Chapter 1: A Very Bad Day

After seeing his last patient, Doctor John Watson started to tidy up his desk, putting away the gadgets and thingies doctors use to do their business. He put on his black leather jacket and slid his hand inside the pockets, confirming the presence of keys and phone before leaving. For the tenth time that day, John heard a buzzing sound from inside the same pocket. He picked up the phone and pressed read.

Did I mention imminent danger?


John sighed and put his phone back in the pocket. Yes, yes you did, more than once, actually. John mumbled taking one last look at the office, making sure he didn't leave anything behind. Then he closed the office door and walked away.

"Have a nice weekend, Miss Campbell," he said to a passing nurse.

"See you on Monday, Doctor Watson," she replied with a polite smile.

Stepping outside the clinic's door was like diving into the cold waters of the Thames. A slicing breeze made its way past the thick fabric of his coat right to his naked neck, making him shiver. He pulled his collar up trying to protect his skin and started walking towards the main road, hoping to get a cab before he froze. His shoulder started to bother him, but John tried to ignore the pain and put on his best military face. Again he felt the gadget on his pocket buzzing.

I see blood in our future.


John resisted the urge to growl and jump around like a chimp in a cage. Instead he tilted his head back and took several deep breaths. Furiously, he put away his phone and started walking again.

"It's Friday evening! It's a bloody cold Friday evening! Of course I am not going to be able to grab a damn cab!" he roared in frustration.

Oh yes. John Watson was frustrated and tired, mostly because of his childish, selfish and impossibly annoying flatmate. On the other hand, he loved when the same flatmate saved him from the boredom of a general clinic doctor's life. The man was a pain in the butt, but he sure knew how to spike life up. Nevertheless, John was pissed.

When making his way down the street, a door to a pub opened, filling him with the warmth and comfort of the room. But even that comfort came to an end as soon as the same door closed, taking with it all the warmth and John stopped briefly to look through the window, envying those who were safe from the slicing cold, there where the familiar ambient and the warm cosiness were so inviting. Another buzz brought his attention back to the painful reality.

I'm not getting any younger here.


"Okay, that's it," John growled, tapping the small buttons feverishly in a reply.

Go to hell.


He pressed send and as soon as he did so, he regretted it. Maybe that was a little too harsh, John thought. Leaving the sight of the cosy pub behind, he stared walking again, occasionally looking back, to see if his luck on getting a cab would change. A motorbike entered the street, passing on a pool, showering the doctor with muddy cold water. And that was the last straw.

"Well fuck you very much! This is just great! Perfect!" he shouted furiously at the lousy driver. "I hope you fall off and break your neck!" Well actually no, I don't.

He sighed loudly and ran a hand through his wet sandy-blonde hair. The wind was a thousand times colder and it seemed to penetrate through the fabrics covering his body and even through his thick layer of flesh, slicing his bones. He saw a cab appear in the corner and shook his hand so vividly that it almost seemed to him that it was going to jump off or something.

"Oh, thanks God," John muttered. But as soon as the cabbie pulled over, he saw, much to his fury, that it wasn't for him.

He swore furiously as a pregnant woman and her respective husband climbed to his taxi. Damn my luck! Sherlock is so going to pay for all of this later! He cursed. Oh, yes. He blamed Sherlock for his unfortunate day. You see, usually the detective would solve his cases with nicotine patches, or talking to the skull (that John had to beg Mrs Hudson to return to Sherlock), or by playing – what am I saying – assassinating the meaning of music – that's more like it – with his violin. Recently Sherlock felt like that was not enough. Of course, being the selfish, stubborn five year old child that Sherlock was, his patience level was only so limited. After a day of boredom and a sudden attack of the ITTSS (Incapacity to Think Straight Syndrome), the detective decided to occupy his time by blowing up the kitchen, scrapping the walls with black ink (which John cleansed afterwards, to avoid any more extended rent bills), shooting the same walls and, John's favourite, murdering the violin during the night. Yes, those precious hours when John Watson should be resting so he could be minimally sane the next day when cutting live bodies open, were spent very awake, as the poor violin screamed for mercy downstairs. So now John felt like a walking dead. With no rest, no cab and frozen to the bones. His famous everlasting patience was starting to wear thin... Oh so thin.

He started, once again, walking down the road almost automatically. He had completely lost faith in grabbing a cab by now and even if his luck changed, it would be of no use now that he was so close to home. When the doctor thought that his nose was about to fall, he started to see the so familiar buildings of Baker Street. He tried to smile, tough he couldn't be sure if he actually managed to do it, so numb was his face. He accelerated his steps, but of course his face wasn't the only part of his body that was numb and somehow he managed to trip on his own feet and fall to the ground. Once again he swore out loud and cursed his flatmate. Getting up, he managed to awkwardly limp to the door.

