For John Watson

[howdull]

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 had 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 planning to catch a train to visit Harry, she claimed to be off the drink again and it was his duty as brother to go and support her. 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 hadn't said anything for fifty-seven minutes, probably a relief to the poor beleaguered John, but that was because he was busy. He had to do something to occupy his mind, it was either that or dig into his stash of drugs hidden in John's bedroom, and he had 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 crouched on the floor and began to move things around, organising them and then reorganising them in an ever more frustrated manner. It took only a further fourteen minutes before he stood up and shouted, explosively.

"DAMN IT!"

Before he threw a ceramic pot of left-over stew at the wall, where it shattered with a loud crash and drenched John's chair (and John, if he happened to be in it) in congealed lumps of meat in gravy.

Comments

[substituteskull]

"I'm afraid that the weather didn't get the memo," John muttered as the first of the new snow fell from the sky in more of a shout than a whisper. John watched it swirl with the wind through the tunnel like street of homes and then turned back to Sherlock, honestly looking relieved that he hadn't up and vanished to go running out into the white.

It was ridiculous to say it, but he just wished that Sherlock would think this one through. Being obsessive about his cases tended to do him good, but most cases didn't have him face death as certainly as games with Moriarty.

John wasn't having it.

"What exactly is your plan? Rush out to get kidnapped again? Mighty fine plan, that. Worked quite well last time."

[howdull]

"We need to get back to that warehouse in Southwark so that I can examine it properly for clues, that should tell us our next location."

He would ignore that jibe about being kidnapped, he could hardly help it if everyone once in a while someone came and clocked him on the back of the head. Besides, John could hardly claim a much better record, he had also ended up face down at the mercy of Sebastian Moran.

"Snow again, typical, the taxis won't run for much longer. Hurry up, John, before we miss one entirely and have to walk."

He does not want to try walking all the way to Southwark, that's six miles away.

[substituteskull]

Sometimes when Sherlock said his name, it was like a blackness was lifting from the world and he was about to be inducted into some sort of heaven where there was no boredom or tedium or thoughts about being unable to cope on the day to day. Sometimes it left him asleep at his desk at the surgery and sometimes he was dead on his feet days at a time thanks to Sherlock Holmes being his brilliant, wonderful self. And sometimes hearing his name was nails on a chalkboard.

His stomach sank down into his feet but he could absolutely not let Sherlock go alone.

He looked about ready to say a hundred horrible things but in the end he marched back to his room like a good little soldier and got himself dressed.

Again.

He ignored the headache. He'd had to power through worse on the rocky hills of Afghanistan.

[howdull]

John Watson was one in a thousand, in a million. Most people would never put up with Sherlock, they could barely even stand to spend ten minutes in the same room as him, but John followed on his coattails as if he truly wanted to be there. He might not be the biggest asset when it came to deduction, his brain was just as ordinary as the next man, but he was an excellent lightning rod for creativity and an often oddly comforting presence.

Which is why Sherlock waited for him to get his clothes on before dashing off, choosing instead to dress himself in his customary suit and Belstaff coat.

Only once John had emerged from his room did Sherlock head for the door, perky despite both of their head injuries.

"Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead."

[substituteskull]

"How is it you remember speeches like that and have trouble remembering that the earth revolves around the sun?" John asked, exasperated as he followed Sherlock down the stairs. He was a little unsteady on his feet, but he could hold himself together, he was pretty sure at least. As if on cue, Mrs Hudson appeared to yell after them for answers and ended up having her voice follow them back into the snow to remind them that she was not going to clean up any more messes like the one she had just experienced a few hours before. And to mind themselves because it was cold.

The snow was falling and laying in their hair as Sherlock called for a cab with barely a wave of an arm and John tumbled in with him.

Back to Southwark they went, power back on and lights working properly thank god so that the cab only had to compete with the freezing road and not the possibility of head on collision.

The doctor was silent for a few minutes before being unable to help himself in asking: "are you all right?" Sherlock would very likely push it off or roll his eyes but he looked... Strange. More fuzzy. He wasn't sure if that was Sherlock or his own head wound.

