Fic: Alternate Hypotheses (1/5)
Title: Alternate Hypotheses
Rating: T
Genres: Romance, Crack
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Wordcount: 2,672 (this chapter); 13,400 total
Beta: percygranger
This covers the same events as Independent Variables, but from John's viewpoint.
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
John's dilemma, of course, was the fault of a Holmes. This was nothing new; Sherlock had a tendency to set fire to the flat, and Mycroft enjoyed kidnapping John at odd times.
John wasn't sure exactly whose fault this was, but it was definitely one of the two.
Mycroft had visited John the previous week with news of Irene Adler's death, and it had shaken John more than he'd expected. He'd almost told Sherlock, but at the last moment Sherlock had looked at him with knowing eyes and interrupted him before he could say anything more.
Irene had been in love with Sherlock. And the man had somehow deduced it - thanks to her elevated heart rate and dilated pupils.
It didn't make any sense. How could Sherlock distinguish between love and arousal? You couldn't tell love from someone's heart rate.
Could you?
And then John made his big mistake.
He asked Sherlock.
"You can't tell love from... physical symptoms, Sherlock. I mean, physical attraction is one thing. Love is entirely different, isn't it? How did you know she wasn't just attracted to you?"
Sherlock, as per usual, had been annoying and argumentative, and John, as per usual, didn't have the sense to keep his bloody mouth shut.
"People don't just fall in love overnight. How did you know for sure?"
Sherlock, snarky as ever, simply interrupted John mid-sentence, completely dismissing his argument. "Limerence."
"What?" John asked, taken off guard.
"The technical term is limerence, John. It's what most people refer to as being in love. Oh, for the love of - stop staring and look it up if you don't believe me!"
Limerence.
John typed the word into his web browser and clicked on the first search result - Wikipedia.
Limerence is an involuntary state of mind which results from a romantic attraction to another person combined with an overwhelming, obsessive need to have one's feelings reciprocated.
Odd. John had encountered something similar with past girlfriends. He'd pursue a woman relentlessly, spend his days thinking of her, fantasising - not just about sex, but about going on dates, cuddling on the couch, spending time together. Then they would start dating, and after a month or so, John's obsession would fade. The women were never so interesting as he'd initially thought.
More recently, however, he spent so much time with Sherlock, that it seemed like that was all John thought about.
Come to think of it...
John glanced over at his flatmate, sprawled on the sofa and pretending to type something into his mobile, while sneaking surreptitious glances at John.
Oh, bugger.
John looked back at the article.
A person experiencing limerence has a general intensity of feeling that leaves other concerns in the background. In their thoughts, a limerent person tends to emphasize what is admirable in the limerent object and to avoid any negative or problematic attributes.
John didn't make excuses for Sherlock all the time. Just. Often.
Sherlock really was brilliant. And John knew he could be an arse. But. He was amazing. Surely other people saw that, too?
At their most severe, intrusive limerent thoughts can occupy an individual's waking hours completely, resulting- like severe addiction- in significant or complete disruption of the limerent's normal interests and activities, including work and family.
How many times had John abandoned dates and shifts at the surgery to come running home after Sherlock messaged him?
How many times had he stayed up all night working on a case with Sherlock and had to beg off work the following morning?
More worryingly, how many times had John gotten distracted at work because he kept expecting a text that never came?
Feelings of limerence can be intensified through adversity, obstacles, or distance - 'Intensification through Adversity'.
What was it Sherlock had said? Ah, yes. "Married to my work."
There is also a statistically significant correlation between limerence and post traumatic stress disorder.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fu-
"What? What is it?"
John's head snapped up when he realised Sherlock was now staring at him. He managed to shake his head and shove the laptop on the table. Time for a strategic retreat. He could use a nice cup of tea just about now. Tea fixed everything.
"While you're up," Sherlock called from the sitting room, "could you make me a cup as well?"
Well, everything except being in love with your bloody arrogant git of a flatmate.
***
After a nice, cold shower, John was feeling distinctly more cheerful, and he whistled as he shaved in front of the foggy bathroom mirror.
