From Which Love Grows 15: Tests
Title: From Which Loves Grows 15: Tests
Author: red_chapel
Word Count: 1741
Rating: G
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Mycroft
It was a month later and the heat of July had descended upon London with a ferocity nearing that of the March winds. Pedestrians lost their usual haste, strolling when they would normally have hustled. The drone of window fans and air conditioners threatened to drown out cars and buses. Cafés sold more iced coffees and teas than hot and added sorbets to their offerings. Within 221B Baker Street, John was fastidious in caring for his plant, rotating it frequently, constantly checking the moisture level of the dirt, and pulling it back into the shadows of the sitting room when the sun shone its brightest so his leaves would not be burnt. Sherlock divided his time between experiments in the kitchen and lolling on the sofa, alternately engrossed in chemical explorations and despondent at the lack of cases. The oppressive weather seemed to have slowed the entire city, including the criminals.
John had spent the intervening weeks studying medicine, mostly, although he was still prone to mental side-treks. He could occasionally relieve Sherlock’s boredom by having the detective quiz him on his reading, but Sherlock didn’t care to do it often as, he said, he didn’t want to risk cluttering his brain with unnecessary data. John protested that medical knowledge could hardly be called unnecessary: Sherlock needed to stay healthy and even tend to his own injuries at times. When Sherlock said, ‘That’s what I have you for’, John blanched and simply studied harder. He didn’t know if he would ever really be able to practice medicine, despite the papers that said he could, but the prospect fascinated him. And Sherlock was depending on him.
This time also saw Lestrade’s first visit to the flat since John had taken up residence. He said he came by instead of calling because he wasn’t sure if Sherlock would be interested in the case (he wasn’t) and didn’t want to call him out for nothing. Sherlock’s response-‘Don’t lie if you’re going to be so bad at it’-led to a formal introduction to Dr John Watson, the inspector’s real reason for visiting. John made certain to familiarize Lestrade with an array of the facts and fabrications that made up his identity. After a while, Lestrade seemed to leave detective mode. He settled back into the sofa and chatted amiably, casting only occasional querying looks between Sherlock and John. Sherlock quickly lost interest in the dialogue, seemingly satisfied that Lestrade was satisfied and would not cause problems. John was relieved as well. He also found that he enjoyed talking with Lestrade-‘Greg’, he insisted-and took full advantage of the opportunity to practice his conversational skills.
Aside from that visit, Lestrade interrupted their routine only three times that month. He presented only one case worthy of Sherlock’s attentions, the two others ‘easy, pedestrian’ cases that Sherlock refused out-of-hand, brusquely informing Lestrade that he could handle them himself. For all his rudeness, John suspected that Sherlock had texted a hint or two to the DI anyway.
Their only case of note during that time actually came from Mycroft. John walked into the sitting room to drop off his pot one morning and found the man already occupying his accustomed chair. John’s, of course.
‘Good morning, John.’
‘Good morning’, John returned. ‘Um-’
‘Yes, I know he’s not up yet. I’ll wait.’
John nodded, set his plant down, and made for the kitchen. As he opened his mouth to offer tea, Mycroft interjected, ‘No, thank you. I’ve already had two cups this morning.’
John paused, shrugged, and continued his breakfast preparations. A moment later Mycroft came to stand in the doorway, scrutinizing John. When John would have asked if he wanted breakfast-eggs, sausages, baked beans, and toast, now there was money for such-Mycroft declined that ahead of the question as well. He then anticipated John’s ‘What brings you by?’ query by holding up the folder in his hand and stating, ‘A bit of work for my little brother.’ John turned back to the stove and ignored Mycroft for a few minutes, concentrating instead on not burning the eggs. As he plated the meal, he smirked and looked up to fix his no-blinking-required stare at Mycroft. Mycroft’s expression did not deviate from its usual pleasant detachment-for the first 15 seconds. Then his eyes narrowed slightly. At thirty seconds, he took in an abnormally deep breath. At the end of a minute, after Mycroft had unconsciously moved his umbrella from his side to his front and just as he was opening his mouth to speak, John finally called out, ‘Sherlock! Breakfast!’ and set the plate on the table.
‘You’re right’, he said, smirking again. ‘Best he gets it before it gets cold.’
Mycroft smiled sourly and went back to the parlour, this time taking Sherlock’s chair, continuing his scrutiny at a distance.
