Abhorring the Dull Routine of Existence, or, a Week Spent on Artificial Stimulants (2/3)
Cracky spin-off fic set before the events of You Can Imagine the Christmas Dinners.
Summary: Sherlock tries out more legal varieties of stimulant.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Technically (given the events of You Can Imagine...) this is pre-slash Sherlock/John, but it can easily be read as gen.
Disclaimer: Sherlock is the property of the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat. Sherlock Holmes is public domain. My thanks to Arthur Conan Doyle.
Part One is here
WEDNESDAY
TO: G LESTRADE
HAVE YOU SEEN SHERLOCK?? COULDN’T FIND HIM THIS MORNING. J
MESSAGE RECEIVED
HE’S HERE. WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH HIM?? GREG
TO: G LESTRADE
THANK GOD. CAN YOU KEEP AN EYE ON HIM? J
MESSAGE RECEIVED
DONOVAN FOUND HIM SITTING ON THE KERB OUTSIDE. NO IDEA HOW LONG HE’D BEEN THERE. EXPLAIN. GREG
TO: G LESTRADE
HE’S FINE, HE’S JUST A LITTLE OUT OF SORTS. J
MESSAGE RECEIVED
HE’S ON SOMETHING. I THOUGHT HE WAS CLEAN?! GREG
TO: G LESTRADE
HE’S CLEAN. J
MESSAGE RECEIVED
HE’S TAKEN ALL THE A1 PAPER FROM OUR STATIONERY CUPBOARD AND IS DRAWING THE LONDON A-Z ONTO IT FROM MEMORY. BOLLOCKS IS HE CLEAN. GREG
TO: G LESTRADE
IT’S JUST RED BULL. IT’S AN “EXPERIMENT”, APPARENTLY. J
MESSAGE RECEIVED
RED BULL?! GREG
TO: G LESTRADE
A LOT OF RED BULL. MAKE SURE HE DRINKS WATER OR HE’LL DEHYDRATE. J
MESSAGE RECEIVED
OH, BLOODY HELL.
MESSAGE RECEIVED
CAN YOU GET DOWN HERE & CONTROL THE FREAK?! HE’S PUTTING ME OFF MY COFFEE. SAL X
MESSAGE RECEIVED
GET OVER HERE, WATSON. LESTRADE’S MAKING US BABYSIT WHILST HE HIDES IN THE CELLS. ANDERSON
MESSAGE RECEIVED
IF HE INSULTS MY FACE ONE MORE TIME I’M GOING TO PUNCH HIM IN HIS. I’M NOT THE ONE HERE WHO LOOKS LIKE A HORSE IN A MAN SUIT. ANDERSON
TO: SHERLOCK
STOP PESTERING THE POLICE, SHERLOCK. J
MESSAGE RECEIVED
DO YOU NEED HELP AGAIN TODAY I COULD HELP. SH
MESSAGE RECEIVED
IT IS THE FASTEST WAY TO ACHIEVE OUR MUTUAL GOALS. SH
MESSAGE RECEIVED
LET ME KNOW IF YOU NEED HELP. I DON’T KNOW WHY THAT WOMAN SLAPPED ME YESTERDAY, BUT I PROMISE IT WON’T HAPPEN AGAIN. SH
MESSAGE RECEIVED
I AM WILLING TO ASSIST IF YOU REFRAIN FROM CALLING SECURITY THIS TIME. SH
TO: SHERLOCK
NO NO, IT’S OK. STAY AT THE POLICE STATION. LESTRADE NEEDS YOU. HE’S DOWN IN THE CELLS. J
MESSAGE RECEIVED
DID YOU TELL HIM WHERE I WAS?! GREG
MESSAGE RECEIVED
I HATE YOU. GREG
TO: SARAH S
CAN I STAY AT YOUR HOUSE? J
MESSAGE RECEIVED
ARE YOU TEXTING ME FROM THE NEXT ROOM?! ALSO, NO.
THURSDAY
John awoke to silence, for the second day in a row. He listened carefully, trying to pick up any clues as to whether his flatmate was in and, if so, what he was doing.
