Writing on the Wall 11 (Sherlock BBC fanfic)

December 6th, 14:55

Current Mood: accomplished

Current Music: Snow Patrol

Geoff followed the team up the familiar stairs, sighing in frustration as they barged into Sherlock Holmes' front room and started searching the place.

"Ah, Lestrade, right on time," Sherlock called, sounding vastly amused. The DI began to consider other ways in which he could try to enforce some sort of professional cooperation on the man – clearly his days of being annoyed by the fake drugs busts were coming to an end.

"You know, you could just save us all the time and effort and share your findings in a professional manner," he scolded from the doorway, "Good afternoon, John."

"Hello, Geoff," John Watson smiled from his place on the couch, propped up on a pillow with a rug over his legs. He was still pale and terribly underweight, but in the two months since the conclusion of the case that was still sending shocks through the upper classes of London he had improved dramatically.

There had been a time that the doctors had given up on John Watson. He'd slipped into a deep coma that the medical personnel attending him had predicted would lead to his death. Sherlock had glued himself to John's bedside, spending every waking moment talking to the man, cajoling, ordering and demanding that he wake up and return to Sherlock's side.

John had done so in the middle of an argument, which was typical of the mans timing. Geoff had appeared in the hospital room and suggested to Sherlock that he go with Mrs Hudson, who was in the waiting room, to get something to eat. He had promised to remain with John while Sherlock was gone as a way to reassure the thin genius that his lover would not be left alone.

Sherlock had lost his temper. He'd ranted on at the top of his lungs about not needing food, or a break or anything else that people kept trying to force upon him, there was only one thing he needed right now and he wasn't going anywhere. John had twitched at that, raising a hand off the bed. Sherlock had been too incensed and too distraught to see it, it had taken John latching that hand onto Sherlock's thigh to draw his attention. The look of shock on Sherlock's face would have been funny in any other setting.

"So where is it?" John asked Sherlock patiently, "I'd really rather not tidy the flat after another bust at the minute."

"I don't have anything I shouldn't," Sherlock protested, "I even handed in evidence that I found!"

"Yes, but you have yet to tell me precisely why I'm looking through the records of the last ten years for crimes involving a phone box, Sherlock. I'm not the Yards answer to Google and every time I ask you I get a different answer. The Super is expecting results and I'm tired of asking nicely," Geoff sighed.

"Fine!" Sherlock threw his hands up, "Send them away and I'll explain everything to you… even though its painfully obvious and even Anderson could work it out."

Anderson made a rude gesture from where he was shuffling through the contents of the bookcase; one hand shoved into his pocket. The tremors had eased off significantly, but it still shook from time to time and the man was rather sensitive about it. Geoff called the team off, sending them down the stairs and wincing as Donovan slammed the front door shut in a show of disgust. He had to stifle a grin when Mrs Hudson opened it moments later and started scolding the younger woman at the top her lungs, using that tone that only an exasperated mother could manage.

"That reminds me," he muttered and fished out the flat box he'd been carrying ever since the day he'd heard that John would live to return to Baker Street. He'd made himself a promise in the middle of that terrible case, and now was the ideal time to fulfil it.

"Congratulations on your marriage," he held the box out to Sherlock, "This is from me and the missus."

Sherlock gaped at him and John broke into peals of laughter where he lay on the couch. The consulting genius took the box gingerly, as if it were dangerous and crossed to sit on the edge of John's blanket, putting the box into the other mans lap.

"Well open it, then," he urged when John continued to snicker. The mages fingers stroked over the top of the box for a moment and Sherlock snatched it away with a cry.

"No! No magic!" he dropped the box onto the table as Geoff jumped in shock, "You're not strong enough – you can't afford to lose the energy!"

"I was tracing the texture, Sherlock, not using magic," John's voice was patient and calm. He drew Sherlock down to rest against his chest, folding the thin genius almost in half, "After the warning I had coming home from the hospital, I won't risk it for a while yet."

"Warning?" Geoff asked.

"He fainted – he was unconscious for three hours, in fact – because he used magic to update the status markers around Baker Street as we passed them in the cab. It shouldn't have bothered him at all – the energy use was no more than powering a 2 watt bulb," Sherlock said from where he was laying. He should have been uncomfortable – it certainly would have been uncomfortable if Geoff had tried to hold that position – but Sherlock seemed quite happy where he was. The thin genius reached out after a moment and held the box once more where John could get at it. The doctor pulled the lid off and delved under the tissue paper to come up with the silver letter opener that Mrs Lestrade had selected after Geoff had asked her about appropriate wedding presents for two men. She had selected something that looked a little like a dagger – which showed she'd paid attention when Geoff had ranted about Sherlock and his eccentricities.

"That's… quite nice, Geoff. Thank Mrs Lestrade for us, won't you?" John smiled, turning the letter opener in his hand to admire it. Sherlock reached out and took it from him, examining the edge for a moment and then leaping up. He swept a pile of letters from the coffee table and strode over to the mantelpiece, slapping the letters onto the mantle and then slamming the letter opener down to impale them. The end of it quivered in the air as he let go and he stood back to admire the effect even as John muttered a pained apology to Geoff.

Geoff rolled his eyes at John, showing that he wasn't upset at the idea of Sherlock being Sherlock.

"Now, Lestrade," the thin genius beamed, turning to face the DI, "About those phone boxes…"