//Hey guys! Some people were telling me to update! I'm probably going to use this excuse a lot, but I'm in band! It takes up a lot of time. I'll try not to let this thing happen again! It's been 11 days! Sorry!!!! :((((( Anyway! The story- The introduction to the plot begins here. You didn't think this was going to be just a Johnlock story, did you? If you did, mistaken you are.//
It takes a week for the article to come out with the news. Headlines are all over every newspaper. Pictures from outside Scotland Yard, the curb, even one that looks like the cabbie would've taken it (from the perspective). I cross my legs and lay yet another paper on my lap, sick of getting nothing but me and Sherlock's faces burned into my eyes. I want to read something good. A good murder.
Sherlock pulls the edge of the curtain back about an inch with one finger and, automatically, flashes are able to be seen through the window. He drops it back and blinks a few times to get the spots out of his eyes. He flops into his red chair and pokes me with his toe. "Jawwwwn. We have to go outside!"
I arc an eyebrow and smile at the somewhat pet name that he's given me in the past few days. Jawwwn. It's cute enough that I don't get angered about it. "Yes I know, Sherrrrrlock, but there are so many people out there and we don't even know where we'd be going." I'm still trying to find out what I can call him, so I've just been playing with the letters of his name since he likes it when I say it.
"We could go to the store. We haven't been outside for four days now and the ice box is running out of food." He offers.
I poke him with my socked toe. "Think of how many people will be there."
"Telling people doesn't bother me, John." He slouches in his chair and puts his feet up on the corner of mine.
"I don't mind telling the public either. I'm just worried about the fact that they'll not let us actually get our groceries. And then it won't be the chip and pin machine that I have a row with. It'll be one of those creeps." I say, waving my hand towards the window. The effect is hilarious, though, because I have Sherlock's blue robe on and it's slid down my arm again.
He stands and hops off into the kitchen. To do what, I have no idea. As long as it's keeping him occupied. From the kitchen I hear a the crash of breaking cups. The tinkling of glass hitting the floor can be heard along with it. I peer over the edge of my seat and find Sherlock with a hammer in his hand and the counter covered in white shards. He purses his lips. "That was probably to be expected from a hammer meeting a porcelain teacup."
I shake my head and stand up laughing. "Okay Sherlock, we'll leave."
***
I slip my sweater over my head and pull it down at my waist. Do I usually wear such drab colors? Maybe I'll ask for a purple one for Christmas or something. I can match Sherlock. I walk out of Sherlock's bedroom, which is also mine now, and find him waiting. He hands me his scarf, meaning for me to wear it.
I reach up and wrap it around his neck, the way he does. I like this scarf. Almost the same material as his coat.
He looks down at it. "I meant for you to wear it."
I nod. "Yes, I'm aware." I go to pull on my jacket and Sherlock stops me with a hand on my arm.
"At least wear the coat." He holds up the coat and bounces it up and down waiting for me to slip my arms inside. I roll my eyes but oblige. It's just long enough that it comes down to my ankles.
I turn around and look at him. "But what are you going to wear if I'm wearing your coat...?" I trail off as he reaches into the closet and pulls out another one. How many of them does he have?
We walk down the stairs (me trying hard not to trip on the back of the coat) and stop in front of the dark front door.
"A new page, John." He says quietly.
I look up at him, confused.
"It's a metaphor John. We're turning the page. Things'll be different now..." He turns and touches his lips to mine.
"I hope so."
"The Game Is On, John." He whispers against my lips. He straightens himself out and holds his hand out for me to take.
I grab it.
He opens the door before I have a chance to say or do anything else. Flashes spot my eyes instantly as we try to make our way through the thick crowd. Questions, all of the same nature, are being constantly thrown our way:
"Are the headlines true?"
"Are the famous Sherlock Holmes and John Watson finally together?"
Finally? Has everyone been expecting this?
"I see that you're holding hands, is that merely to get through the crowd or something more?"
"Is the picture we saw in the paper correct? Or is it another crazed fan gone wild with photoshop?"
I tug on the edge of Sherlock's collar to get his attention. The corner of his mouths lifts up as he looks down at me. It's to noisy for words so he just quirks his brow in question.
"Should we answer them?" I mouth. I'm becoming faintly aware that the crowd around us is getting thicker. We'll never get off Baker Street.
Sherlock nods his head vigorously to my earlier question and hugs me against him, smashing his lips to mine. He's bent over me and I have no choice but to be the arc.
Everyone on the street quiets for a second. A mere beat of surprise. They believed we were together, but not that we would do this.
The street near erupts. Me and Sherlock pull away from each other with wicked smiles on our faces, camera flashes blinding us. We push towards the curb and hail a cab that had just been about to drive past.
We jump in and close the car door quickly. "Bart's Hospital." Sherlock says without letting the grin melt.
We collapse into a fit of laughter.
Clutching at my sides and out of breath I say, "That...Has to be...The weirdest thing...I've ever...Done."
Our laughter subsides and Sherlock wipes his eyes. "It was great though..."
I roll my eyes but my face goes red. "Yea it was..."
Sherlock smirks, knowingly. "I'm totally a great kisser."
I cover my face with my hands as it heats to an all time high. "Sherlock we are not having this conversation..."
He shrugs, ruffling his coat. "If you prefer. But I am."
