howlingmary79: (Default)
 Life was flowing excitedly through London’s streets on that strangely warm November Saturday night, but in the flat on the first floor of 221B Baker Street there were no lights on. Its occupants were in fact sound asleep in their own bedroom, despite the fact it was only 11 p.m.

Sherlock and John had been busy with a case that had been revealed to be very interesting (from Sherlock’s point of view) but also very tiring (from John’s point of view), meaning both men had slept very little in the last four days. Finally that afternoon they were able to catch the criminal and Lestrade had arrested him. 

Once they got back home, after the usual cup of tea John insisted on having, both men were utterly spent and decided to go to sleep. 

Sherlock fell asleep the second he buried himself under two heavy comforters, his room being the colder in the flat in his opinion. He woke up from a nightmare a couple of hours later with a gasp, panting like he had just run a marathon; his subconscious played bad tricks on him sometimes, making him relive in his sleep his worst fears when he had no control over his emotions. It was 1.52 a.m.. 

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howlingmary79: (Default)
 Getting up and moving around happened to be a little too much at the moment for the detective. John had disappeared into the living room, making phone calls and leaving him alone, after Sherlock had assured the doctor that he was perfectly fine. Despite his stubbornness, though, Sherlock admitted to himself that he was feeling lightheaded and weak, the previous events of the day having taken their toll on him; in fact, he was feeling exhausted, but he didn’t have time to rest, time was a luxury Mycroft didn’t have at the moment. That meant Sherlock had to find him soon and then they all could have a break.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, holding onto the night table to regain his equilibrium as his vision clouded for a moment. 

“How do you feel?” John asked minutes later, when they were waiting for Lestrade outside the front door of 221B Baker Street. “Any symptoms yet?” 

Sherlock knew John was conscious he wasn’t alright, and the fact that he was still asking about it made him nervous. 

“I’m fine, stop fussing!” he snapped back, but the tone of his remark wasn’t as rude as he intended. 

He swayed a little and John was quick to steady him. Sherlock didn’t thank him, of course, but neither did he try to hold back. 

“I see, you’re fine. Let me know if things get worse, will you?” the doctor asked. 

Sherlock nodded and went silent. 

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howlingmary79: (Default)
 Ten minutes later, John allowed Sherlock to enter his bedroom unassisted.

It was a stressful situation; the detective was used to solving mysteries and facing murders and kidnappings, but it was Mycroft they were talking about now. Despite the fact that the younger man would never admit it, especially in front of the British Government officer, seeing his brother hurt had shocked him. 

John thought he should give Sherlock some time alone to regain his composure. Better not to push him on the subject when he was not ready to talk about it, but wait for him to process the events instead. 

The doctor prepared another cup of tea while waiting for his friend to come back to the living room in order to discuss what to do. Fifteen minutes later he started to worry. The detective hadn’t shown up yet. What if Sherlock was hurt? 

Stupid stupid doctor you are, you left him alone! What if he fainted, hit his head on the floor? Or worse? 

He marched to Sherlock’s door and called his mate’s name. He couldn’t hear any sound coming from inside the room. Putting aside his anxiety, he tried to maintain a neutral tone while calling for Sherlock once again.

 “Sherlock, are you ok? If you don’t answer me, I’m going to come in,” he stated. 

He waited for a few seconds but the detective didn’t reply. 

“Alright, I’m entering now, Sherlock. I swear if you did something stupid I’ll kick your arse for the rest of your life!” 

Gripping the door handle with more force than necessary, John pushed the door open; actually, he didn’t know what to expect, but what he saw made him angry and very worried.

The younger man was resting comfortably on the double bed, lying on his back; his chest rose and fell in synch with his breath, and at least that was comforting, but his eyes were open, glassy and unfocused and his lips partly open. He was high on something. 

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howlingmary79: (Sherlock-Benedict)
 An envelope arrived for Sherlock Holmes at 221B Baker Street. It had no return address, and it was an ordinary one, delivered by hand, with no postmark on it. Probably the sender had used gloves closing it, so it was useless sending it to Scotland Yard to search for fingerprints. At least, that was what Sherlock would have done if sending himself mail, knowing he would have tried to deduce something from it.

The fact that the mysterious person used all these precautions intrigued the detective. He was in fact in search of distraction, not having cases to work on at the moment.

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howlingmary79: (Default)
 The day had been incredibly long and the weather wasn’t helping. It had rained on and off all day, and exactly when Doctor John Watson was about to leave the hospital at the end of his shift it started to pour . Of course he didn’t have an umbrella with him because when he left that morning the sky wasn’t so grey and it was just drizzling.

 Wonderful, just wonderful.

 The doctor was soaked through when he entered the tube. When he finally reached Baker Street, his mood was terrible. There were no lights on in the flat, that meant Sherlock was asleep or simply too lazy to switch them on, waiting for him to come home and do it. Watson was hungry; he also was sure his flat mate hadn’t thought about cooking dinner. Tesco was just a couple of blocks away but Watson was too tired and the rain was falling hard right now.

 I’ll just go out to a Chinese restaurant. Or something.

 At first, he didn’t notice the expensive black car approaching him. Then, realizing what it meant, the former army doctor sighed loudly and opened the back door. Nobody was inside but the driver informed him that Mr. Holmes had requested his presence and he was going to take him to his house.

 “Please, bring your medical bag with you, doctor.” The driver added.

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howlingmary79: (Sherlock-Benedict)
Inspired by a deleted scene of the eipsode "His Last Vow" 

Sherlock hated being touched. He considered it a boring act of sentimentality with no use. Something to avoid. Or something to bear, if the circumstances dictated so.
He loathed it, especially when he was sick.
This time was no exception.
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howlingmary79: (Sherlock-Benedict)
“Sherlock, give me the gun!” Watson asked in a half-worried, half-annoyed tone.
Sherlock shrugged his shoulders in a silent reply and continued to stare at the face in front of him, a vacant expression on his face.
“You’re going to hurt someone, please, Sherlock,” John pleaded in a firm tone.
The detective didn’t bother replying but gave another shrug. His posture didn’t change, his expression dark as he pointed the gun again and closed one eye to better take aim.
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