He had come home from work last night to find Sherlock surrounded by empty drinks cans and trying to convince Lestrade and Donovan (who appeared to have brought him home in a police car, against his wishes) to play Twister. Apparently, a Sherlock that was high on caffeine was far more tactile and frivolous than his usual cold, aloof self. John spent a while chatting with the Yarders over a cup of tea (decaff) whilst Sherlock bounced from one room to the next, jabbering away nineteen-to-the-dozen and occasionally interrupting them with ridiculous suggestions. Sometimes he would wander over to John and grab him on either side of his face, staring at him keenly and muttering under his breath in an almost trance-like state that no amount of questioning from John could snap him out of. Eventually Lestrade got fed up of Sherlock’s restlessness and handcuffed him to the arm of a chair, which he’d spent a while trying to force his way out of with the aid of a teaspoon - the only thing to hand - before being overcome by a sudden caffeine crash and passing out face-down on the floor.
According to Lestrade, there really were no cases for Sherlock to take at the moment - even minor ones - so they had nothing else to distract him with. It looked like they’d just have to wait for him to get bored of this particular experiment, although they’d removed the remainder of the energy drinks from the house whilst he was asleep on the floor. John didn’t suppose it would do any good; they couldn’t exactly stop him from just going out and buying more.
At least he seemed to be enjoying himself, he thought.
John dressed and made his way cautiously down the stairs. The living room looked like a bomb had hit it; it was covered in ripped up pieces of paper, empty cups and what looked suspiciously like sheep’s wool. It looked like Sherlock had run out of paper in the end and then started writing on the section of wall nearest his door. John groaned, and picked up one of the empty cups, giving it a cautious sniff. Coffee. Sherlock must have discovered his Red Bull missing and gone for the next best thing.
He wandered into the kitchen with trepidation. The coffee pot was empty, though (he was thankful to see) Sherlock hadn’t actually ingested all of it, as half the floor seemed to be covered in coffee grounds.
He gave a long-suffering sigh and pulled his phone out of his pocket. He had 37 missed calls, all from Sherlock.
TO: SHERLOCK
WHERE ARE YOU? J
TO: G LESTRADE
HAVE YOU SEEN HIM? J
Gathering up all of the bits of paper and empty cups, he attempted to make the room a little more presentable. He’d have to deal with the spilt coffee grounds and writing on the wall later; Mrs Hudson wouldn’t be very pleased.
MESSAGE RECEIVED
NO. IS HE NOT HOME? GREG
TO: G LESTRADE
NO, AND IT LOOKS LIKE HE FOUND THE COFFEE.
MESSAGE RECEIVED
OH GOD. HOW CAN YOU BE SURE?
TO: G LESTRADE
LET’S JUST SAY I DEDUCED IT.
Taking one last look at the wreckage that was his home, John pulled on his coat and headed to work, a prickling feeling of unease making its way up his back. Sherlock was at large in an unexpecting world, and he had no idea where.
The morning passed slowly, and when it reached lunchtime and John still hadn’t heard from Sherlock, he was beginning to get worried. He pulled out his phone again and stared at the 37 missed calls, wondering if there wasn’t perhaps something more sinister to them; after all, Sherlock rarely rang, preferring to text unless it was an emergency. What if it had been an emergency? He dialed his number, feeling his heart stop in his chest when it went straight to answer-phone. His friend never went out without his phone charged.
After checking in with Lestrade and the rest of the yarders that they’d still seen no sign of Sherlock, John decided there was only one person who could help him. What he really needed, in this sort of situation was a Holmes. And if Sherlock wasn’t available, well then there was still one option open to exploration.
TO: MYCROFT HOLMES
URGENT. PLEASE HELP. J WATSON
His phone rang immediately, with a number he didn’t recognise.
“Hello?”
“Dr Watson. How may I be of assistance?” came Mycroft’s silken tones, each word layered with calm power and self-assurance. John felt himself relax slightly at the sound of his voice.
“It’s Sherlock,” he began, suddenly aware that practically every phone conversation he had with the elder Holmes brother started with those two words.
“And how long has he been missing?” said Mycroft, with his uncanny gift at predicting what John was about to say.
