Tap tap tap.
There was someone knocking on the front door. He could hear it through the second floor window.
"Sherlock, would you get the door, please?" Doctor John Waston called. His eyes were locked on the computer screen and fingers on the keyboard. A groan rumbled in his throat, and he shifted uncomfortably halfway through typing 'poisoned baloney'. It was unbelievable how kids nowadays could fiddle around with such tiny contraptions. If only someone could invent a laptop computer with the same portability, yet upon opening, turned out to be twice the size you expected it to be, he would buy it in a heartbeat. Or maybe three times bigger. The bigger on the inside, the better.
Tap tap tap – knock!
John's eyebrow twitched, but stubbornly maintained close eye contact with the screen. "Sherlock. Come on. Mrs. Hudson's been opening the door for all your weird clients for months – least you can do is return the favor while she's off visiting her brother's wife's cousin's niece's unc… while she's off visiting her relatives."
He knew for a fact Sherlock was in a much better position for door-answering. Mrs. Hudson had recently cleaned up her flat, and before she left allowed her 'two favorite boys' to make use of it, as long as the place stayed relatively clean and no bullet holes pierced the walls. The fiend was probably moping on Mrs. Hudson's sofa by then; he returned home a couple of hours ago in such a fiendishly rotten mood that he couldn't even make it up the stairs. There probably hadn't been any progress in his latest case or whatever, John supposed.
Still, that gave him no excuse for not at least answering the door!
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. The visitor was pounding now.
"SHERLOCK!" John yelled and finally fell back on the wooden chair. Exasperated, he brought his hands to his face. Perhaps it was about time to clean out the fridge of the trash. Including that annoying mutilated head Sherlock was so partial about.
John lowered his hands.
The voice floated in from below and through the open window. A woman's voice, with a sort of an accent. Scottish, street was quieter than usual that day, so he heard it quite clearly.
John's cellphone beeped. It lied within arm's reach on the tabletop, just beside Sherlock's ever-so-favorite skull best friend. John picked it up and accessed the single unread message.
'It's for you. SH'
John gritted his teeth. So the bugger could hear the door just fine, eh, yet still didn't bother to respond. Maybe he should start threatening to flush Sherlock's precious lockpicking tools (flown in specifically from Germany) down the toilet, but then realized that would take too much time to type out. John's skills had somewhat improved with the computer, but texting was a completely different matter. In fact, he'd prefer to call, but his phone was never good with call reception.
"Doctor, would you answer the door? Now?" The Scottish was louder now. "You know I am not going to tolerate WAITING again, of all things. This is important!"
She was right – he had kept her waiting long enough. John stood up and checked out the window just to get a glance at whoever needed him. That female voice sure hadn't been Sarah's, and none of his patients sounded Scottish. Perhaps she was one of their relatives, or someone who needed a house call? But in the end he had no way of even trying Sherlock's methods of deduction at her. The figure at the door was completely shielded by the top of an expanded worn gray umbrella.
John pulled away from the window and scratched his arm, frowning slightly. A sudden feeling of apprehension washed over him, and he found himself glancing at the desk again. But, he thought as his eyes trailed down, he was fairly confident there shouldn't be anything unusual with… eh?
The medical man flinched at the sight of the arm he had been scratching. In his hand was an open-capped black marker, one of the many pens that were supposed to be jumbled up inside the desk. He dropped it like a hot potato, his eyes inexplicably wide and fearful. What in the world was going on he–
Beep. Another text.
'John , answer the door or I will cut up one of your sweaters. Cheers. SH'
And with that, John Watson hastily scurried downstairs as fast as his legs could carry him.
(A/N: This is a bit of an idea I had for mashing together DW and SH. K, Z, D, I blame you three. To everyone else, I'd thoroughly appreciate any reviews or criticisms you may have for me. Thanks!)