Author note: Hello all! I've decided to take a break from White Collar (don't worry I plan to go back) and try my hand at a 'Sherlock'.
Story Note: I write all my stories chapter to chapter so I never know how long the bloody things are going to be, so be warned it may turn into a novel. I don't do slash, but I'm all about good bromance. I try not to get too graphic, but angst is always lurking in my stories somewhere.
I tried to write this in the original style of first person from Watson's point of view...but it just didn't feel right so I switched back to second person, but it will be 99% from John's point of view just to keep things simple. So if you're lost and so is John, don't worry about it, Sherlock will clear things up for you both in the end.
Since the show is inspired by the stories this one has been inspired by The Man with the Twisted Lip, however you don't need to read the original to understand this.
Sherlock: Chasing the Dragon
Chapter One, Bored
John opened his eyes and furrowed his brow as he realized that the odd sound was not part of a dream, but actually a part of his reality. Glancing over at the clock he groaned at the early hour. Rain continued to lash against the window as it had done for the past four days. The weather seemed to be having an effect on the crime rate and they hadn't had a case in days.
Not having something to keep Sherlock's mind occupied was always dangerous. However also having him cooped up indoors due to the storm was even worse. John knew that Sherlock snuck outside to smoke, even though he denied it to the last and always had some clever explanation for his short trips. Despite all his efforts with the nicotine patches it seemed to be a habit that he simply couldn't break. With the constant driving rain it was impossible for even Sherlock to come up with a good excuse to go outside.
John was worried that if something didn't change soon Sherlock was going to start eating the nicotine patches rather than being satisfied with just wearing them. He was also going to start physically tearing the place apart with his misplaced energy and boredom. Closing his eyes and pulling the covers over his head John tried to ignore the out of place sound and go back to sleep.
It was no use, John had to know what Sherlock was up to. Throwing the sheets off John got out of bed and pulled on a terry cloth robe. Getting to the bottom of the stairs that lead down to the living area John was startled fully awake when a small colorful object whipped past the edge of his vision and stuck into the door frame inches from him with a resounding 'thunk'. Looking over John was shocked to see several dozen game darts sticking into the wall. Sherlock was in the love seat across the room with a handful of the darts still in his hand.
"What are you doing?" John asked.
Without answering Sherlock threw another dart dangerously close to John.
"Stop that!" John demanded.
"There's a fly."
"Yes, a fly."
"So?" John asked, not seeing the connection.
"I'm trying to kill it."
"...with throwing darts?"
"Sherlock," John sighed heavily "you need a hobby."
"I have one, two in fact." Sherlock huffed as he slung another dart and managed to finally pin the buzzing fly to the wall. "Okay, now I'm back to just the one."
"Go to sleep."
"Bah!" Sherlock exclaimed as he jumped to his feet with sudden energy and began to pace. "I'm too bored to sleep. I need a case! What is wrong with the criminal element in this city? A touch of rain and people just stop murdering each other? It doesn't make any sense!"
"I'm not going to do this with you now, not at four o'clock in the morning. I'm going back to bed."
"Fine!" Sherlock snarled. "Go to bed, close your eyes, and just pretend that there is nothing wrong. Simple as that, just...sleep, perchance to dream."
"Exactly. Please try not to put any more holes in the wall between now and morning."
"It's already morning."
"Proper morning." John corrected. "Breakfast time."
Sherlock made a noise of ultimate disgust and snatched the previous day's paper off the end table. He had already read the paper a dozen times in search of a puzzle worthy of his intellect. Quickly realizing that the paper still didn't have anything new to offer he violently tore it into shreds before resuming his pacing. John watched with a worried clinical eye as Sherlock's mental energy drove his body into constant frustrated motion.
"Have you ever considered medication?" John asked seriously.
"Medication? As in drugs? What for?"
"Nothing. Never mind. Good night."
"There is nothing good about it."
Knowing there was nothing he could do to calm his friend John went back upstairs. Sherlock watched him leave with an irritated expression before turning his attention to the tattered remains of the paper at his feet. Dropping suddenly to his hands and knees Sherlock rummaged through the pieces and laid them out in a new order. Sitting back he inspected his work.
"Still nothing..." Sherlock sighed miserably. "Fine. If trouble isn't going to find me, I'll just have to go find it."