Of course, it wouldn't last long.
"John! We need to visit Bart's."
John paused mid-stroke, the razor halfway down his chin.
"What? Why?" He peered out at Sherlock, who was pacing back and forth in the hallway beside the bathroom. "Can it wait five minutes?"
Sherlock stopped in his pacing and fixed John with a glare. "Time is of the essence, John!"
Translation: I'm bored and I don't want to wait.
God. Why did he put up with this?
Oh, right, because he was Dr. Watson, professional doormat, in lo-
Experiencing limerent desire, he mentally corrected, for my mad flatmate.
John sighed and said, "I'm going to look like an idiot if I stop shaving now. I'll try to be quick." He attempted to shave the right side of his face with quick, clean strokes, but the razor was dull, and caught on his tender flesh. By the time he'd finished, he was bleeding from half a dozen cuts and still had a rough patch of stubble on his right cheek.
So, now he looked like an idiot and his face was irritated.
John daubed at his many cuts with toilet paper to stem the bleeding before stumbling out of the bathroom, grimacing. "I'm blaming you for this. There's no way I'm getting a date with this many cuts." Not that he'd even tried, lately. Best not to think of that. "And they're only on one side! They'll think I'm doing it on purpose."
Sherlock simply sighed, apparently the most put-upon man on the planet. "I'm sure it's the latest fashion, John. Shall we?"
***
Some days, John thought he should be awarded a medal for not strangling Sherlock. Either that or a cell in a sanitarium. Possibly both.
The cab ride to Bart's was excruciating. John was increasingly conscious of his natural inclination to ogle Sherlock. He kept trying to turn his head and peek at Sherlock, currently obsessively typing something on his mobile. Every time John started to stare, he would direct his gaze back to the car window. Then he discovered he was just watching Sherlock's reflection in the glass, and forced himself to count pedestrians for the rest of the trip.
What was most infuriating to John was the fact that it had taken him so damn long to realise how he felt.
It should have been obvious. It was obvious. To everyone except him, apparently.
Well. Not everyone.
Apparently, Sherlock didn't know that John was in love with him. Really, how thick could someone be? Aside from all the hints being dropped by everyone and their grandmother (thanks, Mrs. Hudson), there was the little fact that John put up with his massive git of a flatmate. That he laughed at his bloody awful jokes about corpses and serial killers. That he tried to stem the bleeding when the idiot had split his skull open in the course of apprehending some criminal. That he kept grinning like a madman even after discovering mould samples growing in his tea kettle. That he had become jealous over Irene Adler. John was still annoyed at himself for that last one.
But John just kept remembering the way Sherlock had looked at him, at the pool, when he thought he was going to lose John. Sherlock had been utterly terrified, and for whatever reason, that had made everything okay. Being kidnapped was worth knowing what he meant to Sherlock.
That didn't make Sherlock any less of a wanker.
Sherlock bounded out of the cab, leaving John to pay the bill, as always, and raced off towards the hospital entrance. John jogged after him to catch up.
"So what are you looking at this time? Decomposing toes? Jane Doe, dead under mysterious circumstances?"
Sherlock glanced at John distractedly. "What? No, nothing like that. I'm here to see Molly."
"Molly?"
Sherlock grunted and waved his hand dismissively at John as he pushed the door open with a gloved hand.
"Ah, Molly. Good to see you this afternoon."
Molly looked up from her dissection of a cadaver - male, late 80s, overweight, probable cause of death: heart attack.
John really needed to stop hanging around Sherlock.
Molly flashed a shaky smile at Sherlock and set down her scalpel on the metal cart in front of her. "What brings you here?"
"Actually, I was wondering if you had any more eyeballs. My latest batch was contaminated." At this he turned and gave John a dirty look.
"How was I to know they needed to be undisturbed? You put them on top of the eggs. On top, Sherlock."
"It's not my fault that you insist on such an inane organisational system."
Molly's head swished back and forth between the two men as though watching a tennis match.
"Sorry, Molly. He's a bit impatient today."
