled than John realised. He turned to look at Sherlock, and the man was staring at the cameras lying on the kitchen table, looking a tad queasy. His grey eyes were opened wider than normal as he set the three bags of food gently on the floor.
John tried to bite back his smile as he turned back to pour water into the two mugs. As he handed Sherlock his cup, Sherlock's eyes flickered up to John's.
"The funny thing," John said, heart suddenly beating louder in his chest, "was the number of cameras." He took a sip of his tea and steeled himself for the next bit. Sherlock's fingers twitched on his mug, causing the serene surface of the tea to ripple.
John cleared his throat. "There was one in the front hall, one in the sitting room, and two in the kitchen." Sherlock's lower lip protruded in a faint pout when John mentioned the count of sitting room cameras. "Now, I don't see why Mycroft would need more than one camera in a room. And it was quite curious. One of them was angled towards the cooker, and I'm not aware of you ever having used it." Sherlock gazed back at John with wide eyes full of alarm, for just a fraction of a second, before the calm mask fell back in place. John took another sip of tea to hide his smile.
Sherlock fidgeted. "Perhaps my brother is attempting to obtain footage of you, not me."
The thought of Mycroft Holmes planting cameras to spy on John was almost enough to make John cough up his most recent swallow of tea. "Right. What, does he fancy me?"
Suddenly he remembered his conversation with Sherlock about the possibility of cameras in the loo. He thought back to all the times he had leaned up to the top shelf in the kitchen, trying to give Sherlock a better view of his arse.
"Oh God," John blurted. Was Mycroft wanking off to that in his secret government office? "He doesn't fancy me, does he? I don't think I could survive the attention of more than one Holmes."
John realised his mistake almost as soon as the words fell out of his mouth.
"What do you mean, more than one?"
Bugger.
John bit back a mortified groan and waved his free hand in Sherlock's direction. "Just forget it." As if Sherlock would forget anything. He might have deleted the solar system, but he always remembered vital information needed to irritate one John Watson.
A strategic retreat at this point would likely be best. John strode out to the sitting room and flipped on the telly.
Sherlock wandered out, looking mildly puzzled, before he flopped onto the sofa, nearly kicking John's tea as his feet landed with a soft whumpf in John's lap.
"Oi," John scolded half-heartedly.
"Put on the Discovery Channel. There's a special about bees on."
John slouched into the sofa as he frowned at Sherlock, but he still leaned over to fish the remote from between the sofa cushions. "You and bees."
Sherlock just smiled at him, a brief, sincere thing that made the corners of his eyes crinkle slightly. John could do nothing more menacing than grin back in response.
***
A few nights later, John was typing up a blog entry as Sherlock lolled about on the sofa, legs propped up against the sofa back and head hanging off the side in a position that would have caused John's back to seize up if he'd even bothered to attempt it.
Sherlock is an utter prat, but
These past few days have been nice. Sherlock and I haven't had many cases on - there was a minor tussle with a criminal that required us to run through a section of Chinatown that brought back fond memories of last year. Sherlock proclaimed the case boring and he really didn't give me any details, so, that'll have to wait for another day.
Lately, I've
Sherlock has been conducting some experiments. Not too many with body parts, though, so that's a good job. I've been working some shifts at the surgery, and fantasising about. Nothing terribly exciting.
Harry, you were right.
Sherlock
I
BOLLOCKS TO THIS
John was in the middle of angrily deleting his last sentence when Sherlock lolled his head about to look at John upside-down. "Bored."
John frowned and attempted another paragraph.
"Bored."
He's always bloody bored. I could strangle him. I could probably get away with it, too, since Greg's on my side and the rest of the yard couldn't tell their arse from their elbow, according to Sherlock.
So why do I like the bloody irritating git so much?
John should probably delete the entire blog entry. Yes. That was for the best.
"Bored."
John frowned as he moved to click his mouse on the "Delete Entry" button.
"John. I'm bored."