“How did you- no, never mind,” said John, deciding the explanation could wait until later, “I haven’t seen him since last night, I assume he went out some time early this morning. He’s not replying to any of my texts, and his phone goes straight to voice-mail…”
“That’s not long ago, Dr Watson, so you must have some other reason to be fearful for his safety. Am I correct? What was he doing when you saw him last?”
“He was handcuffed to the armchair in the living room, then he fell asleep there,” said John, wondering vaguely how on earth Sherlock had managed to get the cuffs off. Then again, there were a lot of things Sherlock did that John couldn’t work out. There was a dry chuckle at the other end of the phone.
“Please, do spare me further details,” Mycroft said, making John wince when he realized exactly how what he’d just said had sounded.
“No, I don’t mean - no, not like-”
“Of course, for one who relies so much on his authority and self-control, it’s hardly surprising that Sherlock would seek to be dominated within a more private setting; I could easily have deduced as much - still, I’d rather not pursue this line of enquiry,” Mycroft continued, a note of distaste in his voice. John shook his head frantically at the phone, aware that Mycroft couldn’t see him but feeling the need to do so anyway.
“No, Mycroft, no, not like that - Lestrade cuffed him anyway, not me-”
“Is that D.I. Lestrade?” came Mycroft’s voice, sounding a little shocked this time, “Gosh, you do surprise me, Dr Watson. I wasn’t aware that the two of you saw him outside of a professional setting.”
“Outside of a…?”
“Recreationally.”
John flailed for a moment, opening and closing his mouth like a fish, then reminded himself what he’d made this phone call for in the first place.
“No, listen,” he said firmly, “Lestrade cuffed him because it was the only way to get him to keep still. He’s high as a bloody kite and now he’s run off somewhere and isn’t answering his phone, so if you could just-”
“Oh, dear, is he using again?” drawled Mycroft, sounding bored, “Mummy will be so disappointed. We had really hoped that he was past that. What is it this time?”
“Red Bull.”
There was a pause on the other end of the phone line.
“I’m sorry?”
“Red Bull. And a lot of it.”
“Dear Lord.”
“Look, if you could just keep an eye out for him - let me know if he turns up?” John asked, all too aware that it sounded as though he was pleading.
“Of course,” said Mycroft, sounding a little anxious now, “I’ll have my PA check the surveillance cameras to see if we can ascertain his whereabouts. Do keep me updated as to developments at your end.”
“Ok. Thanks. Uhh… tell your PA I said hi,” said John, thinking of the attractive woman he’d only met on a couple of occasions. He still thought of her as ‘Anthea’, though he knew that wasn’t her real name.
“Of course,” Mycroft
“You’re not going to, are you?”
“No. Goodbye, Dr Watson.”
And he hung up.
John sighed in relief, feeling better just for knowing that Mycroft - and all his hundreds of cameras - were on the look out for Sherlock too. With the vast resources of the British Government at his beck and call, it surely wouldn’t be too long before they’d managed to track Sherlock down and he was safe back home in Baker Street.
He spent the rest of his working day convincing himself of this, to the point where he actually expected Sherlock to be there by the time he got home. He wasn’t.
He spent the rest of the evening on tenterhooks, waiting for a knock on the door or a ring of the phone that never came, expecting him to walk in at any moment. He didn’t.
Mycroft rang back on the dot of midnight.
“I can’t find any signs of foul play, and I’ve got several unconfirmed sightings of him around the city today, but nothing concrete. If we can’t find him, Dr Watson, then I’m afraid it would appear that he doesn’t want to be found. I’ll keep you updated.”
He went to bed unsettled and on-edge, trying to work out where Sherlock could be and wondering at what point his life had begun to revolve around this ridiculous man. He felt all off-kilter, not knowing where he was, as though he was still in orbit around something that was no longer there - as though Sherlock were the Sun, he thought; or something more singular perhaps, more likely a black hole.
He fell asleep thinking vaguely of the solar system, and of Sherlock’s complete lack of knowledge of it. He would buy him a book, he decided, assuming that he came back and that nothing untoward had happened to him today. Yes, a book on the solar system. Perhaps for Christmas.