Sherlock frowned. "I'm not impatient; I simply strive for efficiency. Never mind. John, will you fetch us coffees? Molly takes hers with cream and three sugars."
"Two sugars," Molly corrected.
Sherlock frowned. "Three."
John just sighed. "Yes, fine, whatever, I'll go get your bloody coffee." He turned and strode towards the exit, mumbling under his breath. "Wanker."
Sherlock's voice drifted through the door as John left the lab. "I heard that."
As John waited for the coffee machine to spit out its second cup of black goo, he idly wondered what Sherlock had meant earlier, when he'd said he was here to see Molly. He'd told her he wanted more eyeballs... and though it was true that John had moved them off the eggs, and Sherlock had been mildly irritated as it had disturbed whatever experiment he'd been running, that was over a week ago, and surely he would have sought replacements before now?
The whole thing was highly suspicious. He absently stirred two sugars into Sherlock's coffee before traipsing down the stairs to the lab.
"Ah, John," Sherlock said, looking past Molly, who was currently bright red and gazing at Sherlock in a suspiciously amorous manner. "Took you long enough." Sherlock strode up to John, plucked one of the cups out of his hand, and promptly exited the lab.
"What the..." John simply turned to stare at the door swinging shut behind Sherlock.
"Is he quite alright?" Molly asked. "Only... he asked me about Toby. He never asks about Toby."
Molly smiled at John awkwardly and John winced back. "Oh, your cat. Yes."
"And Toby has been sick lately, and I thought, well, maybe Sherlock deduced something about him, but Sherlock's never cared before, and he was looking at me rather oddly, and I just thought, well, maybe he's finally decided to give me a chance, which, really, is terribly rude of him. Considering everything. I mean, really, could he have picked a worse time? I'm not - you know, after last Christmas, I really, well, I started seeing someone, and he's nice, you know, actually nice, and he... Oh! I'm babbling, aren't I? Yes. Sorry."
John simply blinked at Molly for a few moments. "Right. You - coffee?"
Molly started to reach for the coffee in John's hand when a beep emanated from John's pocket. Molly blinked up at him, eyes wide. "Oh. Do you need to get that?"
John shook his head and handed Molly her coffee. It was probably from Sherlock - the git.
He didn't have long to wonder what the message said before Molly received a text of her own.
She pulled out her phone and frowned at the message, before turning back to look at John, her nose wrinkling and her brow furrowing in confusion.
John sighed and pulled out his own phone.
Are her pupils dilated? SH
John frowned. "What?"
"You, too, huh?" Molly asked. "What is he doing, some sort of experiment?"
"Experiment?"
Suddenly everything clicked into place.
That bastard.
He was experimenting. On John.
Because he wanted to find out if John was in love with him.
Of all the rubbish, arrogant-
"You going to reply?" Molly asked, interrupting John's inner tirade.
"Yes. Yes, I think I will."
No, you daft git. Get back in here, she's moaning like a love-sick fawn. JW
John considered the situation. There was no way for John to win this little game that he and Sherlock were playing. He would, eventually, be discovered. Sherlock would prove that John... fancied him. And then things would be awkward, and John would be forced to either move out or say goodbye to the last shreds of his dignity.
Eventually, Sherlock would know.
But he didn't have to make things easy for Sherlock in the meantime.
What did you send to Molly? She's been txting for the last 3 minutes. JW
Irrelevant. SH
Sherlock came strolling back in as though he owned the place, and John couldn't help smirking back at him. Sherlock was gazing at him with all the fascination he normally reserved for disemboweled, beheaded murder victims, found in a locked room with no windows.
He suddenly glanced over at Molly, and his expression clouded. "I forgot my riding crop, one moment," he said, turning and striding back out the door.
John didn't bother holding back his snort. "That's bollocks. It's sitting on our dining room table."
Molly turned to John, her expression warring between amusement and disgust. "Wait, really?"
Sherlock stormed back in, this time staring at Molly. "Never mind. I must have left it at Mycroft's." He frowned before his gaze flicked back to John. "Come along, John, must retrieve it before my brother notices."
