A/N: This was for an OT3 ficathon over at Livejournal, in response to the prompt Sherlock/John/Lestrade - I suppose you think you're very funny. It probably verges slightly into crack territory, but oh well! Have fun with it! As ever, feedback is much obliged, and if you like the looks of this, I've got some other humorous Sherlock offerings posted.
We Can't Giggle. It's a Crime Scene.
He was a doctor, dammit. He wasn't supposed to find this even remotely amusing.
Really, it wasn't a pleasant way to go. Muscle paralysis, cardiac arrest, respiratory failure—all things that could follow such an injury. None of these were laughing matters.
The placement of the injury? That was.
Dr. Roylott had not been a nice man. Ever since one of his daughters had come to the Yard, saying she suspected her father of murdering her sister, they'd kept an eye on him as a suspect. They had no doubt now that he'd been the murderer—but the man was dead. Small favors, somehow—it kept a murderer off the street, but there was surely going to be paperwork, Lestrade had said.
John straightened up and faced Lestrade, trying to keep the smirk off his face. Sherlock was behind him, still looking over the body.
"Well?" Lestrade asked. "Same injuries as his daughter, which means—"
"—which means the cobra got to him as well, yes. Dr. Roylott seems to have died from the aftereffects of the snake bite he sustained in the... buttock region." Dr. Roylott had apparently been fond of sleeping nude.
Lestrade rolled his eyes, seeing that John was barely composed. "Go on and say it. You know you want to."
John bit his lip, trying so, so hard. He honestly had to give himself credit. "What, that using the snake to kill his daughter came back and bit him in the ass?"
There was a slightly undignified snort from behind him, and John had to turn—whipping around slightly too fast due to his army-honed reflexes, just in time to see Sherlock attempting to cover a laugh by coughing into his scarf. They locked eyes, just briefly, and it was enough to set John off into a fit of laughter. Just like Sherlock, he attempted to snuff it into the sleeve of his jumper... and failed utterly.
"I suppose you think you're very funny," Lestrade said, shaking his head at the two of them. Even if he did want to laugh, he had to set an example... couldn't have the DI running around laughing at crime scenes.
"With all due respect," Sherlock said once he'd gotten his breath back, "the distinguished Dr. Roylott is responsible for one murder, and nearly caused another. His death seems to be appropriate karmic retribution, if one believes in that sort of thing."
Bitten in the ass. It was pretty funny.
"I suppose it is," Lestrade admitted, going to the doorway to ask for help in moving the body, John practically wheezing from spasms of laughter. "Make sure Dr. Watson is breathing, would you? Can't have another dead body in here..."