John met Sherlock as he came down the hall and motioned with his head to indicate Mycroft’s presence. Sherlock merely grimaced and sat down to his food. Mycroft did not attempt interaction until Sherlock had begun to eat. Then he gave only a quick outline of the matter and instructed Sherlock to contact his office if he needed anything that the file didn’t cover.
As Mycroft moved toward the door, Sherlock said, ‘I haven’t agreed to do anything for you.’
Mycroft glanced at John, said ‘It’s not for me’, and left.
When the street door had thudded shut, John asked, ‘I thought you said he wouldn’t make you do anything in exchange for my identity?’
Sherlock spun the folder around and began flipping through it. Misappropriation of government funds, bribery, kickbacks, price-fixing in the lumber and masonry industries. And what did Her Majesty’s government need straw for?
‘It’s not for your identity, John. It’s for your secret. It’s for your life.’
John pushed away from the counter where he’d been leaning. ‘You said he wouldn’t tell anyone’, he said worriedly.
‘He won’t.’ Sherlock stood and took the folder to his desk, stopping for a book on the way.
‘Then why are you doing this for him? You said you hate when he tries giving you cases’, John continued, following Sherlock into the next room.
‘This one’s interesting.’
‘So, you’re only taking it because you’re interested in it?’
‘Of course.’ Sherlock spread documents and photographs around his desk, organizing them to his liking.
‘Then why did you say it was for my life?’
‘Mycroft thinks it is.’
‘I don’t follow’, John said, shaking his head.
‘Then be quiet so I can think. And get the washing up done-I’ll need you later.’
Then came the evening that Sherlock interrupted John, about to take himself upstairs for the night, to request his ‘assistance with an experiment’. He handed John a small beaker and instructed: ‘Just a few drops in your water as usual.’
‘What is it?’
‘Test compound 5.’ John looked at the liquid in the beaker, gave it a swirl, then looked back to Sherlock.
‘What are we testing?’
‘The compound, of course’, Sherlock replied, grabbing hold of John’s shoulders to spin him around and march him up the stairs, explaining as they walked: ‘Have you forgotten? I’ve formulated this just for you, as I said I would.’
‘What’s in it?’ John asked.
‘Same things that are in your usual food: nitrogen, potassium, potash, some iron and zinc.’
John planted his feet on the landing to resist Sherlock’s final shove toward his bedroom door and waited.
Sherlock grinned. ‘And a few extras, some things to boost its efficacy.’
John thought of the kitchen table, covered in an array of apparatus, note books, unlabelled bottles, and print-outs. He had watched Sherlock some evenings, between trying to feed him and retiring for the night, as the scientist in his friend came to the fore. He had researched, mixed, tested, logged results, mixed more, tested more, and on and on for at least three weeks. John recalled the noxious fumes that had twice driven Sherlock from his work and knew of at least one small fire. And the result of all of that had been…
John looked again at the liquid, pale green, a bit thicker than water, and, John was sorry to admit, a little scary despite its innocuous appearance.
‘My regular food has been working just fine.’
‘And you’re willing to settle for “just fine” are you? Don’t be common, John. Give this a try. If I’m right, this formula will give you more energy. You might be able to spend more time off your plant.’
John resisted the bait and continued questioning. ‘And what if you’re wrong?’
Sherlock looked offended at the suggestion. ‘We can always reformulate. Go on now.’
John couldn’t help but be nervous, but he didn’t want to offend or, worse, disappoint Sherlock, so he conceded. ‘Alright. But you’re staying up to watch over me and help out if anything feels wrong. We can go back down and do this in the kitchen if you want.’
Sherlock’s smile was gleeful. ‘Of course I’m going to stay up; I have to take notes. In your room, though-want to limit the variables.’
So John placed himself in his accustomed spot on the night stand, administered test compound 5, ignored the flickers of curiosity regarding compounds 1-4, and returned to his flower state. He tried not to dwell on what it seemed his flatmate already knew: that he very much wanted to be able to spend more time away from his plant. More time to study, to learn. More time to go to crime scenes with Sherlock. More time simply to be in this world. He was aware while a flower, but he could never participate. And this world, even in its quiet moments, was something he very much wanted to participate in.
Sherlock’s experimentation on John Food ran intensely for nearly a month, paused only when there was a case. He sat vigil many nights, notebook in hand, and ‘woke’ John every hour for reports. In the end, test compound 12 was declared to be the best-John felt much the same but found he could stay away from his plant two to three hours more with no problems and no side effects-and the constant testing subsided. Sherlock would occasionally deliver a new compound to John after that, but never so frequently again until-
Ah, but that is a part of this tale that must wait its time to be told.