Part Three
Summary: Sherlock tries out more legal varieties of stimulant.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Technically (given the events of You Can Imagine...) this is pre-slash Sherlock/John, but it can easily be read as gen.
Disclaimer: Sherlock is the property of the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat. Sherlock Holmes is public domain. My thanks to Arthur Conan Doyle.
Part One is here
WEDNESDAY
TO: G LESTRADE
HAVE YOU SEEN SHERLOCK?? COULDN’T FIND HIM THIS MORNING. J
MESSAGE RECEIVED
HE’S HERE. WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH HIM?? GREG
TO: G LESTRADE
THANK GOD. CAN YOU KEEP AN EYE ON HIM? J
MESSAGE RECEIVED
DONOVAN FOUND HIM SITTING ON THE KERB OUTSIDE. NO IDEA HOW LONG HE’D BEEN THERE. EXPLAIN. GREG
TO: G LESTRADE
HE’S FINE, HE’S JUST A LITTLE OUT OF SORTS. J
MESSAGE RECEIVED
HE’S ON SOMETHING. I THOUGHT HE WAS CLEAN?! GREG
TO: G LESTRADE
HE’S CLEAN. J
MESSAGE RECEIVED
HE’S TAKEN ALL THE A1 PAPER FROM OUR STATIONERY CUPBOARD AND IS DRAWING THE LONDON A-Z ONTO IT FROM MEMORY. BOLLOCKS IS HE CLEAN. GREG
TO: G LESTRADE
IT’S JUST RED BULL. IT’S AN “EXPERIMENT”, APPARENTLY. J
MESSAGE RECEIVED
RED BULL?! GREG
TO: G LESTRADE
A LOT OF RED BULL. MAKE SURE HE DRINKS WATER OR HE’LL DEHYDRATE. J
MESSAGE RECEIVED
OH, BLOODY HELL.
MESSAGE RECEIVED
CAN YOU GET DOWN HERE & CONTROL THE FREAK?! HE’S PUTTING ME OFF MY COFFEE. SAL X
MESSAGE RECEIVED
GET OVER HERE, WATSON. LESTRADE’S MAKING US BABYSIT WHILST HE HIDES IN THE CELLS. ANDERSON
MESSAGE RECEIVED
IF HE INSULTS MY FACE ONE MORE TIME I’M GOING TO PUNCH HIM IN HIS. I’M NOT THE ONE HERE WHO LOOKS LIKE A HORSE IN A MAN SUIT. ANDERSON
TO: SHERLOCK
STOP PESTERING THE POLICE, SHERLOCK. J
MESSAGE RECEIVED
DO YOU NEED HELP AGAIN TODAY I COULD HELP. SH
MESSAGE RECEIVED
IT IS THE FASTEST WAY TO ACHIEVE OUR MUTUAL GOALS. SH
MESSAGE RECEIVED
LET ME KNOW IF YOU NEED HELP. I DON’T KNOW WHY THAT WOMAN SLAPPED ME YESTERDAY, BUT I PROMISE IT WON’T HAPPEN AGAIN. SH
MESSAGE RECEIVED
I AM WILLING TO ASSIST IF YOU REFRAIN FROM CALLING SECURITY THIS TIME. SH
TO: SHERLOCK
NO NO, IT’S OK. STAY AT THE POLICE STATION. LESTRADE NEEDS YOU. HE’S DOWN IN THE CELLS. J
MESSAGE RECEIVED
DID YOU TELL HIM WHERE I WAS?! GREG
MESSAGE RECEIVED
I HATE YOU. GREG
TO: SARAH S
CAN I STAY AT YOUR HOUSE? J
MESSAGE RECEIVED
ARE YOU TEXTING ME FROM THE NEXT ROOM?! ALSO, NO.
THURSDAY
John awoke to silence, for the second day in a row. He listened carefully, trying to pick up any clues as to whether his flatmate was in and, if so, what he was doing.