John managed to bite his tongue until they were outside and Sherlock was hailing a taxi. "I seriously hope we never have to retrieve your riding crop from your brother's estate." Sherlock spared him a puzzled glance. "Think of the questions," John added.
"Questions?"
"You know... How long was it gone before you noticed?"
"That doesn't seem like a particularly interesting question," Sherlock protested, still frowning. "It would depend entirely on my need for the riding crop."
"Exactly." John grinned.
Sherlock just blinked back at him. Apparently Sherlock was not apprised of alternate uses for the riding crop. You'd think Irene Adler would have at least shown him a thing or two.
"You're really thick sometimes, you know that?"
Sherlock's expression of confusion was replaced by a familiar smirk. "Ah. One of my many attractive attributes, no doubt. I'll file that away along with 'spectacularly ignorant,' 'idiot,' and 'sociopathic tendencies'."
Sherlock was so many things. Brilliant, gorgeous, exciting, inquisitive, passionate...
"Don't forget 'daft bugger'," John added.
Sherlock's smile widened. "Ah, yes, mustn't miss that one." His grin faltered and his gaze flicked away from John.
Sherlock strode over to the street and raised his arm to flag down a cab. Without looking at John, he asked, "John, did you happen to notice my pupils? Control group, very important."
As if John could tell. Sherlock was still refusing to look at him. "I don't know," he said, trying to remember. "They look dilated to me."
Sherlock's eyes flicked back to John's, widened in apparent shock. "What?"
John grinned and poked Sherlock good-naturedly. "Don't worry about it," John said, smirking at Sherlock's apparent panic. "Probably the light out here. It's awfully dim, don't you think?"
Cool gaze back in place, Sherlock looked back at John, the corner of his mouth quirked upwards almost imperceptibly.
It wasn't until hours later, safely back in the flat, sat in his armchair with a mug of tea and a plate of toast, that John thought to wonder why Sherlock's pupils had been dilated.
Chapter 2: Uncooperative Test Subjects
Rating: T
Genres: Romance, Crack
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Wordcount: 2,672 (this chapter); 13,400 total
Beta: percygranger
This covers the same events as Independent Variables, but from John's viewpoint.
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
John's dilemma, of course, was the fault of a Holmes. This was nothing new; Sherlock had a tendency to set fire to the flat, and Mycroft enjoyed kidnapping John at odd times.
John wasn't sure exactly whose fault this was, but it was definitely one of the two.
Mycroft had visited John the previous week with news of Irene Adler's death, and it had shaken John more than he'd expected. He'd almost told Sherlock, but at the last moment Sherlock had looked at him with knowing eyes and interrupted him before he could say anything more.
Irene had been in love with Sherlock. And the man had somehow deduced it - thanks to her elevated heart rate and dilated pupils.
It didn't make any sense. How could Sherlock distinguish between love and arousal? You couldn't tell love from someone's heart rate.
Could you?
And then John made his big mistake.
He asked Sherlock.
"You can't tell love from... physical symptoms, Sherlock. I mean, physical attraction is one thing. Love is entirely different, isn't it? How did you know she wasn't just attracted to you?"
Sherlock, as per usual, had been annoying and argumentative, and John, as per usual, didn't have the sense to keep his bloody mouth shut.
"People don't just fall in love overnight. How did you know for sure?"
Sherlock, snarky as ever, simply interrupted John mid-sentence, completely dismissing his argument. "Limerence."
"What?" John asked, taken off guard.
"The technical term is limerence, John. It's what most people refer to as being in love. Oh, for the love of - stop staring and look it up if you don't believe me!"
Limerence.
John typed the word into his web browser and clicked on the first search result - Wikipedia.
Limerence is an involuntary state of mind which results from a romantic attraction to another person combined with an overwhelming, obsessive need to have one's feelings reciprocated.