Master Post 14: Realisations 16: A Confrontation
Author: red_chapel
Word Count: 1741
Rating: G
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Mycroft
It was a month later and the heat of July had descended upon London with a ferocity nearing that of the March winds. Pedestrians lost their usual haste, strolling when they would normally have hustled. The drone of window fans and air conditioners threatened to drown out cars and buses. Cafés sold more iced coffees and teas than hot and added sorbets to their offerings. Within 221B Baker Street, John was fastidious in caring for his plant, rotating it frequently, constantly checking the moisture level of the dirt, and pulling it back into the shadows of the sitting room when the sun shone its brightest so his leaves would not be burnt. Sherlock divided his time between experiments in the kitchen and lolling on the sofa, alternately engrossed in chemical explorations and despondent at the lack of cases. The oppressive weather seemed to have slowed the entire city, including the criminals.
John had spent the intervening weeks studying medicine, mostly, although he was still prone to mental side-treks. He could occasionally relieve Sherlock’s boredom by having the detective quiz him on his reading, but Sherlock didn’t care to do it often as, he said, he didn’t want to risk cluttering his brain with unnecessary data. John protested that medical knowledge could hardly be called unnecessary: Sherlock needed to stay healthy and even tend to his own injuries at times. When Sherlock said, ‘That’s what I have you for’, John blanched and simply studied harder. He didn’t know if he would ever really be able to practice medicine, despite the papers that said he could, but the prospect fascinated him. And Sherlock was depending on him.
This time also saw Lestrade’s first visit to the flat since John had taken up residence. He said he came by instead of calling because he wasn’t sure if Sherlock would be interested in the case (he wasn’t) and didn’t want to call him out for nothing. Sherlock’s response-‘Don’t lie if you’re going to be so bad at it’-led to a formal introduction to Dr John Watson, the inspector’s real reason for visiting. John made certain to familiarize Lestrade with an array of the facts and fabrications that made up his identity. After a while, Lestrade seemed to leave detective mode. He settled back into the sofa and chatted amiably, casting only occasional querying looks between Sherlock and John. Sherlock quickly lost interest in the dialogue, seemingly satisfied that Lestrade was satisfied and would not cause problems. John was relieved as well. He also found that he enjoyed talking with Lestrade-‘Greg’, he insisted-and took full advantage of the opportunity to practice his conversational skills.
Aside from that visit, Lestrade interrupted their routine only three times that month. He presented only one case worthy of Sherlock’s attentions, the two others ‘easy, pedestrian’ cases that Sherlock refused out-of-hand, brusquely informing Lestrade that he could handle them himself. For all his rudeness, John suspected that Sherlock had texted a hint or two to the DI anyway.
Their only case of note during that time actually came from Mycroft. John walked into the sitting room to drop off his pot one morning and found the man already occupying his accustomed chair. John’s, of course.
‘Good morning, John.’
‘Good morning’, John returned. ‘Um-’
‘Yes, I know he’s not up yet. I’ll wait.’
John nodded, set his plant down, and made for the kitchen. As he opened his mouth to offer tea, Mycroft interjected, ‘No, thank you. I’ve already had two cups this morning.’
John paused, shrugged, and continued his breakfast preparations. A moment later Mycroft came to stand in the doorway, scrutinizing John. When John would have asked if he wanted breakfast-eggs, sausages, baked beans, and toast, now there was money for such-Mycroft declined that ahead of the question as well. He then anticipated John’s ‘What brings you by?’ query by holding up the folder in his hand and stating, ‘A bit of work for my little brother.’ John turned back to the stove and ignored Mycroft for a few minutes, concentrating instead on not burning the eggs. As he plated the meal, he smirked and looked up to fix his no-blinking-required stare at Mycroft. Mycroft’s expression did not deviate from its usual pleasant detachment-for the first 15 seconds. Then his eyes narrowed slightly. At thirty seconds, he took in an abnormally deep breath. At the end of a minute, after Mycroft had unconsciously moved his umbrella from his side to his front and just as he was opening his mouth to speak, John finally called out, ‘Sherlock! Breakfast!’ and set the plate on the table.
‘You’re right’, he said, smirking again. ‘Best he gets it before it gets cold.’
Mycroft smiled sourly and went back to the parlour, this time taking Sherlock’s chair, continuing his scrutiny at a distance.
John met Sherlock as he came down the hall and motioned with his head to indicate Mycroft’s presence. Sherlock merely grimaced and sat down to his food. Mycroft did not attempt interaction until Sherlock had begun to eat. Then he gave only a quick outline of the matter and instructed Sherlock to contact his office if he needed anything that the file didn’t cover.