"Yes!" John snapped, viciously jabbing "Confirm" at the dialog asking him if he were truly, 100% positive that his idiotic ramblings should be wiped out of existence. "I heard you the first fifty times."
Sherlock shifted on the sofa, curling up into the corner and clutching his knees to his chest. When John finally looked, he was studying John intently, his mouth turned down at the corners and his eyebrows drawn together.
John sighed as he closed his laptop and slid it onto the floor. "What do you expect me to do about it?"
John could have sworn he saw something flash in Sherlock's eyes - some unknown emotion, a strange vulnerability. It was gone before he had the chance to analyse it, and John wondered if he'd just been seeing things.
Sherlock pursed his lips, studying John for a long moment. "Give me a case."
John blinked, taken aback. Sherlock, seeing John's reaction, closed his eyes and leaned back into the sofa cushions. "Never mind."
John thought back to their text exchange of a few days ago.
"I don't have a case for you," John said, after a long moment. He was shocked that his voice remained steady. "Maybe you should check with Lestrade."
Sherlock let his feet drop to the floor and stared at John, gauging his sincerity. After what seemed like an eternity, he broke into a smirk. "Oh, I already asked him. An hour ago."
John bit his cheek, but he could still feel the corners of his mouth twitch upward. "You could always ask Mycroft for something."
Sherlock's nose wrinkled. "Mycroft?"
John giggled. "Right. Forgive me for even suggesting it."
Sherlock relaxed further into the sofa, waving one hand about airily. "I suppose, in this instance, I can forgive you for such an egregious suggestion." His eyes slid sideways, glancing at John sidelong, with a devil's grin tweaking up the side of his mouth. "But that still leaves my problem unresolved."
"Bored?" John asked, not bothering to hide his smile any more.
"Bored," Sherlock agreed.
"We could watch something on the telly, I s'pose."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And what would you want to watch? Something dull, I'm sure."
John raised an eyebrow, wearing an amused grin. "Not everything I watch is dull. Just because you have the attention span of a two-year-old doesn't make my taste rubbish."
Sherlock's eyes glittered as he waved his hand in John's direction. "Take those Bond films you're always on about. A complete waste of time."
John let his mouth drop open in mock anger. "You did not just insult James Bond."
"The plots are completely implausible. They keep giving expensive technology to this man, even though he constantly damages it. And how many STDs must he have by now? He never appears to use a condom when he sleeps with all of these women who inevitably, and inexplicably, fall for him."
"Of course they fall for him, Sherlock! He's Bond."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
John turned away so Sherlock wouldn't see his flush. "Fine, what are we up to, now? Last week was The World Is Not Enough, yeah?" He strode over to the DVD shelf and pulled off Die Another Day. "Right. Pierce Brosnan'll teach you a thing or two."
John was looking forward to Sherlock's commentary on this one. It was one of the more mediocre Bond films, he thought, and Sherlock would surely complain not only about the ludicrous plot twists, but the excessive special effects.
And John had always had a thing for Halle Berry.
When John turned back around, Sherlock was smiling up at John from his spot on the sofa, and John almost dropped the DVD. What he wouldn't give to reach over and nibble on that lower lip. To press his lips against the corner of that smirk. To lick into that mouth, and taste this morning's coffee and the bitter tar of the cigarettes he knew Sherlock had been sneaking on the sly.
John swallowed, his throat suddenly bone dry.
Stop looking at his lips.
"Popcorn," John said, whirling around and striding towards the kitchen before he was caught staring.
When he came back to the sitting room, bowl of popcorn in one hand and lager in the other, Sherlock was idly toying with the remote control as the DVD menu screen played. He didn't look as though he'd moved an inch, but he must have walked over to the DVD player, at least.
John settled next to him and didn't protest when Sherlock's hand snaked in and grabbed a handful of popcorn. Calories were calories.