He had come home from work last night to find Sherlock surrounded by empty drinks cans and trying to convince Lestrade and Donovan (who appeared to have brought him home in a police car, against his wishes) to play Twister. Apparently, a Sherlock that was high on caffeine was far more tactile and frivolous than his usual cold, aloof self. John spent a while chatting with the Yarders over a cup of tea (decaff) whilst Sherlock bounced from one room to the next, jabbering away nineteen-to-the-dozen and occasionally interrupting them with ridiculous suggestions. Sometimes he would wander over to John and grab him on either side of his face, staring at him keenly and muttering under his breath in an almost trance-like state that no amount of questioning from John could snap him out of. Eventually Lestrade got fed up of Sherlock’s restlessness and handcuffed him to the arm of a chair, which he’d spent a while trying to force his way out of with the aid of a teaspoon - the only thing to hand - before being overcome by a sudden caffeine crash and passing out face-down on the floor.
According to Lestrade, there really were no cases for Sherlock to take at the moment - even minor ones - so they had nothing else to distract him with. It looked like they’d just have to wait for him to get bored of this particular experiment, although they’d removed the remainder of the energy drinks from the house whilst he was asleep on the floor. John didn’t suppose it would do any good; they couldn’t exactly stop him from just going out and buying more.
At least he seemed to be enjoying himself, he thought.
John dressed and made his way cautiously down the stairs. The living room looked like a bomb had hit it; it was covered in ripped up pieces of paper, empty cups and what looked suspiciously like sheep’s wool. It looked like Sherlock had run out of paper in the end and then started writing on the section of wall nearest his door. John groaned, and picked up one of the empty cups, giving it a cautious sniff. Coffee. Sherlock must have discovered his Red Bull missing and gone for the next best thing.
He wandered into the kitchen with trepidation. The coffee pot was empty, though (he was thankful to see) Sherlock hadn’t actually ingested all of it, as half the floor seemed to be covered in coffee grounds.
He gave a long-suffering sigh and pulled his phone out of his pocket. He had 37 missed calls, all from Sherlock.
TO: SHERLOCK
WHERE ARE YOU? J
TO: G LESTRADE
HAVE YOU SEEN HIM? J
Gathering up all of the bits of paper and empty cups, he attempted to make the room a little more presentable. He’d have to deal with the spilt coffee grounds and writing on the wall later; Mrs Hudson wouldn’t be very pleased.
MESSAGE RECEIVED
NO. IS HE NOT HOME? GREG
TO: G LESTRADE
NO, AND IT LOOKS LIKE HE FOUND THE COFFEE.
MESSAGE RECEIVED
OH GOD. HOW CAN YOU BE SURE?
TO: G LESTRADE
LET’S JUST SAY I DEDUCED IT.
Taking one last look at the wreckage that was his home, John pulled on his coat and headed to work, a prickling feeling of unease making its way up his back. Sherlock was at large in an unexpecting world, and he had no idea where.
The morning passed slowly, and when it reached lunchtime and John still hadn’t heard from Sherlock, he was beginning to get worried. He pulled out his phone again and stared at the 37 missed calls, wondering if there wasn’t perhaps something more sinister to them; after all, Sherlock rarely rang, preferring to text unless it was an emergency. What if it had been an emergency? He dialed his number, feeling his heart stop in his chest when it went straight to answer-phone. His friend never went out without his phone charged.
After checking in with Lestrade and the rest of the yarders that they’d still seen no sign of Sherlock, John decided there was only one person who could help him. What he really needed, in this sort of situation was a Holmes. And if Sherlock wasn’t available, well then there was still one option open to exploration.
TO: MYCROFT HOLMES
URGENT. PLEASE HELP. J WATSON
His phone rang immediately, with a number he didn’t recognise.
“Hello?”
“Dr Watson. How may I be of assistance?” came Mycroft’s silken tones, each word layered with calm power and self-assurance. John felt himself relax slightly at the sound of his voice.
“It’s Sherlock,” he began, suddenly aware that practically every phone conversation he had with the elder Holmes brother started with those two words.
“And how long has he been missing?” said Mycroft, with his uncanny gift at predicting what John was about to say.
