The Devil's Chord

Chapter Six

John’s mobile beeped for the hundredth time. Sighing, he scrolled through his latest text messages.

I fail to see why you had to cover Sarah’s shift. -SH

Morning sickness is not a valid excuse. Can’t she take something? -SH

Clearly, she’s not a very good doctor. -SH

If you don’t get here soon, I’m going to start experimenting on the staff. -SH

Good grief. John was still frustrated over having to cut short his lovely morning with Abigail. He’d brought her breakfast in bed, intending to keep her naked for as long as possible, when his bloody mobile had rung. He’d reluctantly kissed her goodbye and headed to work to cover his co-worker’s eight hour shift. Fortunately, Abigail was understanding of the situation, unlike Sherlock, the bloody man-child. His friend had expected him to arrive at Aria by ten o'clock. It was now half past six in the evening and the barrage of text messages had grown snarkier as the day wore on. Sarah owed him big time.

The cab pulled in front of the manor and John hopped out.

He gave an appreciative smile to the young man who took his luggage, then hurried inside and down the cellar stairs. His shoulders sagged in relief as he caught sight of Sherlock. His friend was the only one in the chilly room, no hapless victims in sight.

The detective set a dusty wine bottle back on a shelf. “Took you long enough.”

“Yes, well, it’s not like I planned on being late.”

Sherlock gave him a cursory glance. “I’m surprised you’re still snippy after an active evening and morning of pointless relations.”

John’s ears warmed. Refusing to respond, he walked around the table to where Sherlock’s laptop sat hooked up to a microscope. The computer’s fans hummed as the machine searched through what appeared to be an extensive list of chemical compounds.

“Ah. You’re irritated because you didn’t get a third opportunity. Really, John, you should consider having your testosterone levels checked. I’m sure there’s a medication out there that could help you with your affliction.”

A muscle in John’s jaw twitched. “There’s nothing wrong with me or my testosterone levels.” He set his palms flat on the table and leaned forward. “I can’t wait for the day when you join the rest of humanity.”

The logic-driven detective would go mad if he ever experienced a genuine emotion like love or desire for another human being. It would be like Christmas seven times over. If it ever happened, John planned on filming the whole thing and posting it on his blog.

“Prepare to be disappointed. I have no intention of demeaning myself in such a manner.”

“Intent has absolutely nothing to do with it.”

Sherlock only stared back at him, the arrogance in his pale blue eyes unwavering. John shook his head. Emotions needed to be experienced before they could be understood. At times, it felt like he was talking to a robot, but he knew without a doubt Sherlock Holmes had a heart lying dormant somewhere inside his chest. If it ever woke, all hell would break loose. He almost pitied the poor soul who stirred the slumbering beast. Almost. He’d be having too much fun watching Sherlock unravel bit by bit to care. It would serve the man right.

A few months ago, Sherlock secretly put castor oil in John’s tea to determine the effect it had on an average man’s bowels. The result was rather explosive, in more ways than one. His friend broke a cardinal rule: Never mess with another man’s tea. Ever. John would get his revenge. He just had to be patient.