They started the film, and it wasn't until twenty minutes in, in the middle of a long diatribe about the physics of hovercrafts and waterfalls ("There was no body, John! Falling off the edge of a waterfall isn't necessarily fatal") that John realised just how close Sherlock was.
Sherlock's thigh was pressed up against John's, warmth seeping through John's jeans, and he was resting his head gently against John's shoulder. John looked down at the soft head of dark curls that were currently tickling his chin and attempting to climb into his nostrils and make him sneeze.
Even if he didn't have Sherlock, even if Sherlock wasn't his - if he could have this, John thought, he could be happy.
Then, of course, Sherlock had to go and ruin it by squirming away and shoving positively frigid toes under John's thigh.
"Bloody hell, Sherlock! Cut it out!" He swatted at Sherlock's feet (long, elegant, and bare, with a few light hairs dusting the tops, the ankles sharp knobs just visible under the hem of Sherlock's pyjama bottoms) and scrambled backwards, towards the other end of the sofa.
"What?" Sherlock asked, batting his eyelashes in mock confusion.
"You wanker, you know exactly what." He glared. Bloody cold feet trying to steal John's body heat.
Sherlock simply pouted, his lower lip sticking out (just asking to be nibbled), and said, "I've no idea what you're talking about, John." He looked over at John with a sidelong glance, and the intensity in his gaze made John's insides boil.
John hadn't even realised he was holding his breath until Sherlock flopped onto him, head resting on John's leg, and it all came out in a rush of air.
Sherlock rolled over, falling onto his back, his head turning towards John's stomach. The heat of Sherlock's breath caressed John's belly through the thin layer of his shirt.
While you're down there, Sherlock, if you wouldn't mind...
John's nerves, already frayed, finally reached their snapping point. John started giggling.
Sherlock's eyes snapped up and he craned his neck to examine John's reaction, but before he could get a good look, John shoved him off his lap and bolted to hide behind the sofa.
Taken off balance by John's shove, Sherlock fell onto the floor, legs sprawled over the sofa cushions, and propped himself up on his elbows to stare at John. "You don't make a terribly good pillow."
"For God's sake, Sherlock!" John said, trying to reign in his ridiculous laughter. "I'm a doctor, not a pillow!"
Sherlock smiled and John knew he had to escape before he did something stupid. Like crawl over the back of the sofa and bury his hands in wild curls.
"You ate all my popcorn," John said, throat tight, as he turned and fled into the kitchen.
***
Three days after what John was privately calling the "inappropriately arousing sofa incident," John's watch went missing. The watch that, less than a month ago, Sherlock had given to John as an apology for destroying his good watch in some bloody experiment with acid or flames or something similarly destructive.
Later that morning, when he saw Sherlock scribbling something frantically on a notepad as his missing watch melted into a puddle of goo in the microwave, John decided it would be safer for all involved (but especially Sherlock) to remove himself from Sherlock's immediate vicinity. He decided to go on a walk - which would have been much more soothing if it hadn't been drizzly and miserable outside, and he hadn't had mud smeared all over his trouser leg when a cab drove too close and splashed gutter water on him.
When he got back to the flat, Sherlock was ignoring him, fully absorbed in some other stupid experiment, and he didn't get a word of acknowledgement when he very pointedly called out "I'm going to sleep, you prat" and stomped off to his bedroom. At half past nine in the evening.
The following day, John saw nothing of Sherlock until three in the afternoon, at which point, Sherlock stormed out to the sitting room, glared at John, demanded to see his phone, and stormed off to his bedroom again. He didn't emerge for another thirty minutes, and when he did, he stalked over to John's armchair, dropped John's mobile in his lap, and returned to his bedroom.
It occurred to John then, that he hadn't made eye contact with Sherlock since he'd gone off to the pub with Lestrade on Tuesday, a few days after The Incident. It was Thursday now, and Sherlock was acting a right arsehole - more so than normal - so something must have changed.
Bloody hell.
Sherlock knew.
Chapter 5: Results