Chapter 5: A Satisfactory Plan

"This is so so so so so very wrong Sherlock. I don't even want to think about what I'm seeing here. I think my eyes are burning. I think I might go blind."

Sherlock said nothing, just continued to arrange his props.

"You know it has to be bad if a man who has gone to war and worked in an emergency room wants to throw up."

Sherlock bit his bottom lip and muttered briefly to a prop. It didn't have ears, but that didn't seem to matter to the laser-focused consulting detective.

"Why does this not bother you? How can you actually think this is, this is…a normal response to a pretty minor problem?

Sherlock glanced at his lover. "Minor? Minor? You haven't heard what I've heard. If you had you would do exactly what I'm doing. You'd do worse."

John frowned. Sherlock was a drama queen, no doubt about that, but however extravagant he could be, he didn't tend toward hyperbole. "What exactly have you heard. Exactly?"

Sherlock lay back on the kitchen floor—which they (yes they, as in both) had finally got on their hands and knees to scrub (not that it would do much good after tonight)—wriggled a little, then put one hand behind his head. "How's this?"

John tried casting a dispassionate eye at the scene, but he couldn't. It was just too ghastly. And wrong. Sick really. John's only consolation was having talked his lover out of using quite so much blood.

"Um, it's profoundly disturbing, Sherlock, that's what it is."

Sherlock barked out a laugh. "That's what I was aiming for. Are you ready?"

John sighed. He did not want to do this, he really didn't want to do this.

Sherlock sighed, exasperated. "She has talked about her knitting needles being inside certain parts of my anatomy. Sometimes, apparently, there's also…also…" Sherlock shuddered, "Marmite involved."

John's jaw dropped. "Good god. Jesus." Sherlock looked at him with a 'I-told-you-did-I-not-tell-you? stare.'

"Okay, well then let's do this. Stay very still and I'll get a few good shots."

Two hours later they were done, props returned to St. Bart's, blood cleaned up, and digital photos downloaded to John's laptop.

"That one," Kneeling behind John's chair, Sherlock leaned his chin on the doctor's shoulder and pointed to a photo. "And that one, too."

John cast his gaze critically over the images Sherlock had selected, then shook his head. "No, definitely not the second one, that—so help me it hurts to even think this much less say it—is actually really rather sexy. I think this one here, just this one, nothing else. You look kind of corpse-like yourself."

Sherlock chewed on his lip, frowned, then nodded. "Yes, all right, let's print it and send it."

And that is how, three days later, one Mrs. Carla Olivia Timothy, their eighty-five year old neighbor three doors down, came into possession of a candid photograph of her pallid neighbor, laying on his kitchen floor, spattered (semi-decorously) with blood, an honest-to-god severed human arm fig-leafing his privates, and another raggedly severed arm—its hand fisted around a glistening knife—casually draped across his chest, his hand resting on its hand as if on that of a lover's.

Sherlock and John never saw Mrs. Timothy on the street at the same time as themselves again. And not too long after that resounding success John had to jump on Sherlock and forcibly tear the envelope addressed to the corner grocer, Mr. Carlton, out of his lover's hands.


I'd love reviews please! Especially since this started so angsty, angry, hurt and ended up…well you see where we are and frankly it's rather insane. So…thoughts? Thank you!