fossilised | One Snowy Day - For John Watson

One Snowy Day - For John Watson

[It was the worst blizzard that London had endured for three hundred years. That's what the news reports said before they all cut off, the power lines giving under the weight of the snow. It started as just inclement weather (everyone take care out on the roads!), and then escalated into proper warnings (the emergency services recommend you stay indoors), and had finally ended in full lockdown (up to 65% of Londoners are trapped in their homes today).

John had been in the flat, the familiar Baker Street flat, helping Sherlock to track down anyone who might be assisting in enacting Moriarty's from-beyond-the-grave comeback. It had just made sense to stay an extra hour or two until the snow let up. Big mistake, as it turned out. Now he was fully snowed in with an extremely bored and agitated Sherlock Holmes.

No radio. No internet. No TV. No electricity of any kind.

Sherlock hasn't said anything for fifty-seven minutes, probably a relief to the poor beleagured John, but that's because he's busy. He has to do something to occupy his mind, and he's chosen the fridge. Slightly manic movements have helped him get literally everything out from the fridge and freezer, distributing it all over the living room floor. There's everything from a glass jar of thumbs in formaldehyde, to three half eaten tubs of Ben and Jerry's Cookie Dough ice cream.

His treasure trove assembled, Sherlock crouches on the floor and begins to move things around, organising them and then reorganising them in an ever more frustrated manner. It takes only a further fourteen minutes before he stands up and shouts, explosively:]

DAMN IT!

[Before throwing a ceramic pot of left-over stew at the wall, where it shatters with a loud crash.]

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[ john thought the snowfall six years ago had been bad; like it was trying to make up for the two extra tours he had taken up in afghanistan before that bullet ripped through his shoulder and ended his military career. that thought had quickly perished in the few hours he seriously considered dashing to the nearest shop to buy candles when the electricity started flickering in and out and the likelihood of going home tonight became extremely slim.

by this point, the only thing left working in the flat was his mobile (due for an upgrade but which battery was still holding out at an impressive seventy-two percent) and he'd left sherlock in the kitchen while he stood next to the window, watching the snowfall while speaking in a hushed voice to mary. thank god this baby was their first together -- the new born girl had enough baby formula to last her two weeks and was still spending her days sleeping. it was quiet enough outside the flat that even the criminals plastered on the wall above the sofa didn't even dare to step outside. Inside, however... ]

Christ!

[ instinctively, john looks down at the carpet before remembering mrs. hudson is away -- convalesce in cornwall with her sister for the rest of the month -- before saying a quick good-bye and hanging up. mary has never lived with sherlock holmes but the furore he threw himself into organising their wedding was enough to give the stories on his blog some credibility. he walks over to the kitchen and standing in the door way, watches the sad lump of partially frozen left-over stew slide down the tiles before landing on the floor with a pathetic phlat.

pursuing his lips together, john pushes a sigh through his nostrils and his fingers dance by his side. desperate times call for desperate measures. ]

Right then. You've given me no choice Sherlock, I have to do this.

[ he warns him in a lowered voice before going back over to the sofa, grunting as he gets down onto his knees and rummages underneath for the emergency board games. ]

We're playing Cluedo!

[The background noise of John talking to Mary over the phone faded to a dull buzzing at the base of his skull a long while back. He listened long enough to know that John was, as always, fussing. It was futile. Mary was a competent woman, the baby was unlikely to do anything but sleep, poo, and perhaps dribble, and so there was no reason to hover over either as though the snow could hurt them.

He barely even heard John when the words stopped being directed at Mary and started being directed at him instead. He certainly didn't give any indication that he heard. He remained standing in the centre of the kitchen, frowning at the rest of the assembled food as if silently threatening it with the same fate the pot of stew had suffered.]

It doesn't make any sense.

[A low mutter to himself, one hand coming up to rub vigorously over the top of his head and mess his hair up as he spoke.]

Perhaps viscosity has something to do with the rate-- no, that's a fool's errand. Think. Think.

[ it doesn't take long for john to retrieve cluedo from underneath the sofa. he also grabs the boxes for operation, ker-plunk, guess-who, mouse trap and buckaroo for good measure, putting them on the coffee table that he drags over to the fireplace. god knows how they've managed to accumulate this many board games over the years, but this should be enough to keep his friend occupied until the blizzard eases up. ]

That should do it. [ john mutters to himself, putting his hands on his hips. he looks over at the kitchen and sighs when he realises sherlock hasn't listened to a word he's said. marching back over, he stands in the doorway again. ] Oi. Sherlock. Come on, I'll play a game of Cluedo with you. Just leave all that alone and—is that a jar of thumbs.

[ he trails off, brow furrowing when he notices the thumbs in formaldehyde. he may have moved back in for a couple of months when he and mary were going through marital difficulties, but he never roamed deep enough in the fridge or freezer to discover them. ]

'Course they are. Sherlock. Are you listening to me?

No. Why would I be listening to you?

[His words are snapped out and brusque, more so than he usually is with John. It's just how he gets when he's bored or frustrated with a problem.]