Odd. John had encountered something similar with past girlfriends. He'd pursue a woman relentlessly, spend his days thinking of her, fantasising - not just about sex, but about going on dates, cuddling on the couch, spending time together. Then they would start dating, and after a month or so, John's obsession would fade. The women were never so interesting as he'd initially thought.
More recently, however, he spent so much time with Sherlock, that it seemed like that was all John thought about.
Come to think of it...
John glanced over at his flatmate, sprawled on the sofa and pretending to type something into his mobile, while sneaking surreptitious glances at John.
Oh, bugger.
John looked back at the article.
A person experiencing limerence has a general intensity of feeling that leaves other concerns in the background. In their thoughts, a limerent person tends to emphasize what is admirable in the limerent object and to avoid any negative or problematic attributes.
John didn't make excuses for Sherlock all the time. Just. Often.
Sherlock really was brilliant. And John knew he could be an arse. But. He was amazing. Surely other people saw that, too?
At their most severe, intrusive limerent thoughts can occupy an individual's waking hours completely, resulting- like severe addiction- in significant or complete disruption of the limerent's normal interests and activities, including work and family.
How many times had John abandoned dates and shifts at the surgery to come running home after Sherlock messaged him?
How many times had he stayed up all night working on a case with Sherlock and had to beg off work the following morning?
More worryingly, how many times had John gotten distracted at work because he kept expecting a text that never came?
Feelings of limerence can be intensified through adversity, obstacles, or distance - 'Intensification through Adversity'.
What was it Sherlock had said? Ah, yes. "Married to my work."
There is also a statistically significant correlation between limerence and post traumatic stress disorder.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fu-
"What? What is it?"
John's head snapped up when he realised Sherlock was now staring at him. He managed to shake his head and shove the laptop on the table. Time for a strategic retreat. He could use a nice cup of tea just about now. Tea fixed everything.
"While you're up," Sherlock called from the sitting room, "could you make me a cup as well?"
Well, everything except being in love with your bloody arrogant git of a flatmate.
***
After a nice, cold shower, John was feeling distinctly more cheerful, and he whistled as he shaved in front of the foggy bathroom mirror.
Of course, it wouldn't last long.
"John! We need to visit Bart's."
John paused mid-stroke, the razor halfway down his chin.
"What? Why?" He peered out at Sherlock, who was pacing back and forth in the hallway beside the bathroom. "Can it wait five minutes?"
Sherlock stopped in his pacing and fixed John with a glare. "Time is of the essence, John!"
Translation: I'm bored and I don't want to wait.
God. Why did he put up with this?
Oh, right, because he was Dr. Watson, professional doormat, in lo-
Experiencing limerent desire, he mentally corrected, for my mad flatmate.
John sighed and said, "I'm going to look like an idiot if I stop shaving now. I'll try to be quick." He attempted to shave the right side of his face with quick, clean strokes, but the razor was dull, and caught on his tender flesh. By the time he'd finished, he was bleeding from half a dozen cuts and still had a rough patch of stubble on his right cheek.
So, now he looked like an idiot and his face was irritated.
John daubed at his many cuts with toilet paper to stem the bleeding before stumbling out of the bathroom, grimacing. "I'm blaming you for this. There's no way I'm getting a date with this many cuts." Not that he'd even tried, lately. Best not to think of that. "And they're only on one side! They'll think I'm doing it on purpose."
Sherlock simply sighed, apparently the most put-upon man on the planet. "I'm sure it's the latest fashion, John. Shall we?"
***
Some days, John thought he should be awarded a medal for not strangling Sherlock. Either that or a cell in a sanitarium. Possibly both.
The cab ride to Bart's was excruciating. John was increasingly conscious of his natural inclination to ogle Sherlock. He kept trying to turn his head and peek at Sherlock, currently obsessively typing something on his mobile. Every time John started to stare, he would direct his gaze back to the car window. Then he discovered he was just watching Sherlock's reflection in the glass, and forced himself to count pedestrians for the rest of the trip.
What was most infuriating to John was the fact that it had taken him so damn long to realise how he felt.
It should have been obvious. It was obvious. To everyone except him, apparently.
