A/N: This story's original form was written for Sherlock Holmes canon. However, it never got finished, and sat around on my hard drive for ages. Then I watched the new Sherlock TV show on BBC, and I fell in love all over again with Conan Doyle's beloved characters. I thought I'd try to reinterpret my own unfinished piece as a modern day Sherlock story. I will be posting the original story as well, both are nearly finished. If you read both, and compare, then you'll see that some things are nearly exactly the same, other's had to go in a different directed. It was fun working out the minute differences in Canon!Holmes, and BBC!Sherlock, and both Watsons as well. Hope you enjoy!
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Silence in their flat meant one of three things. One: that Sherlock was out, in which case he hoped to find a text on his phone telling him at least where he had gone, though he knew that was probably wishful thinking. The second reason was that Sherlock had found something quiet to occupy himself with. John preferred this by far. The third, and most worrying was that Sherlock had had an accident, and was lying dead or unconscious from poison or something. It was very rare that Sherlock would simply be asleep.
So, when John woke to utter silence in their flat that morning, he felt an understandable dread flutter up at going downstairs to see what the matter was. He levered himself out of bed. A glance at the clock showed him it was a half hour earlier than was normal for him, and he groaned. He'd rather the gunshots than this unexplained quiet.
His phone showed no texts, so he grabbed his dressing gown, and shuffled down the stairs, yawning still.
"Sherlock?" He called as he came into the living room. His tall, dark haired flat mate wasn't in the living room, but in the kitchen, bent over the table. It was covered with tubes, and flasks, and Sherlock had his eye glued to a microscope right in the middle of all of it.
John ran a hand over his face, and shuffled over to the coffee pot, checking inside before pouring in case of stray body parts or small animals. He didn't see anything inside except cold coffee. Sherlock had obviously made this hours ago. He sighed, and poured some into a cup, which he heated in the microwave (again, he checked for any offensive parts, and had to remove that bowl of eyeballs).
A hunt through the rest of the kitchen found a couple of dead frozen mice, what looked horribly like a full set of toes, a snake skin, and a severed hand in a jar, as well as thankfully edible things, like sausage, eggs, and some almost stale bread. John fixed up the eggs and sausage, and began toasting the bread in a pan. Their toaster was currently lying in pieces under the couch when Sherlock had taken it apart, and then hidden it from Mrs. Hudson.
With the act of preparing breakfast, John felt more awake, and slightly more equal to the task of conversing with Sherlock Holmes at this hour of the day.
"Sherlock," There was no movement, save minute twists from his fingers on the scope adjustments. John moved a large binder from the table to a chair to make room for his plate, and took a seat.
"Sherlock," John raised his voice a bit, eliciting a distracted grunt. "D'you want any breakfast?"
"Is that a no then?"
"So today I was thinking that I'd run down to the circus and join the acrobat troop, I think I could pretty well, and I've always loved Tarzan."
"Well if that's what you want to do, then who am I to stop you?" Sherlock said without turning his head. "Though I may have to mention your preoccupation with a man in a loin cloth to Sarah."
John dropped his fork, and spluttered. "Sherlock! You weren't...I wasn't...argh!" John rolled his eyes, and went back to eating his eggs.
"Are you planning on actually eating anything today?" John asked Sherlock a moment later around a bite of sausage.
"Maybe later," Sherlock said distantly. He was scribbling down a complicated looking formula.
John shook his head, and went back to his eating. He was munching on his almost burnt toast, when Sherlock's phone beeped.
Sherlock didn't move, his eye again against the microscope eyepiece. "John?" He said, and John rolled his eyes, and got up to rummage around inside Sherlock's coat pocket. The coat itself was hanging over the back of John's chair, so it wasn't that big of a difficulty. He flipped it open.
"Lestrade." He said, reading out the sender. Well, who else would it be?
"What'd he say?" Sherlock still hadn't moved, save to pour a new liquid into a bubbling beaker. John looked at the distance between the unknown chemical and his breakfast, then at the phone in his hand.
"He wants you at the yard." Sherlock groaned.
"That means it's probably paperwork or a signature from that last case, which he could get just as easily by coming here." Sherlock leaned back for the first time that morning, and sighed. "Why he feels he has to call me at the most inconvenient times I'll never know." Sherlock stood, fiddling with his test tubes one last time, before grabbing his coat and scarf from off the chair and the floor respectively.
"Sherlock, he does have a job other than working with you and your cases. He's not at your beck and call."
"Well, I'm not at his either." Sherlock stated, tying his scarf around his throat.
John swallowed a gulp of water –they'd run out of orange juice ages ago—and turned around in his chair.
"Do you want me to come?"
Sherlock shook his head. "Finish your breakfast, write in your blog. I won't be longer than an hour." He opened the door of their flat, and left in a swirl of wool coat that was so dramatic it could almost have been planned.
Lestrade had been just as dull and tedious as Sherlock had anticipated, while taking twice the amount of time he'd expected. He trudged up the steps to 221B Baker Street, and opened the door, shaking the snow off his shoes on his way inside. It was the coldest he'd felt yet this year, and the dirty snow on the ground didn't help his mood. His concentration on those chemicals had been interrupted first by John, and then by Lestrade's boring paperwork. He doubted he'd be able to get back into that state of absorption now.
He thumped up the stairs, and paused on the landing. Silence. The flat was absolutely still. His mind whizzed through observations and deductions. Mrs. Hudson would normally be watching her daytime soaps, but there was nothing from her downstairs. John might have been watching with her, but he'd planned to write today, the scribble on his palm confirmed it, so he should have been hearing a mix of keys typing, and the light radio John played while he blogged. Yet the flat was also silent. Neither had left because his were the only footprints on the rug in front of the front door, in or out. Something was wrong.
This conclusion came after thirty seconds and before the minute was up, Sherlock had the door to their flat open, and had stormed into the room.
"John—" He came to a stop.
John was seated in his chair, laptop on his lap, and head lolled backwards against the headrest. His chest rose and fell with each breath, and he didn't stir when Sherlock called his name again. It seemed like he had just dozed off while writing.
Sherlock rubbed his forehead against a slight headache. Something was wrong.
He walked forwards, glancing about the room. Everything looked normal. There were their usual mess, and clutter, dirty dishes in the sink, and chemicals on the table. Just as he'd left it…
Several pieces of information filtered into his awareness. One: John's breathing pattern was much too slow for him to be in normal sleep. Two: Sherlock himself had a slight, but growing headache. Three: There was a faint chemical smell in the air, and it was getting noticeably stronger.
Like a flash in his head, he saw himself leaving that morning, and like slow motion his finger switching off the Bunsen burner on the table, just as it was going to go into the off position, his finger slipped slightly. It was just enough to leave a small stream of gas still flowing, and to leave the beaker of volatile chemicals that he was experimenting with that morning. His mind processed the chemicals he had added, and realized that when simmered, it was a dangerous mix.
Within a second, his mind reached the conclusion that John, Mrs. Hudson, and himself were all in deadly danger.
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A/N: A cliff hanger! Read and review please! And be sure to read the original canon version!