fossilised | 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 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.

Threaded | Flat

He loved the snow the same way that most Londoners did who had grown up in the countryside did. It reminded them of the idyllic hills and pastures of his youth, a mistaken memory brought on by the telly around Christmas showcasing such images rather than an actually recollection of his school days. Watching it pile up had been somewhat cathartic once he’d made sure he had nothing on at the surgery and that Harry wasn’t entirely too disappointed in him being unable to come around. Sometimes she accused him of purposefully making it impossible to have tea, which often told him that she was not off drink as much as she said she was, but this had been refreshing.

He thought about maybe having a nice shower, dressing in his warmest jumper, and possibly heading to the shop downstairs for a hot sandwich. It wasn’t as if he and Sherlock had too much in and it would be cruel to have take away brought over with the roads so dangerous.

Moving from the window in his bedroom, about to snag his dressing robe from the back of the door, the crash downstairs had him sighing, dropping his chin to his chest and then his arm. “Sherlock.” Oh, he was not pleased. Not pleased in the slightest.

Plans dashed, John headed down the hall to the main room of their flat and poked his head through the door. Not a very smart move, considering the mess he had just made himself responsible for by viewing it.

“Sherlock! N0-- Why?!” Stupid question. John rarely understood the whys. He rarely understood the need to always ruin his chair too. Or how his idyllic, fanciful afternoon could turn into a babysitting job.

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