As Mycroft moved toward the door, Sherlock said, ‘I haven’t agreed to do anything for you.’
Mycroft glanced at John, said ‘It’s not for me’, and left.
When the street door had thudded shut, John asked, ‘I thought you said he wouldn’t make you do anything in exchange for my identity?’
Sherlock spun the folder around and began flipping through it. Misappropriation of government funds, bribery, kickbacks, price-fixing in the lumber and masonry industries. And what did Her Majesty’s government need straw for?
‘It’s not for your identity, John. It’s for your secret. It’s for your life.’
John pushed away from the counter where he’d been leaning. ‘You said he wouldn’t tell anyone’, he said worriedly.
‘He won’t.’ Sherlock stood and took the folder to his desk, stopping for a book on the way.
‘Then why are you doing this for him? You said you hate when he tries giving you cases’, John continued, following Sherlock into the next room.
‘This one’s interesting.’
‘So, you’re only taking it because you’re interested in it?’
‘Of course.’ Sherlock spread documents and photographs around his desk, organizing them to his liking.
‘Then why did you say it was for my life?’
‘Mycroft thinks it is.’
‘I don’t follow’, John said, shaking his head.
‘Then be quiet so I can think. And get the washing up done-I’ll need you later.’
Then came the evening that Sherlock interrupted John, about to take himself upstairs for the night, to request his ‘assistance with an experiment’. He handed John a small beaker and instructed: ‘Just a few drops in your water as usual.’
‘What is it?’
‘Test compound 5.’ John looked at the liquid in the beaker, gave it a swirl, then looked back to Sherlock.
‘What are we testing?’
‘The compound, of course’, Sherlock replied, grabbing hold of John’s shoulders to spin him around and march him up the stairs, explaining as they walked: ‘Have you forgotten? I’ve formulated this just for you, as I said I would.’
‘What’s in it?’ John asked.
‘Same things that are in your usual food: nitrogen, potassium, potash, some iron and zinc.’
John planted his feet on the landing to resist Sherlock’s final shove toward his bedroom door and waited.
Sherlock grinned. ‘And a few extras, some things to boost its efficacy.’
John thought of the kitchen table, covered in an array of apparatus, note books, unlabelled bottles, and print-outs. He had watched Sherlock some evenings, between trying to feed him and retiring for the night, as the scientist in his friend came to the fore. He had researched, mixed, tested, logged results, mixed more, tested more, and on and on for at least three weeks. John recalled the noxious fumes that had twice driven Sherlock from his work and knew of at least one small fire. And the result of all of that had been…
John looked again at the liquid, pale green, a bit thicker than water, and, John was sorry to admit, a little scary despite its innocuous appearance.
‘My regular food has been working just fine.’
‘And you’re willing to settle for “just fine” are you? Don’t be common, John. Give this a try. If I’m right, this formula will give you more energy. You might be able to spend more time off your plant.’
John resisted the bait and continued questioning. ‘And what if you’re wrong?’
Sherlock looked offended at the suggestion. ‘We can always reformulate. Go on now.’
John couldn’t help but be nervous, but he didn’t want to offend or, worse, disappoint Sherlock, so he conceded. ‘Alright. But you’re staying up to watch over me and help out if anything feels wrong. We can go back down and do this in the kitchen if you want.’
Sherlock’s smile was gleeful. ‘Of course I’m going to stay up; I have to take notes. In your room, though-want to limit the variables.’
So John placed himself in his accustomed spot on the night stand, administered test compound 5, ignored the flickers of curiosity regarding compounds 1-4, and returned to his flower state. He tried not to dwell on what it seemed his flatmate already knew: that he very much wanted to be able to spend more time away from his plant. More time to study, to learn. More time to go to crime scenes with Sherlock. More time simply to be in this world. He was aware while a flower, but he could never participate. And this world, even in its quiet moments, was something he very much wanted to participate in.
Sherlock’s experimentation on John Food ran intensely for nearly a month, paused only when there was a case. He sat vigil many nights, notebook in hand, and ‘woke’ John every hour for reports. In the end, test compound 12 was declared to be the best-John felt much the same but found he could stay away from his plant two to three hours more with no problems and no side effects-and the constant testing subsided. Sherlock would occasionally deliver a new compound to John after that, but never so frequently again until-
Ah, but that is a part of this tale that must wait its time to be told.
Master Post 14: Realisations 16: A Confrontation