Well. Not everyone.
Apparently, Sherlock didn't know that John was in love with him. Really, how thick could someone be? Aside from all the hints being dropped by everyone and their grandmother (thanks, Mrs. Hudson), there was the little fact that John put up with his massive git of a flatmate. That he laughed at his bloody awful jokes about corpses and serial killers. That he tried to stem the bleeding when the idiot had split his skull open in the course of apprehending some criminal. That he kept grinning like a madman even after discovering mould samples growing in his tea kettle. That he had become jealous over Irene Adler. John was still annoyed at himself for that last one.
But John just kept remembering the way Sherlock had looked at him, at the pool, when he thought he was going to lose John. Sherlock had been utterly terrified, and for whatever reason, that had made everything okay. Being kidnapped was worth knowing what he meant to Sherlock.
That didn't make Sherlock any less of a wanker.
Sherlock bounded out of the cab, leaving John to pay the bill, as always, and raced off towards the hospital entrance. John jogged after him to catch up.
"So what are you looking at this time? Decomposing toes? Jane Doe, dead under mysterious circumstances?"
Sherlock glanced at John distractedly. "What? No, nothing like that. I'm here to see Molly."
"Molly?"
Sherlock grunted and waved his hand dismissively at John as he pushed the door open with a gloved hand.
"Ah, Molly. Good to see you this afternoon."
Molly looked up from her dissection of a cadaver - male, late 80s, overweight, probable cause of death: heart attack.
John really needed to stop hanging around Sherlock.
Molly flashed a shaky smile at Sherlock and set down her scalpel on the metal cart in front of her. "What brings you here?"
"Actually, I was wondering if you had any more eyeballs. My latest batch was contaminated." At this he turned and gave John a dirty look.
"How was I to know they needed to be undisturbed? You put them on top of the eggs. On top, Sherlock."
"It's not my fault that you insist on such an inane organisational system."
Molly's head swished back and forth between the two men as though watching a tennis match.
"Sorry, Molly. He's a bit impatient today."
Sherlock frowned. "I'm not impatient; I simply strive for efficiency. Never mind. John, will you fetch us coffees? Molly takes hers with cream and three sugars."
"Two sugars," Molly corrected.
Sherlock frowned. "Three."
John just sighed. "Yes, fine, whatever, I'll go get your bloody coffee." He turned and strode towards the exit, mumbling under his breath. "Wanker."
Sherlock's voice drifted through the door as John left the lab. "I heard that."
As John waited for the coffee machine to spit out its second cup of black goo, he idly wondered what Sherlock had meant earlier, when he'd said he was here to see Molly. He'd told her he wanted more eyeballs... and though it was true that John had moved them off the eggs, and Sherlock had been mildly irritated as it had disturbed whatever experiment he'd been running, that was over a week ago, and surely he would have sought replacements before now?
The whole thing was highly suspicious. He absently stirred two sugars into Sherlock's coffee before traipsing down the stairs to the lab.
"Ah, John," Sherlock said, looking past Molly, who was currently bright red and gazing at Sherlock in a suspiciously amorous manner. "Took you long enough." Sherlock strode up to John, plucked one of the cups out of his hand, and promptly exited the lab.
"What the..." John simply turned to stare at the door swinging shut behind Sherlock.
"Is he quite alright?" Molly asked. "Only... he asked me about Toby. He never asks about Toby."
Molly smiled at John awkwardly and John winced back. "Oh, your cat. Yes."
"And Toby has been sick lately, and I thought, well, maybe Sherlock deduced something about him, but Sherlock's never cared before, and he was looking at me rather oddly, and I just thought, well, maybe he's finally decided to give me a chance, which, really, is terribly rude of him. Considering everything. I mean, really, could he have picked a worse time? I'm not - you know, after last Christmas, I really, well, I started seeing someone, and he's nice, you know, actually nice, and he... Oh! I'm babbling, aren't I? Yes. Sorry."
John simply blinked at Molly for a few moments. "Right. You - coffee?"