Looking for his keys inside his pocket with very shaky hands, John wished to get home as quickly as possible. All he wanted was a hot boiling bath, a nice hot cuppa and the comfort of his flannel night wear. It took him two tries to put the key inside the locker and as soon as he entered in 221B he felt the warmth come back to his body. Still, his shoulder was hurting him a lot. Damn bullet. He worked his way upstairs and entered his flat, taking off the wet jacket and tossing it aside.

"Ah, John! I was starting to think you got lost," a deep baritone voice said.

John rolled his eyes and walked towards the bathroom. He let the hot water pour, filling the tub. As the bathtub filled up, John returned to the sitting room and leaned against the kitchen doorframe, looking at the man that was lying on the couch.

"What is it you want?" John asked.

"I liked that 'FU' signature. I have to admit I found it quite amusing."


"My pen, John. It's on the coffee table. I need it."

John looked at the table, right besides the sofa and then he looked back at Sherlock. So annoying! He just has to move his hand to get the damn pen! Such a lousy...Uh! He crossed the room and picked up the pen, handing it to that bloody child. The latter took it without as much as a 'thank you'.

Oh, yes. That was Sherlock Holmes. Manners weren't definitely his priority. Well, nothing that involved a polite exchange of words was in fact his priority. Let's just say that socializing was... uh... not his thing?

John returned to the bathroom and dipped his cold body inside the hot water. Instantly his shoulder stopped hurting and he smiled (feeling it this time), leaning his head back against the tub border. What an odd day, he thought as he closed his eyes, appreciating the comfort and warmth of the clear water.

He cleared his mind of the terrible day he had. Falling down the bed, preparing a cuppa with spoiled milk, almost twisting his ankle when arriving to the surgery, dropping his lunch on the floor, hurting a patient with the stethoscope, falling from the chair, spilling really hot coffee in his shirt, freezing in the streets of London, receiving a wet muddy shower, losing a cab for some labouring woman, falling again... It was all stored in the bin folder of his brain now. Wait, bin folder? Oh so now he was even thinking like Sherlock! That's just great. He scowled and tried to think of any positive aspects of the day. I spared a few pounds from the taxi. He smirked. Yes, that's good enough for now.

The water was starting to cool and his fingertips were wrinkled, so John decided it would be enough of being underwater and got off the tub, wrapping a towel around his hips. After putting on his night wear, John headed to the kitchen and warmed up some water for tea.

"How's the case going?" John asked noticing Sherlock had sit up on the couch.

"Interesting." Sherlock replied looking at a couple of crime scene photographs. "Yet, there's something wrong. I just can't put my finger on it."

John put down a cup on the coffee table for Sherlock to drink, if he even noticed it.

"That's what you do, you figure out what's wrong."

Sherlock ignored his flatmate and focused his attention back on the photographs. John just sat in his armchair, sipping his coffee and staring at the hardworking detective. His blazing blue eyes flew from photo to photo, his palms pressed under his chin. After a while John simply forgot the reason he was so mad with him. Sure, the violin and the occasional explosions drove him up the walls, but it was all part of living with the great Sherlock Holmes, wasn't it? Would it be the same if Sherlock behaved like a rather normal human being? I seriously doubt it. I'm not even sure Sherlock knows how 'rather normal' human beings behave.

"Please John. I would very much appreciate if you stopped doing that," Sherlock muttered.

"Do what?"

"Thinking while I'm deducing! It's so highly distractive!"

"Oh, dear," John sighed and finished his tea. "I'm whacked. I think I'm going to bed now. Night." he said standing up.

"Hmm," Sherlock said as a response. I feel like making noise now. Where did I put my violin?


This can't be happening. Not to me. Please let it not be happening.

John rolled over in his bed for what felt like the millionth time that night. He stretched his hand to the bedside table, turning the alarm clock to him. The bright crimson digits joyfully rubbed an infuriating 04:37 in the morning in John's sleepy face. He whined at the cruel, painful reality, as he suddenly remembered why he was so pissed at his flatmate.

He sat on his bed and scratched his head, wondering what he could do to shut the suffering violin downstairs. It's not even music! It's making my ears bleed! He groaned again and got up. He searched for his navy blue robe in the darkness, slamming his foot in the chair by the desk.

"MOTHER F..." John yelped, stopping his words before the swearing came out. "Gosh, Sherlock, what you do to me," he cried.

On the plus side, I found the robe. He slid his arms inside the warm cloth and opened the door. As he did so, the notes the violin cried sounded like someone was killing a pig with a blazing iron. He slowly limped down the stairs and entered the sitting room, leaning against the doorframe.