Do you have the answer to this problem in your head? I sincerely doubt it, you don't even see that there is a problem. Look, John. Look, at the contents of the fridge and tell me what you observe.

Right. Okay, I'll play.

[ unfazed by sherlock snapping at him, john walks over to the collected fridge items and wiggles his fingers. ]

I seeeee... well, I see that jar of thumbs first. Even with that stuff they're floating in, it's probably a bit past their sell by date since the electricity went off. We could put it outside in the snow, but it might cause a bit of a panic if someone walks by and sees it. There's some beans, a few cans of stella, cake from the wedding.. Mrs. Hudson must've saved a slice for you... some milk, surprisingly. Probably cream now, mind you. A tub of butter. Cheese. Oh and a few eyeballs.

[ he's observing the items, but he doesn't know what on earth the problem is, aside from the fact they aren't faring well in room temperature. ]

Honestly, the only thing missing from all of this is the chalk pentagram.

As ever, you see but you don't observe.

[He gestures at first one item and then the next, furiously full of energy despite the mundane subject matter.]

These have all been refrigerated at the same temperature and subjected to the same loss of that cooling power, and yet the rates they are decaying make no sense. The milk should be the first to spoil, dairy is notoriously difficult to keep fresh, but the cake has lost the most integrity.

[Help him, John. He's bored enough that he's becoming obsessed with decay rates.]

It doesn't make any sense!

[ john opens his mouth, closes it, and then shakes his head in long-suffering exasperation. what doesn't make any sense is how incensed sherlock is becoming over the contents of the fridge spoiling at different rates. it's an inconvenience, but not worth smashing a pot of left over stew over, especially since it's one of his rare culinary creations. ]

Okay... Columbo... calm down. Living room, now. I'm going to clear all this up and then we're going to play a board game.

[ don't make him use his captain voice on you. ]

[He laughs, it has an edge to it.]

How can you be interested in games when there is a perfectly good mystery here to solve, John? Sometimes I wonder if it's relaxing in your brain, so vacant and devoid of imagination. Forget the games, help me to catalogue the remaining food before I lose the data.

[ mrs. hudson should never have left -- not only has england fallen in her absence, its only hope of saving it from moriarty has gone completely and utterly crackers. ]

Fine. I have just the thing to help you with that.

[ he goes over to the kitchen cupboard and takes out a black bin bag. he doesn't say anything else; he simply flaps the bag open with more flair than required. ]

[Sherlock watches uncomprehendingly for a moment or two, giving John the rare treat of his completely baffled face, before it clicks why John would need a bin bag and that expression melts into a scowl.]

Do you exist just to vex me?

[He actually moves to try and snatch the bag from John.]

You'll ruin the whole thing, don't touch anything!

I could say the same thing about you.

[ one positive thing about living with sherlock is his reflexes are never dull. not after the left-over stew pot incident anyway. anticipating the attack, john keeps the bag out of his reach and maintains his distance from the frenzied detective. ]

You know how to end this.

[How is John doing this? It doesn't seem like it should be possible; he's smaller, his reach is less, and yet he's evading successfully. Sherlock eventually steps backwards with a petulant frown on his face.]

Fine. Fine. You win, we'll play bloody board games.

[He doesn't even attempt to clean up the mess he's made, stalking immediately through into the living room to begin to set up Cluedo.]

[ lips quirking into a victorious little smirk, john crouches down and helps sherlock catalogue the rapidly deteriorating food items by tossing each of them into the bag. his item cataloguing is a bit like his mind bungalow, but he does leave it by the freezer instead of the bin. he's not completely heartless. ]

Right. Dinner's going to be crisps, bread, peanut butter or biscuits, then.

[ his shoulders sag; this is like being back at uni all over again. turning away from the kitchen, he walks back into the living room and sits down opposite the sulking detective. ]

You ready?

[The board is set out on the little coffee tablet, what papers had been on it now strewn on the floor. Sherlock has all the character cards laid out in front of him, examining each one with a critical eye.]

No, we'll order from the Golden Dragon.

[Completely forgetting nobody can get in or out right now.]

All of these names are clearly pseudonyms, and not very imaginative ones. Professor Plum, Miss Scarlet... how can any of them expect to be seen as innocent this way?

[ pursing his lips, john makes the conscious decision to cross that bridge when they come to it. sherlock's in a foul enough mood already without him adding to it. ]

Well, obviously you went to a grammar school, but I imagine the names were fairly original when they made the game.

[ john takes the box and squints at the information on the back. ]

Mmm.. yep, first released in 1949.

When the game was released doesn't change that these are obvious fake names, John. If you were attending a party, at which you may or may not wish to murder the host, would you not choose a more inconspicuous name than 'Professor Plum'?

[He's not maligning the game developers, he's actually accusing the fictional game characters of not thinking their backstories through enough.]

Consider, for a moment, that I am Mr. Black and you want to murder me.

[ eyes rolling up in mock thought, john wets his lips and ponders on a fake alias. ]

I'd probably pick a name from James Bond or at least mix them up a bit. Julius Stromberg? Hugo Zorin... no, they're more conspicuous than Mr. Black actually. I could always pull a May-Fly Man and just pick a random name out of the obituaries. It worked for him before he got caught.

