Blemished // Story Collection

VI. A Sign of Time | Fanfic: BBC Sherlock Fanfic

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"Unit measurements. Hours? Minutes? Seconds? Milli-seconds? No. Years."

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Pounding of footsteps echoed in a narrow hallway, the cabbie driver dropped off the resident and his companion. Although, the cabbie wasn't quite sure if they were together. The moment the tall framed gentleman with the strange hat hurried out of the cab. The other fellow followed behind with a few words that could sting a bumblebee. On the front door, there were gold metal numbers nailed into the black door.

221 B.

"Sherlock," the fellow followed behind said, "What the hell was that back there?"

Sherlock threw the ridiculous deerstalker hat towards the three windows on the small flat. A small table accumulated with newspaper clippings, notes with key words and circles, and lonely teacup sat by the middle window. He continued to take off his heavy coat and placed it on the wooden hanger. Sherlock straightened his dark-purple flannel shirt. His collar button was open and his shoulders leveled out.

He then progressed to his microscope on his kitchen table. Scraps of paper coated all surfaces of the kitchen, and even on the fireplace that was located on the left side of the flat. Handwritten formulas and experiments drawn and inked the papers. Sherlock placed his hands on the small wheels and looked through the lens; he made no eye-contact with the other gentleman, who waited impatiently for Sherlock's reply.

"I solved the case."

"You solved the case? You shattered a family," the fellow stated, "Sherlock. Not solved!"

"On the contrary," Sherlock said. "Telling the facts helped me conclude that Mrs. Bleu did in fact poison her husband for the intention of greed. Quite boring. The daughter wouldn't stop coming in - pestering me while I was attending other investigations. I ended it quickly."

The gentleman ran his hand through his dirty blonde hair. He let out a sigh, his chest and shoulders sauntered.

Sherlock glanced up from his lens. The gentleman's posture and physical sound hinted something was amiss. The fellow rubbed his right eye trying to pretend Sherlock had listen to him.

"I did good," Sherlock stated. "John."

"No. You didn't. Not good."

"Oh."

For years now, during Sherlock and John's quite interesting friendship, John would remind Sherlock when he was being an ass. Even the unusual events of becoming flat mates with the help of Stamford (John's college friend), John learned Sherlock's personality. Sherlock needed a roommate and Stamford brought John to meet him at his work: a morgue. Sherlock questioned him "Afghanistan or Iraq," on the spot, and John surprised by the statement without him asking a question, he preceded to do what normal human beings would ask, "What?"

Now, after years of solving crimes together like Study in Pink, The Blind Banker, The Hounds of Baskerville, and many more, which John wrote about in his Blog and titled these cases himself (Sherlock disapproved the names - thought them plain and uncreative), Sherlock acknowledged these hints and reminders often but when his focus attentively towards his experiments and theories he didn't notice.