"Sher—" he tried to call, but his rough voice broke. "Sherlock!" he tried again.

The man didn't even raise his head. His eyes were closed, as if he was playing the most beautiful serenade to a lover. Of course, if that was a beautiful serenade, the lover would be deaf by now, if not even dead. John approached the hearth and sat on his favourite armchair, right in front of Sherlock.

"Good morning, John. Did you sleep well? I hope the violin didn't wake you," Sherlock asked in a very flat voice.

John scowled and counted to ten. "Yes, Sherlock. I was sleeping like a baby. I think I woke up with my own snores!"

Sherlock fluttered on eye open and gazed at John's figure before closing it again.

"Don't be silly, John. You don't snore," he said.

John widened his gaze at Sherlock. How in the world does he know that I don't snore? He made a mental note to ask him about it later.

"Sherlock, please. Please, notice that I am begging here. Stop torturing the violin. Please! I really need to rest," John pleaded. "I can't even think straight anymore!"

For John's surprise, Sherlock snorted. "Oh, don't worry. If what you did before was thinking, than the difference isn't much."

For some reason the words didn't affect him. Well, thinking of it, John didn't even hear the words at all. He was too busy focusing on the way Sherlock's full bow shaped lips were moving. John shook his head, blaming the lack of sleep.

"Why don't you try and get some rest yourself?" he asked.

"Oh, John. You naïve, silly John. You know very well my feelings about sleeping," Sherlock said, running the bow against the strings again, making the wooden instrument screech. "Unlike you, I don't need to sleep to think. I do it better while awake."

"Well you've been playing for a bloody long while now, so I'll assume that thinking is not being easy at the moment," John said.

"Indeed. There's something blocking my brain. It's so frustrating!" Sherlock suddenly parted the bow from the violin and put the instrument down.

John almost laughed with relief. "Sherlock, don't tell me you have a 'Consulting Detective's Block'."

Sherlock pouted and faced away from John.

"No! Really? There are no such things as 'Consulting Detective's Blocks' Sherlock!"

"Why not? I invented the job. I can add that to the job description if I want!"

If John didn't know any better, he could swear that Sherlock's wish right now was to stump his foot on the floor and throw a tantrum. Sometimes it was hard to believe that he was talking with a thirty-three year old man. Despite Sherlock's behaviour, John couldn't help but think it was adorable, in a very twisted kind of way. He smirked and leaned forwards.

"Listen, why don't you tell me about the case? You always say that talking out loud helps you think," John suggested.

Sherlock's eyes lit up as his lips curved up. "I already tried with the skull."

"How did that work?"

"It didn't, unfortunately."

"Maybe it will be different with me. I'll even let you mock me at my stupid interpretations, I promise," John said.

Sherlock nodded and got up, quickly making his way across the room, grabbing the photos on the coffee table and returning to his seat in front of John.

"Woman, early thirties, stabbed seven times in the chest and shot to the head. Latin American from Chile or Argentina. A tango dancer, judging by calluses on her feet and the kind of shoes she was wearing, she was a dancing instructor too, so Argentina it is. Left-handed, married for at least five to seven years to a Christian man." Sherlock said as if talking out loud would bring him some answers. "So what's with the Arabic message?" he bent his head down and his hands flew to his dark curls, ruffling them vigorously in frustration.

"A Christian man... is that important? How do you know?" John asked, knowing that sometimes responding to some questions helped Sherlock defeat the 'Consulting Detective's Block'.

"Yes, yes, a Christian man, please John use your brains. She has a gold necklace with a cross and Jesus in it. It had an engraving with some lame lettering that could only be a gift by her lover or husband. Look at her wedding ring, it's immaculate! That tells the marriage was going well, so husband it is. Cross, Jesus and gift by husband: married to a Christian man." he said. "Yes, it is important. I just don't know how yet." Sherlock said.

"Fant— never mind," John said.

"What do you see?" Sherlock asked.

John took one long look at Sherlock's features, absorbing the image in his brain. Very handsome fellow, he is. Once again his eyes widened and he shook his head in an attempt to disperse his thoughts. Reluctantly he looked at the photos. God, it's much too early to try to be Sherlock.

"Well, she's dead," John said, trying to hold a yawn.

Sherlock rolled his eyes impatiently. "Is that the best you can do? Focus, John!"

The doctor tried to see behind the obvious, looking at all details, trying to think like the detective. When he's head started to hurt, something flashed in his mind.

"She was a mother of twins and was pregnant with a third one," John said in a murmur.

Sherlock's blue gaze fixed the metallic grey eyes of the doctor in front of him.


