72. Insomnia - JohnlockJohn lay awake in bed, an all too familiar violin screeching downstairs. Of course, it wasn't actually screeching, but at three in the morning it might as well be. Now if it had been in the afternoon or sometime that wasn't in the middle of the night, the violin would be quite pleasant.
He squeezed his eyes shut and held his pillow up against his ears. The action was futile, he knew from doing so several times before. Upon realizing that it still wouldn't work he let go of the pillow and opened his eyes with a sigh. He kicked off the blankets and stood up, walking over to the door of his room. He opened it up just enough to poke his head out and yelled, "Would you keep it down! Some people are trying to sleep!" He tried his best to sound threatening and angry but it only came out as tired and groggy and not intimidating at all. The sound of the violin paused for a moment and John thought that he finally got through to him. Unfortunately he didn't and the screeching continued. John sigh
On Your Mind.I quickened my pace to keep up with Sherlock, who never really seemed to pay attention to the fact that I was almost exhausted by the time we came home. Of course, I'd never say anything about that, because there will, undoubtedly, be coming a mordant remark my way. I was quite a bit smaller than him, as he had very long legs and, well, he was tall. His long, black, familiar coat danced around his legs. We were walking back home from the crime scene of our last case, and since we didn't have money on us, neither of us, we decided to walk home. It was quite a long walk.
"Come on, John. You're a bit slow today. What's on your mind?" He called out to me, never slowing down. Well, I guess it can't hurt to say that he should slow down. I'll survive the attack of remarks. I took a deep breath and before I had spoken a word, he said.
"Am I going too fast? Does it bother you? I could slow down a bit, after all. I know we're not the same size."
That's new. He's never said anything like that bef
Mondays"God, I hate Mondays." John said, gripping his head, hoping that the pain would subside.
"I've told you time and time again, that if you drank more water on Sunday that this wouldn't happen."
"How much am I supposed to drink, Sherlock? The whole bloody Pacific?" He roared at his flatmate. Pain and patience did not go hand-in-hand.
"Of course not, John." He stared at him with a gravely serious expression. "It's saltwater for one thing. It would be completely ineffective in hydrating you."
John clapped a hand to his forehead in exasperation and immediately regretted it, shutting his eyes when the dull and aching pain in his skull grew. He gave a deep sigh and tried not to shout this time.
"Look…" He paused. "If you can't say anything helpful, will you kindly shut up?"
"Would you like a massage?"
This was such a random and surprising question that John's eyes flew open. For a minute he couldn't respond, instead he just stared at Sherlock with his brow furrowed, unsure if he had hea
BathwaterJohn's neck was hot and damp and something rocked against his chin, spilling past his lips. Confused he took an experimental swallow and immediately choked. His eyes snapped open, wide with surprise, and he began to cough violently, gasping for air. The water slapped over the rim of the bath, splashing onto the bathroom floor. John blinked, puzzled: how on earth had he gotten there?
He looked down at himself. His torso and arms were bare and prickly, and there was a bruise on his abdomen, just below his ribcage but just above his stomach, that flowered sorely. To his relief he was wearing trousers, denim jeans that had turned black and heavy from the water and thus made it difficult to move his legs. His feet were naked. He at last winced at the heat of the bath water.
Sherlock came in, crumbs on his mouth and the remnants of a toast slice in his hand. He looked closely at his friend, then at the sodden tiles and back again. He smiled with relief.
"Oh, good, you didn't drown then," he
John couldn't help chuckling at the idea. The world's only consulting detective, stumped and frustrated by a simple game of Cluedo! He had treated the game like a real-life murder scene, insisting that the characters must have motives, and that the murderer must have left behind evidence. "There must be some way to investigate the crime scene," he had insisted, "Aren't there signs of empirical evidence on this board?"
Finally, as the night grew long and Sherlock's patience had worn thin, the inadequate playing board had found itself pinned to the mantle with a dull knife, its entertainment value thoroughly exhausted.
And for his insolence, John had found himself pinned beneath the self-proclaimed victor.