Sherlock Holmes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
howdull) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fossilised2017-01-24 03:58 pm
howdull) wrote in fossilised2017-01-24 03:58 pm
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.
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
"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."
no subject
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."