fossilised | 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.]

Threaded | Flat

[ 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!

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