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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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.

No, no, you're not seeing the obvious issue.

[Sherlock sighs, completely ignoring the advice about tact to focus on the problem at hand. He doesn't care if he offends people and so tact is unimportant.]

This is a party, you said it yourself, the absence of anyone would be noted in such small company. Only the host could excuse himself for any reasonable time, so what does that tell us? [He bangs his hand on the table, scattering pieces everywhere.] The victim and the killer are one and the same. There wasn't even a murder at all, only an unfortunate accident.

[ unperturbed by sherlock's histrionics, john watches the game pieces scatter and roll in different directions on the carpet with an inward sigh. well, those are officially lost until tomorrow morning. he listens to sherlock's solution with a furrowed brow and recites it back to him. ]

The killer and victim are the sa— wait, hang on a sec, you lost me somewhere. How could someone accidentally bludgeon themselves to death with a candle stick? I can maybe see a spanner or lead pipe falling on his head, but candle sticks usually aren't put up that high.

If we had any now, I would put them on the coffee table. Dinner table. Bedrooms. Stairs. Actually, now I'm wondering if Mrs. Hudson has any stashed downstairs we can use... [ wetting his lips, he looks back at sherlock. ] ... anyway, how? How could Mr. Black accidentally kill himself?

[The look Sherlock gives John is so very clearly pitying, wondering how the man functions with such a lack of intelligence. But, for once, he doesn't vocalise that thought. It's enough that he gets to explain.]

Think, John. Think.

[His smile grows, eyes bright.]

There are multiple people who have come for a party, with pseudonyms, suggesting the party itself is illicit in some way. Either of a sexual nature, where the party goers are otherwise entangled and don't wish to be identified, or of a criminal aspect where names are dangerous. The host, Mr. Black, leaves the main room - one can assume the ballroom - briefly.

He trips, he falls, he bangs his head against a hard surface as he does so and, unfortunately, cracks his skull. In falling, he knocks aside a candlestick, which rolls in his blood, making it appear to be the murder weapon when it is, in fact, just a red herring. The guests could attest that this was an accident, but all fear to be found at the crime scene, and so flee.

This leaves our blundering police force to assume the worst. A suspicious death, with many suspects.

[ john drums his fingers against the armrest of his chair. his expression becomes incredulous when sherlock starts looking at him like he's an idiot, but he patiently waits for the explanation. he opens his mouth, closes it again, before pushing a sigh through his nose. it does make sense. somehow. ]

Yeah, I know I'd want to make a quick getaway if I was at an illicit sex party and someone died under mysterious circumstances. [ in the back of his mind, he's wondering how this hasn't happened to them yet. thank god for the internet to nurture that little itch. ] So rather than stick around to answer questions, the guests leg it instead. Maybe they're famous? Family men? Criminals?

Precisely, and with the witnesses all fleeing the scene, the police have no choice but to assume that something beyond an unfortunate accident occurred. They find the candlestick coated in Black's blood, and suspect the worst.

[He sits back, beaming smile on his face for having solved the game.

...for all of about six seconds, before that smile slips away.]

Now what, John?

[ ah. now this is the moment john realises they have been sherlock's abridged version of cluedo and his shoulders sink. it's only a matter of time before his friend becomes manic again. ]

Now we play the game properly. You know, going by what it says in the rule book. Except all the cards and weapons went flying when you went into Sherlock Holmes mode and started showing off. All I can see is the rope... unless that's a toe nail. Since we still have no electricity, we're either going to stand on the other weapons or find them in the morning.

Soooo... Operation?

That is playing the game properly, we solved the murder. If the rules don't allow for that, then the rules are the things at fault.

[He doesn't want to play Operation. John isn't Mycroft and the game is so much less fun because he's always beaten, playing Operation against a trained trauma surgeon is just a foolish choice.]

Let's order from the Golden Dragon.

I'm going to make a blog post and see how many people agree with you about that.

[ john tries to hide his disappointment about operation. he was looking forward to beating sherlock at a game where he can't change the rules. sniffing, he leans forward in his seat and decides to break the bad news to him instead. ]

We can't. London hasn't had any electricity for the past... [ john raises his wrist and squints at his watch. ] ... what, hour and a half now? Plus, they would've closed shop the second the first warning went out. If you're hungry, I can make you a sandwich.

Closed?!

[He sounds personally offended by this.]

They're a take-away, John, their entire business model rests on the shoulders of delivering food to people who don't want to go out in inclement weather. I don't want a sandwich, I would like Chinese chicken curry with boiled rice.

[ this would be john's chance to subject sherlock to a pitying look, but he isn't a complete dick like him. ]

I know, but it's been six years since we've had weather like this and it's even worse than back then. I very much doubt Sam is going to risk his life on the off chance Sherlock Holmes might call up for a Chinese chicken curry with boiled rice.

I don't see why not, I would give him a very generous tip.

[Well, five pounds. But he doesn't have a lot more cash just sitting around.

There's silence for approximately eight seconds, before the danger zone rears its ugly head.]

I'm bored, John.

Let's play another game then. We've got Guess Who, Kerplunk, Buckaroo and God knows what else under the sofa. I'd suggest Operation again, but obviously you're scared I might win.

[ his lips quirk into a smug little smile. ]

I'm not scared you might win.

[Clever as he is on most occasions, he is a fool on this one and falls right into the trap.]

Where's the board?

[ john tries to conceal his wicked little smile by putting the cluedo board and its remaining pieces away. ]

I thought I'd get a few of them out. You know.. just in case you didn't play Cluedo right again. Which you didn't, but never mind. It's just over there, next to your chair.

[He reaches down and pulls out the Operation box, a little battered for how long since it was last replaced, starting to set up the pieces meticulously.]

Non-dominant hand only.

[It probably won't slow down John much, a surgeon has to be good with both hands, but it might give him enough of an advantage to allow him to scrape a victory. Sherlock, after all, trained himself to be ambidextrous in his youth.]

[ john pouts at his terms, but agrees to them with a shrug. ]

Spoilsport.

[ right-handed operation it is. although he's done quite a few things with his right hand in his lifetime; shot a rubbish cabbie, punched an obnoxious detective in the face and his tremor never strayed away from his left hand. sherlock thinks he has the upper hand but there will be quite a bit of competition. ]

Jesus, that looks like it's gone through a war.

Just the Royal Mail sorting offices.

[It's a dry response with a small smile.]

But I can see where you'd make the mistake, it practically is going through a war for a package these days.

[He opens up the battered box and begins setting up the little plastic bones into the right compartments.]

Yeah, tell me about it.

[ he's still waiting for great aunt watson's christmas jumper to arrive. knitted by herself and ridiculed by everyone else. ]

I'm surprised you haven't enlisted them for your network. You know... deliver a letter, have a little look at what's going on. What could be more inconspicuous than a postman?

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