"Well, this judging by the photo, of course. I mean, I can't be sure, since I didn't actually see the body. And I'm not you, so give me a break!" John said defensively, thinking he had gotten something wrong.

"No, John. It's not—" Sherlock leaned forward. "How can you tell that?"

John arched a brow. This Consulting Detective's Block must really be powerful.

"Well, it's just... her breasts."

"What about them?"

"They're swollen and barely fit in her dress. Her tummy is still flat though, so I would say six to eight weeks of gestation, nine at the most," John said yawning again. He really needed to sleep now.

"John..." Sherlock whispered.

"What? What did I get wrong?"

"How do you know about the twins?" Sherlock asked.

"Again, her breasts. She has severe stretch marks in her breasts and tummy. Only a first pregnancy would leave marks like those. Have you noticed the ones she has on her belly? It stretched a lot, so it had to be twins," John said.

"But how do you know it was twins and not just a big baby?" Sherlock asked anxiously.

John couldn't help but feel odd. It was obvious to him, at least to his medical him. How could Sherlock not see it? Of all people! Was this how Sherlock felt all the freakin' time? The roles are a bit reversed here. I don't think I like it that much.

"If it was a big baby, and judging by her petite frame, it would've had to come out by caesarean. But you don't see any marks or scars, or any evidence that points to a surgery, so twins, natural birth," John explained, leaning back on the couch and closing his eyes.

Sherlock was as speechless as he could get. His gaze flew from the pictures to the good doctor and something odd occurred in his stomach.

"What did I get wrong?" John babbled in a sleepy voice.

"I don't know."

Three words that rarely left his lips. Even John noticed that. Sherlock saw him sit up and lock their gazes. He loved that metallic grey tone of John's eyes. It felt so calming and safe.

"You don't know?" John asked incredibly.

"No, John. The Block, remember?"

His words weren't harsh. They were surprisingly soft and in that instant a part of John's heart melted. What the bloody hell is wrong with me? One minute I want to strangle him and in the next I want to kiss the man! Wait kiss? That's so not the word I was looking for. As his brain worked, his eyes started to shut and he felt his body slid in the armchair.


The doctor flew his eyes opened as his heart raced from Sherlock's yelp.

"Don't do that," he mumbled trying to sound harsh, but failing miserably.

"The note," Sherlock said shoving the photo of the dead woman's note in his face. "Can you tell anything about the note?"

"Go look for its meaning in the internet!" John complained.

"My computer is off and yours is upstairs," Sherlock said. "You were in Afghanistan for quite a while. So maybe you know enough Arabic to decipher this!"

John rolled his eyes and tried to focus his blurry vision in the photograph. When his eyes were able to see only one piece of paper, John snorted.

"What? What is it?" Sherlock asked impatiently, frustration in his usually delicate features.

"It's not Arabic, Sherlock. It's Hebrew."

"What? You can't be serious."

"Well, I used to date a Jewish girl back in college. I've learnt some things." He gave the photo back to the detective. "It means Shalom Aleichem," John's voice muttered. "Peace be upon you."

Sherlock's face twisted in a mix of embarrassment and fury. How could he have missed that? Well, at least he was glad that he got through embarrassment next to John. John wouldn't mock him, or judge him, or be mean because his brain was taunting him. The detective felt his face go warm and furrowed an eyebrow. Suddenly he heard a soft, rhythmic breathing, and his eyes fixed the angelic figure of the sleeping doctor. Knowing John wouldn't wake up, he walked to him and slid his arms under his body, lifting him from the armchair.

He carefully walked through the sitting room and went up the stairs, trying not to make any sudden moves. John shifted in his arms and buried his face in Sherlock's chest, breathing deeply. You beautiful, silly man. He opened John's room door with a slight kick and gently laid the army doctor in his bed, covering him with the woollen blanket.

A/N: Yo, Peoples! Bloo is back and Bloo brings her very first attempt on writing a BBC Sherlock fic! Yeah, my crazy-arse best friend made me hostage and forced me to write until my fingertips were bleeding!

So, this was a request by Shivanni, which I decided to grant, killing two rabbits with one bullet. So you who made me suffer hours on end in front of my laptop, consider this a Christmas present. You lucky girl! =D

Anyway, enough of me being boring. If you have any questions, suggestions, ideas, corrections, observations or marriage proposals, don't hesitate on PM'ing me, I'll try to answer as soon as possible.

Please leave your REVIEW, the destiny of this boys is on your hands!

OH! And an important note (It's on BOLD so it's really important). English is not my first language, so if you spot any mistakes, please be kind to mend me, 'kay?

Next: A Change in the Wind