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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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?

Don't be so stupid, John, they're already under the employ of people like my brother.

[He would never be so obvious as to hire a postman.]

If you believe any letter or parcel remains private, you are severely mistaken.

Everyone's under the employ of Mycroft. He tried to get me to spy on you, remember? I'm starting to wish I took him up on the offer.

[ no he doesn't. although it would've been funny to wind him up by agreeing to it and feeding him big fat porkies. it would make up for the amount of times a black car pulled up beside him. ]

Anyway, you used to nick my laptop without asking and printed off my birth certificate. I'd say it's a family trait, but your mum and dad are... [ he scrambles for an appropriate to describe them. ] ... really, really normal.

I know; terrible, isn't it?

[He does actually like his mother and father, despite how he complains about them, but they don't really understand him. He likes them more from a distance, much less when he actually has to spend time in their presence.]

I don't suppose Mycroft would be stupid enough to offer to pay you again, it's a shame you missed that opportunity, we could have split the money.

Surprising!

[ john suggests with a small smile. when john tried to visualize the parents responsible for inflicting mycroft and sherlock holmes on the world, bow ties and pastel cardigans was the last thing he'd picture. ]

Sorry, I was a bit preoccupied at the time. You know, with the telephones and cameras following me about... oh, and the big, abandoned warehouse. I thought he was an actual Bond villain, not your brother.

[ oh, how quickly that opinion of him changed. ]

Give me a time machine and I'll go back and take the money.

[Sherlock frowns in mild disgust, pausing in his setting up of the game to look over at John swiftly.]

Please say that you didn't tell Mycroft you ever thought of him as a bond villain, his arrogance would become utterly out of control.

[And that's coming from Sherlock Holmes, king of arrogance.]

I suppose his name is stupid enough to be one, though.

[Again: pot, kettle.]

Unless he sent someone next door to listen in on us with a stethoscope when the power went out, I'll be taking it to my grave.

[ it's a promise sealed with a lopsided grin. john is spiteful enough to do it. ]

Does he have a secret first name too? Stephen? Hilary? Lucifer?

[He snorts happily, genuinely amused as he finishes setting up the game.]

No, Mycroft wasn't burdened with a pedestrian moniker.

[Honestly, William is just... rubbish.]

Well, I'm going to guess he was burdened with other names instead.

[ like prat and arsehole and absolute king of dickheads. ]

Youngest first.

[He sighs and takes up the tweezers, before going for one of the larger and simpler bones to collect. It makes sense to eliminate the easy targets first.]

I'll order food while you take your turn.

[Alas, he hasn't been fully deterred from trying to make the local Chinese deliver even in this blizzard.]

Good luck with that.

[ john could show his mettle by taking one of the smaller pieces first, but where's the fun in that? he picks brain freeze and he manages to pry out the ailment with no difficulty. ]

Are they picking up?

No.

[Actually, the whole phone line is down, which is pretty irritating. But Sherlock doesn't want to admit that to John, because it means admitting that he's wrong, so he just goes to grab his coat and start buttoning it up.]

I'll walk down there myself.

What?

[ john turns his head, following sherlock as he starts pulling on his coat and fixing his scarf. ]

You can't be serious. Sherlock, you can't go anywhere out there without slipping on ice or getting stuck in a snowdrift. They aren't going to be open.

I suppose, since I'm going, I'll buy your dinner too. Usual?

[This is Sherlock Holmes completely ignoring John.

He pulls leather gloves from his pockets and pulls them on, before looking around for his key.]

[ john stares at sherlock and then groans in frustration, throwing his head back against the chair. he's wasting his breath. he's going out there regardless of what he says. He tosses the tweezers on the table and gets to his feet. ]

Hang on, let me grab my jacket. I'm coming with you.

[ he wants to take a picture of his face for the blog when they get there. it's a shame the counter on his blog is still broken, because he can just imagine it rolling into the thousands. ]

[He has a sneaking suspicion that the restaurant will, indeed, be closed and that means he would be shown up in front of John. Strangely, he doesn't mind that as much as he minds the rest of the world seeing his mistakes, and that's the issue... John is bound to post about it on his blog. So he shakes his head and heads towards the door.]

No, you stay here. Mrs. Hudson has already been panicking over the snow possibly causing a leak in the ceiling, at least one of us should be present to calm her down.

[Of course, they both know Mrs. Hudson is out of town. But the resulting confusion and moment of thought before John realises that, should be the time he needs to slip out alone.]

[ john knows mrs. hudson is in cornwall with her sister, but he doesn't know about the ceiling. he tilts his chin upwards and looks up at the ceiling, eyes narrowed. he racks his brain, trying to remember if she mentioned a leak while he was living here, which should be enough time for sherlock to reach the front door without him. ]

Hang on... Sherock? [ he looks at the empty spot where the detective was standing moments ago and curses, grabbing his jacket. ] Damn it. Hold up!

[Too slow, John.

For such a tall man in a distinctive coat, Sherlock is remarkably good at disappearing when he wants to. Even if John makes it all the way to the Chinese takeaway - closed, of course - he will not find any consulting detectives.

In fact, he doesn't make it back to the flat for another five hours, the door finally creaking open again at nearly three in the morning when the snow is still coming down fast. The sound of the door is followed by a muttered grumbling, some strange skittering sounds, and then a very loud thud caused by a lanky man falling flat on his face as he tried to climb over the snow blocking their doorway.]

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