[howdull]

Words meant something, they were the building blocks for genius and civilisation, why would he not recall some of the most powerful words put to paper? Shakespeare was useful in everyday life, what possible application did the earth revolving around the sun have? None. Honestly, John should be able to tell why one piece of knowledge was worth deleting and another worth saving. He contented himself with just a snort of disbelief, however, and didn't argue the point.

The cab ride and any aches or pains were soundly ignored in favour of thinking. There would be clues laid out for him to find, he was sure of it, Moriarty enjoyed their game too much to allow anything else.

"Hm?" He tilted his head to look at John - glassy eyes, pale, pinched expression - and shook his head. "Yes; you, however, have a mild to moderate concussion. Mycroft will have made sure you had some pain relief issued while sleeping, but I'm sure we could find some paracetamol somewhere."

[substituteskull]

It was impossible to diagnose yourself as a doctor, mostly when you’re a doctor as stubborn as John Watson. He didn’t believe for a second that he was as bad off as Sherlock seemed to make him out to be, thank you, though he couldn’t deny the dizziness. Still, the choice had been to stay home and recover or let Sherlock get himself hurt again and John did not care to have that repeated.

He turned his attention to the street outside. There were almost no pedestrians because there were no shops open. Even the convenience stores hadn’t bothered, save for a few 24-hour Tescos, and that was just unfortunate, low end of the totem pole employees shoveling their side walks just in case any customers showed up.

No matter how unlikely that might be.

They crossed the bridge carefully and arrived at the warehouse not too long after that, John back out in the cold and paying while Sherlock headed right up inside.

He wasn’t sure what they had come to find. If Sherlock found any sloppy clues, that would just mean that Moriarty was egging them on. John didn’t like that. Not at all.

[howdull]

Sherlock was counting on Moriarty leaving them deliberate clues and egging them on, that was how this little game of cat and mouse worked. If he didn't go and look, if he didn't follow the breadcrumbs, then Hansel and Gretel would wind up being burned in the witch's oven. Moriarty was perfectly capable of setting up a different chase with bombs, with victims, if Sherlock didn't play the game right.

Besides, he wanted to.

Long legs took the stairs by twos and threes, leaving John behind to pay the cabbie. Unfortunately, that cab driver wasn't exactly who he should be. He got out and strong-armed John back into the back of the cab, all the doors locking and the partition closed to keep him from being able to touch the driver.

"Settle in, Dr. Watson," he said, voice rough through the little tannoy system. "We're going for a drive."

[substituteskull]

"We've done this before!" John proclaimed before he tested the locked doors with a decided annoyance and wrestled for some sort of control of what was happening to him. No such luck. Black film rolled over the inside of the windows, obscuring the view. He hated always being kidnapped. It was so undignified.

Upstairs, waiting in the blast radius for Sherlock to happen upon it, was a single television monitor laying in the ash and rubble. It swung to life as he walked forward, Moriarty's face visible through cracks in the screen.

"We've hardly been apart but I've missed you as much as you've missed me. Don't worry about John," the recording or the broadcast said (though the production did seem to lend towards a prerecorded statement. "Decided he's the carrot after all! Will you play? Of course you will. But first we have to finish our first game. There actually was a little ricin in that tea. You were right! There's a bit of medicine for you under this screen."

[howdull]

It was probably not the right reaction, the sort of thing that John chided him for sometimes when he went on about 'normal people', but Sherlock's face immediately split into a grin of triumph. He knew there had been ricin in that tea, he just knew it. Good, he hated being wrong, and that squeeze of lemon had bothered him.

He was far too happy about being right to care about the implications of his own possible demise. A small amount of medicine wouldn't save his life, more prolong the agony, but that was probably part of the game. He slipped over to collect the bottle, but he only tasted a drop on his tongue to analyse if it was, indeed, medicine or something else entirely.

Finally his brain caught up to him and he registered that John had been taken. Possibly hurt, unlikely to be dead. Damn. He didn't bother asking something mundane and pointless such as where is he. "Then let's play, tell me the first game, Jim."