Molly started to reach for the coffee in John's hand when a beep emanated from John's pocket. Molly blinked up at him, eyes wide. "Oh. Do you need to get that?"
John shook his head and handed Molly her coffee. It was probably from Sherlock - the git.
He didn't have long to wonder what the message said before Molly received a text of her own.
She pulled out her phone and frowned at the message, before turning back to look at John, her nose wrinkling and her brow furrowing in confusion.
John sighed and pulled out his own phone.
Are her pupils dilated? SH
John frowned. "What?"
"You, too, huh?" Molly asked. "What is he doing, some sort of experiment?"
"Experiment?"
Suddenly everything clicked into place.
That bastard.
He was experimenting. On John.
Because he wanted to find out if John was in love with him.
Of all the rubbish, arrogant-
"You going to reply?" Molly asked, interrupting John's inner tirade.
"Yes. Yes, I think I will."
No, you daft git. Get back in here, she's moaning like a love-sick fawn. JW
John considered the situation. There was no way for John to win this little game that he and Sherlock were playing. He would, eventually, be discovered. Sherlock would prove that John... fancied him. And then things would be awkward, and John would be forced to either move out or say goodbye to the last shreds of his dignity.
Eventually, Sherlock would know.
But he didn't have to make things easy for Sherlock in the meantime.
What did you send to Molly? She's been txting for the last 3 minutes. JW
Irrelevant. SH
Sherlock came strolling back in as though he owned the place, and John couldn't help smirking back at him. Sherlock was gazing at him with all the fascination he normally reserved for disemboweled, beheaded murder victims, found in a locked room with no windows.
He suddenly glanced over at Molly, and his expression clouded. "I forgot my riding crop, one moment," he said, turning and striding back out the door.
John didn't bother holding back his snort. "That's bollocks. It's sitting on our dining room table."
Molly turned to John, her expression warring between amusement and disgust. "Wait, really?"
Sherlock stormed back in, this time staring at Molly. "Never mind. I must have left it at Mycroft's." He frowned before his gaze flicked back to John. "Come along, John, must retrieve it before my brother notices."
John managed to bite his tongue until they were outside and Sherlock was hailing a taxi. "I seriously hope we never have to retrieve your riding crop from your brother's estate." Sherlock spared him a puzzled glance. "Think of the questions," John added.
"Questions?"
"You know... How long was it gone before you noticed?"
"That doesn't seem like a particularly interesting question," Sherlock protested, still frowning. "It would depend entirely on my need for the riding crop."
"Exactly." John grinned.
Sherlock just blinked back at him. Apparently Sherlock was not apprised of alternate uses for the riding crop. You'd think Irene Adler would have at least shown him a thing or two.
"You're really thick sometimes, you know that?"
Sherlock's expression of confusion was replaced by a familiar smirk. "Ah. One of my many attractive attributes, no doubt. I'll file that away along with 'spectacularly ignorant,' 'idiot,' and 'sociopathic tendencies'."
Sherlock was so many things. Brilliant, gorgeous, exciting, inquisitive, passionate...
"Don't forget 'daft bugger'," John added.
Sherlock's smile widened. "Ah, yes, mustn't miss that one." His grin faltered and his gaze flicked away from John.
Sherlock strode over to the street and raised his arm to flag down a cab. Without looking at John, he asked, "John, did you happen to notice my pupils? Control group, very important."
As if John could tell. Sherlock was still refusing to look at him. "I don't know," he said, trying to remember. "They look dilated to me."
Sherlock's eyes flicked back to John's, widened in apparent shock. "What?"
John grinned and poked Sherlock good-naturedly. "Don't worry about it," John said, smirking at Sherlock's apparent panic. "Probably the light out here. It's awfully dim, don't you think?"
Cool gaze back in place, Sherlock looked back at John, the corner of his mouth quirked upwards almost imperceptibly.
It wasn't until hours later, safely back in the flat, sat in his armchair with a mug of tea and a plate of toast, that John thought to wonder why Sherlock's pupils had been dilated.
Chapter 2: Uncooperative Test Subjects