***
We pull up in front of Bart's Hospital and let ourselves inside. It's quiet in this building, such a change from outside 221B.
We find Molly in the morgue area. She's examining, what looks like, to be a newer one. The rings around his eyes say he hasn't slept for a while and his short nails say he's been nervous. Sounds kinda like he was threatened. He hasn't been sleeping- waiting for the killer to come. And right when he didn't expect it- BAM. He's dead. But how? I move around to the other side of his body and see a bullet hole in the side of his neck. Wasn't inflicted upon himself. No, not suicide, in fact, this looks a lot like the Blind Banker case. He's not right handed. His left hand has callouses from where multiple pencils and pens have rubbed. And who shoots himself in the neck? "So who did it?" I finally ask aloud after about a minute of contemplation.
Molly knits her eyebrows in confusion.
Sherlock, on the other hand, smirks, knowing what I've done. "Well, well John." He says quietly, still prodding different parts of the man.
"Who did what?" She looks at the clip board she has in her hand. "This was a suicide J-"
I stop her with a look. "It, most obviously was not. You'd know that if you were actually looking for something."
Molly looks at Sherlock. "What have you done Sherlock. He's becoming one of you." She points her pen at me but is still addressing Sherlock. "Explain this."
Sherlock shakes his head. "I'd rather him explain it, I truly would love to hear his train of thought." He winks at me fogging up my brain for a beat.
"Well, I'll do my best. But it's like trying to explain what two plus two is. You know it's four, but if someone asked you, you'd have trouble explaining it, wouldn't you?"
//Sorry! I've gotta interrupt... *awkward cough* That quote about 2+2 equaling four, it was in the book. The original book. Sherlock said it.//
I move around to the side I started on and start pointing things out. "Like I said, I'll do my best. So, he's relatively new, into the morgue I mean, and his eyes already have bags under them. Not from being dead, which is probably what most would think but, rather, from sleep exhaustion. We all have that sometimes. Now further down." I lift up one of his hands with my thumb and middle finger. "His nails are newly chewed. Obviously from nervou-"
Sherlock interrupts me with sarcasm in his tone. "But John, he probably chewed his nails like that all the time!"
Putting up a fake argument?
"He's lying dead on the table! It was not a nervous habit! He just started!" I can play too.
Molly blinks. "But what does lying on the morgue table have anything to do with his not-nervous habit of biting his nails?" She looks so confused.
I laugh. "God, Sherlock. I see how you envy their minds. So...plain...straightforward..."
"Boring." We say at the same time.
I stand there for a second taking it in. "Anyway! It's not a habit because people who do chew their nails regularly have little hang nail things on the outsides of their nails. Little-...you get the point. Moving on! Because he's gotten no sleep and he's chewed his nails, he's been threatened. 'How do you come to that conclusion so quickly?!' I just do. He wasn't threatened very long ago, but it had to have been about two days. This is quite like the Blind Banker isn't it?" I ask Sherlock.
He raises an eyebrow but doesn't say anything more, signaling for me to continue.
I switch to the other side and point at the wound. "This is one of the reasons I say it's like the Blind Banker; not only were they threatened, they did not commit suicide. I wouldn't think the same mistake would be made twice, it might not be the same murderer, but the man is not right-handed." I twist my left arm around and then over my head. "Take a bit of contortion wouldn't it?"
//Yaas; always wanted John to quote Holmes...//
Sherlock snorts. "Jeez, what've I done..."
I pretend like I didn't hear him. "Wanna know how I know he's not right-handed?" I ask Molly.
She glares. "I find it hard to believe a word you're saying. I'm not opening this investigation back up. I was about to send his paper work through."
I roll my eyes. "Don't lie Mary. You're terrible at i-" I pause. Wait. Did I just call her...? I turn around and see her look of surprise. "Um, I'm sorry. I...meant Molly." I shake my head clearing what just happened from my mind.
//Oops- What a mistake John... Okay, I'll stop interrupting...//
Sherlock puts his hand at the small of my back. "Keep explaining, you're doing great." He says quietly.
I nod. Turning to the table again, I point at his left hand. "Look at the callouses in the crook of his thumb and finger. From pencils, pens, markers, whatever he were to hold. Actually..." I look closer at his fingers. "Ha! I didn't see that the first time... His fingers! They're stained! Tobacco stains! He's got it on not just the tips of his fingers. He's been rolling his own- new at it- and now he's got stains on his knuckles. Clumsy. And seriously? Who shoots themselves in the neck?" I look at Molly. "It must have been a murder, so who did it?"
She pinches the bridge of her nose. "John, I have no idea. I told you, it was a suicide and the investigation is not being reopened."
Now I'm angry. "I just told you a man was killed and you don't believe me! You know, you would get a lot more done if you were to take my word as gospel!"
Sherlock bursts out laughing. "Oh God that's too much. John stop. She's not going to listen. They never do." He slowly calms himself down and straightens up before being serious again. "The real question is if it is related to the Blind Banker." He walks around to the edge of the bed. "Molly, the feet."
She sighs but goes with it and unzips the end of the bag.
He has the tattoo.
//Dun. Dun. Duuuuuuun! What?! A plot?! It couldn't be! Anyway, see you next time! Sorry again for not updating. But remember, the driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole. ;) //