Fallen Angel

Watson Your Face?

“We need to do an experiment,” Sherlock informed me when I arrived downstairs sometime late in the morning. I’d only just had a chance to walk into the kitchen from the landing and it was then that I noticed him sitting in his chair, idly plucking his violin.

 

“Sounds fun. What are we going to do?” I asked as I took out two slices of bread and, without bothering to toast them, began applying margarine.

 

Sherlock, who had moved so that he was seated upside-down in his chair with half his legs dangling over the backrest, gave the equivalent of a shrug. Then he flipped his legs back over so that he was standing on the floor and sat down properly.

 

“The affects of antacids on hydrochloric acid is a possibility, if you don’t mind the fact that it’s an experiment one would be expected to write an essay evaluating the results for in grade nine,” Sherlock commented and I shrugged.

 

“I don’t see why not. Maybe I can write an essay on it for kicks.”

 

What my parents had taught me about language use Below had been incredibly out of date. Speaking as Sherlock and Mycroft did, while sounding official and leading to most people treating you with respect, also led to you being misinterpreted and was never expected to come from the mouth of a ten-year-old. Which, of course, ruined what some viewed to be the whole point of Falling - to integrate into society and be exposed to what could be called human pain. Either way, it had taken roaming social media and reading multiple modern-day era set books to sufficiently adapt to the current decade’s ‘lingo’.

“Forgive me if I don’t understand the point of that endeavour,” Sherlock said flippantly, showing that he didn’t even care about whether or not what he was saying could be taken as rude.

 

“I won’t, then. I don’t particularly see the point, either, unless the person writing the essay plans to become a legally declared scientist when they are able to be,” I confessed through bites of buttered bread.

 

When I had finished, Sherlock stood and began raiding the cupboard and fridge, extracting several brands of indigestion pills and bicarbonate soda before removing his milk-glass (I wasn’t sure if it had ever contained milk before but it seemed to match the glass jugs milk used to be distributed to neighbourhoods in) of hydrochloric acid. He placed them on the table and quickly removed his dressing gown, tossing it onto the rug in the next room.

 

Grabbing a piece of paper from the pile, I made a brief search through Kayla’s muscle memory and quickly drew five circles on the paper, labelling them with each of the indigestion pills’ names. Meanwhile, Sherlock deftly poured acid into five glasses, placing them neatly into each of the circles. I crushed up the pills, making sure I poured the powder into the corresponding glass. Sherlock went through them, stirring them four, five times each as I walked behind, adding a few drops of indicator to the glasses. I crinkled my nose at the smell the liquid took on after a few minutes of the procedure.

 

“Bicarbonate soda would cause quite a few issues if you overdosed,” I commented mildly, ignoring Sherlock’s flinch out of respect - he knew he’d overdosed, I knew he’d overdosed and died and my brother overdosed because of it and there was no point in further addressing the issue that I had no doubt as to how many times Sherlock had already gone over it.

 

The glass containing the powder was already a dark green-blue colour, showing that the solution was beyond being a base and already obviously going to cause damage to the stomach if the amount we’d used was taken.

 

“Quite. You’d have to make sure you only took a small amount, depending on the level of indigestion. However, this one appears to be working quite well. And this one would be preferred if your stomach was only mildly upset.”

 

As Sherlock gave his verdict, he pointed out a yellow-green one and a yellow one in turn. I circled the labels of both of them, making a silent note to tell John of our research into the world of tablets for indigestion.

 

“This is boring. Let’s do something fun,” Sherlock said, walking into the living room. I followed, holding onto the doorframe to swing myself around the wall.

 

Leaning over to pick up his dressing gown, he folded it in half and dropped it on the table, which he then proceeded to walk over to sit down in the longer chair against the wall.

 

“Like what?”

 

“I don’t know…” Sherlock (absolutely never) whined, kicking his feet up to rest them on the table.

 

“Maybe Cluedo?” I suggested, walking around the table to sit on the armrest.

 

“Sure.”

 

Never again. John, after he was imediately bombarded with questions as soon as he entered the flat, agreed whole-heartedly. However, we were able to exact our revenge. Sherlock, to our utmost joy and wonder, fell asleep on the longer couch that night - which was a miracle itself, especially when you took into account his self-induced insomnia and paranoia (I think he forget, sometimes, that he never had to be alone again).

 

“So, what are we going to do to him? Nothing too large, mind - we don’t want him noticing and waking up,” John asked in a hushed voice.

 

“How about a mustache? Not a small one, one really noticable. In permanent marker, or the waterproof eyeliner he keeps in his disguise box,” I suggested.

 

“Perfect!”

 

To say the very least, Sherlock was not pleased with his new ‘stache.