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 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.]

[ john did make a valiant attempt to follow sherlock but got to the end of the street before retreating back to the flat. it's pointless to try and pursue someone who can disappear at the drop of a floppy eared hat. plus his loakes aren't suited for the weather and he almost ended up on his arse a few times before he slinked back inside.

left behind yet again.

but he wasn't idle while sherlock was gone: he rooted through mrs. hudson's cupboards and found some candles to light; the mess sherlock left in the kitchen has been tidied up; he even found a few of missing cluedo pieces and put the board games back under the couch for another day. he was attempting to stifle a huge yawn when sherlock's unceremonious return to baker street jolts him back to alertness.]

Mmm? Oh.

[ he gets out of his chair and descends down the first couple of stairs, stopping only to stare at the sight of sherlock trying to wade through the snowdrift at the door. ]

Where on Earth have you been?

[Oh damn.

Sherlock looks up at John from eyes with pupils far too big and slightly glazed, a small frown of annoyance creasing his brow. He had been so sure that John would be in bed by now, he's such a creature of habit when they don't have a case, why is he down here being an irritant?]

Gathering my thoughts. I have a lot of them, you know, they take a while to gather.

[He slithers properly into the flat and onto the damp hallway floor, before pushing up to his unsteady feet and closing the door behind him.]

Good, that was a pleasant conversation, you can go back to your bed, or whatever other mundane thing you were doing.

You've been gone for hours. I've been waiting for you to come back.

[ john admonishes sherlock, crossing his arms over his chest. if the hallway was lighted by anything but the candles he set up earlier in the evening, then john would instantly be able to make out the physical changes in his friend almost immediately.

but he already has his suspicions when sherlock answered back, but as he remains on the stairs and watches sherlock tottering around the front door on unsteady feet, a sinking feeling forms in the pit of his stomach. ]

Where, exactly, were you gathering your thoughts?

[Door successfully closed, Sherlock starts up the stairs only to find that his way is impeded by a barrier by the name of John Watson. He shimmies to the left, but there just isn't quite enough room to pass.]

Would you mind getting out of the way?

[He's not going to answer that question.]

In case you didn't notice, it is snowing outside and I'd like to change into something warm.

[ john isn't making it easier by deliberately staying in the way. he leans in the direction sherlock tries to shimmy past and plants his hand out on the hand rail. he doesn't say anything and simply makes a quick grab for sherlock's wrist. the layers of damp clothing offer some resistance but it's not like john is genially peeling them back to confirm his suspicions. ]

Jesus Christ.

[ his eyes roam over the litter of freshly bruised track marks on his arm. his grip on sherlock's wrist tightens and his voice becomes very quiet. ]

What was it? Heroin? Cocaine?

How do you know that I did not slip and fall on the treacherous ice outside and bruise my arm in that manner?

[He pulls his arm back and tugs his sleeve down in a definite motion. Even high as a kite, he's still loquacious and capable of rational thought. Somewhat.]

Neither you or I wish to have this tired conversation, so why don't we skip it and just say that we've had it? Hm?

Nope, we're going to talk about this right now.

[ because if john has to sit through sherlock rattle through his deductions without a skip button, then sherlock does too. ]

Because one, there are snow drifts outside that are, what, one or two feet high? If you did slip on some ice, you would've fallen in the snow and that's usually classified as a low impact fall. Which means it wouldn't hurt as much. Secondly, the bruising would be spread over a large area, not just one or two little bruises that look suspiciously like puncture marks. Three, you pulled a stupid stunt like this when you went after Magnussen.

[ he inhales a sharp, calming breath and his fingers dance at his side. ]

Now for the last time, which one was it?

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Urgh.

[It's a frustrated sort of noise as he sinks down to sit on the stairs, head spinning far too much to stand up if he's not actually going to get anywhere.]

Not either of them.

[That's technically true, if only be semantics. It's not either, because it's both.]

You see substance abuse everywhere, John, probably a relic of your issues with Harry. Perhaps we should talk about that?

[ as sherlock crumples into a heap, john only just manages to restrain himself from lashing out and kicking him down the stairs. his relationship with his sister has always been a fraught subject. both of them are addicts and neither of them approves of the other's lifestyle, but that doesn't mean he doesn't care about her. ]

Fuck off, Sherlock.

[ his voice is full of venom as he turns around, stomping up the stairs and slamming the door behind him ]

[He might feel bad about that in the morning. For now, he's just pleased to have got John out of the way so that he can go upstairs. It's what he intends to do, he really does, but his head is spinning so much now and his heart is racing.

This shouldn't be happening.

He always calculates his dosages to the milligram, he knows what his body can take and what he needs to feel a certain way. This particular batch of one, cocaine most likely, must have been more impure than he imagined. Damn. Damn, damn, damn.]

John.

[It's a rather feeble call of his friend's name. Not nearly loud enough to make it up the stairs, so he fumbles his phone out of his pocket with shaking hands. He nearly drops it, only just managing to keep hold and send a short message.]

Possible OD. On the stairs. Come when convenient. SH.

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