It must be so quiet inside your head, John.

[He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. But he also seems less manic, he does so enjoy a good puzzle and the game is proving that already.]

Try to pretend you want to kill me and actually get away with it. Though it's an obvious crime of passion, as no murderer would pre-plan a crime to coincide with other potential witnesses.

It might surprise you, but I don't actually spend all day fantasizing how I'm going to murder all my loved ones and get away with it.

[ this could be a tiny little lie from john. especially after his last insult. ]

In fact, most people don't. For this though...well, I'd try to get you somewhere where we'd be alone. I could leave you an anonymous note asking you to meet me in the library. Pinch a pillow from the lounge, sneak up, choke you into unconsciousness and then use the pillow to muffle a gunshot. Then, climb out the window... [ he traces his finger along the potential path on the board. ] ... loop back round to the kitchen. We're all guests and the cooks will be gone by then, so no one would see me. Then, just act normal until someone raises the alarm.

[ he looks up, curious to know what sherlock thinks about his plan. ]

Edited 2016-10-24 14:33 (UTC)

[It still sends a momentary bolt of surprise through him whenever he is referred to as a loved one, as family, even as a friend. Even after all this time, it's still a startling and magnificent thing to recall, that he has managed to find that for himself against all the odds.]

Wrong.

[He waves a hand, dismissive of John's whole plan, though it's not the worst one he's heard.]

Using a pillow to muffle a gunshot would leave you, no doubt, covered in stray fibres and gunshot residue, you would be caught in moments. The murder weapon cannot be the gun, anyway, or the game would not ask you to find the weapon. A bullet wound clearly indicates how the victim was killed, as the weapon is ambiguous, a gun cannot have been used.

[ as john's eyes look around the board for escape routes, he's secretively thankful sherlock hasn't called attention to his sweeping statement about his loved ones. he still hasn't mastered the ability to express how he feels to the people who mean the world to him... and when he does, something usually goes tits up. ]

You read the rules this time. [ he straightens up in his chair, clearing his throat. ] Okay. Using the candlestick, pipe or dagger could be very quick, but also very messy. If I hated Mr. Black enough that I want him to really suffer, I could use poison. Slip something in his drink and bide my time until it takes effect.

[ but john doesn't look too pleased about using poison in his hypothetical murder. ]

I think rope would be the same as using the pillow and there's also the problem of fibres again. Sooo... I don't know. Candlestick?

Edited 2016-10-26 14:46 (UTC)

Good. [He pauses, before modifying his praise.] Well, slightly better.

[He picks up the cards which have the weapons printed on them and discards the gun, and then the other cards in turn as he describes them.]

As you so astutely deduce, the rope would also leave fibres behind enough to positively identify the murder weapon immediately. The dagger would leave a puncture wound no other weapon would; again, ruling it out. This leaves the candlestick, the lead pipe, and the spanner. All of these would cause death by blunt force trauma and, without an expert detective, the wound pattern may not be immediately determinable; ergo, one of these must be the weapon.

[He doesn't care that this isn't how he's meant to play, and that he hasn't even put a piece on the board, this is fun to him.]

We can probably rule out Mrs. White as a suspect at this point, the requisite strength required to bludgeon a man to death with a blunt object is not usually found in the upper body of a woman of that age.

I'd be inclined to agree with you, but any head injury can be serious. Just look at what happened to Natasha Richardson. Mrs. White might not have the upper body strength like Colonel Mustard does but, if she managed to swing the candlestick and catch Mr. Black on the temple, it could have resulted in unconsciousness or even death. The pterion is the weakest part of the skull and if she was mad enough, it might've only taken her one good blow.

[ john may not have realised they've started playing sherlock's version of the game. it might take a few more turns until the penny drops, but this is more fun. ]

Plus, Mrs. White's card makes her look very, erm, stocky. More than the other women anyway.

Stocky, not muscled. Her age, combined with what must be fat, especially without any definition of the muscles to be seen, suggest she lacks any sort of strength or dexterity. Furthermore, she has chosen the pseudonym of 'White', a colour often associated with purity and innocence. Though it could be a clever double bluff, I sincerely doubt it.

[He shrugs and leans over the board to gather up the location cards.]

Now, location. We can whittle down our remaining suspects by determining where they were at the time of the murder, which can easily be determined by examining the temperature of the body and the coagulation of any visible blood.

Look, I know Mrs. White a fictional character, but you really should look up tact in the dictionary and keep it somewhere in your mind palace. You know, to avoid offending someone else along the line.

[ like he did with molly hooper. and him. and that poor woman on the tube who was expecting twins. ]

I still think the library is the best place. It'll be quiet because this is a party and unless they're… you… no one is going to be in there. They'll all be playing snooker, talking in the lounge or dancing in the ballroom. Actually, the kitchen would make a good place too. If there's a big freezer, the murderer can leave Mr. Black in there to make the time of death unclear.

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