“How did you- no, never mind,” said John, deciding the explanation could wait until later, “I haven’t seen him since last night, I assume he went out some time early this morning. He’s not replying to any of my texts, and his phone goes straight to voice-mail…”
“That’s not long ago, Dr Watson, so you must have some other reason to be fearful for his safety. Am I correct? What was he doing when you saw him last?”
“He was handcuffed to the armchair in the living room, then he fell asleep there,” said John, wondering vaguely how on earth Sherlock had managed to get the cuffs off. Then again, there were a lot of things Sherlock did that John couldn’t work out. There was a dry chuckle at the other end of the phone.
“Please, do spare me further details,” Mycroft said, making John wince when he realized exactly how what he’d just said had sounded.
“No, I don’t mean - no, not like-”
“Of course, for one who relies so much on his authority and self-control, it’s hardly surprising that Sherlock would seek to be dominated within a more private setting; I could easily have deduced as much - still, I’d rather not pursue this line of enquiry,” Mycroft continued, a note of distaste in his voice. John shook his head frantically at the phone, aware that Mycroft couldn’t see him but feeling the need to do so anyway.
“No, Mycroft, no, not like that - Lestrade cuffed him anyway, not me-”
“Is that D.I. Lestrade?” came Mycroft’s voice, sounding a little shocked this time, “Gosh, you do surprise me, Dr Watson. I wasn’t aware that the two of you saw him outside of a professional setting.”
“Outside of a…?”
“Recreationally.”
John flailed for a moment, opening and closing his mouth like a fish, then reminded himself what he’d made this phone call for in the first place.
“No, listen,” he said firmly, “Lestrade cuffed him because it was the only way to get him to keep still. He’s high as a bloody kite and now he’s run off somewhere and isn’t answering his phone, so if you could just-”
“Oh, dear, is he using again?” drawled Mycroft, sounding bored, “Mummy will be so disappointed. We had really hoped that he was past that. What is it this time?”
“Red Bull.”
There was a pause on the other end of the phone line.
“I’m sorry?”
“Red Bull. And a lot of it.”
“Dear Lord.”
“Look, if you could just keep an eye out for him - let me know if he turns up?” John asked, all too aware that it sounded as though he was pleading.
“Of course,” said Mycroft, sounding a little anxious now, “I’ll have my PA check the surveillance cameras to see if we can ascertain his whereabouts. Do keep me updated as to developments at your end.”
“Ok. Thanks. Uhh… tell your PA I said hi,” said John, thinking of the attractive woman he’d only met on a couple of occasions. He still thought of her as ‘Anthea’, though he knew that wasn’t her real name.
“Of course,” Mycroft
“You’re not going to, are you?”
“No. Goodbye, Dr Watson.”
And he hung up.
John sighed in relief, feeling better just for knowing that Mycroft - and all his hundreds of cameras - were on the look out for Sherlock too. With the vast resources of the British Government at his beck and call, it surely wouldn’t be too long before they’d managed to track Sherlock down and he was safe back home in Baker Street.
He spent the rest of his working day convincing himself of this, to the point where he actually expected Sherlock to be there by the time he got home. He wasn’t.
He spent the rest of the evening on tenterhooks, waiting for a knock on the door or a ring of the phone that never came, expecting him to walk in at any moment. He didn’t.
Mycroft rang back on the dot of midnight.
“I can’t find any signs of foul play, and I’ve got several unconfirmed sightings of him around the city today, but nothing concrete. If we can’t find him, Dr Watson, then I’m afraid it would appear that he doesn’t want to be found. I’ll keep you updated.”
He went to bed unsettled and on-edge, trying to work out where Sherlock could be and wondering at what point his life had begun to revolve around this ridiculous man. He felt all off-kilter, not knowing where he was, as though he was still in orbit around something that was no longer there - as though Sherlock were the Sun, he thought; or something more singular perhaps, more likely a black hole.
He fell asleep thinking vaguely of the solar system, and of Sherlock’s complete lack of knowledge of it. He would buy him a book, he decided, assuming that he came back and that nothing untoward had happened to him today. Yes, a book on the solar system. Perhaps for Christmas.
Part Three