Chemical Disaster {JOHNLOCK}

The Letter

     "Morning."

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered open when he heard the warm and soothing sound of John's voice. He stood up so precipitously he stumbled over the pillow he had tossed during his sleep. John caught him in the middle of his fall.

     "Careful!"

      Sherlock hastily withdrew himself from John's arms.

     "How long have I been asleep?"

     "Twelve hours. It's eight in the morning right now. Thought I'd wake you up before I go to work. I know you don't eat, but there's breakfast on the kitchen counter if you changed your mind," John said, but Sherlock's attention was elsewhere. "Are you even listening?"

     "I'm thinking."

     "You'll have the entire day to think, can't you—"

      "Shut up, John! I've lost enough time already! Twelve hours! I could've solved it by this time!"

      "No need to be rude!" John retorted, but he was talking to a wall, Sherlock's attentiveness once again lost in his Mind Palace.

    Before he left the flat, John handed the other pair of keys to Sherlock, who attempted to seize them absentmindedly. His slender fingers closed around John's hand instead, but he was too absorbed in his theories to notice. The contact produced a strange sensation that crawled from John's hand all the way up to his arm. He tried to pull away without success. Sherlock's grip was firm, his soft ghostly pale skin nearly translucent, revealing the tiny blue veins on the back of his hand. John cleared his throat, but the detective didn't seem to hear him.

    "Sherlock. That's my hand."

All of a sudden, Sherlock came back to his senses. He released John abruptly, and cautiously took the keys.

John waited for an apology or an explanation. When none came, he walked out of the room to get changed.

"I'll won't be back before six, so if you're hungry, put the breakfast in the microwave and have it for lunch."

Sherlock ignored him and continued to stare into space, his hands clasped in prayer gesture under his chin. John took a last glance at the detective and left the flat.

    Sherlock spent the next few hours alternating between checking the cameras he installed in his flat, pacing back and forth in the living room, running tests on the few drops of coffee left from the day he was drugged, and mapping out all the possible ways anyone could break into his flat. Every so often, he lit a cigarette to "boost his concentration". He wasn't aware time flew by so fast until John came back and he glanced at his watch, which indicated it was a quater past six. His string of thoughts was interrupted by a loud cough coming from behind.

    "Sherlock! What have you done?" John asked accusingly, pointing at the cloud of smoke floating above their heads.

   "I smoked. Isn't that allowed in private spaces?"

    "Yes, it is, though I strongly disapprove of this law. But Sherlock! For god's sake! If you're going to smoke, at least open the window!!"

    Sherlock took no account of the doctor's words, so John went to open the window himself.

    "Have you eaten?"John asked after a few minutes of silence.

    "No."

    "Why not?"

    "Because I'm not hungry." John frowned. "Stop doing that, you're going to have wrinkles all over your forehead."

    "I think right now that is the least of our concerns."

    Later that evening, when John was preparing dinner, Sherlock checked his cameras again.

"John!"

"What is it, Sherlock?" John asked, rushing out of the kitchen.

"We need to go to Montague Street. Right away."

"Can't it wait? The veggies are going to brun and dinner will be cold!"

"It's urgent." Sherlock turned his laptop towards John, showing the image of his living room, occupied by a single armchair and a small wooden table. He pointed at the letter that laid on top of it, "It wasn't there when I left the flat."

*

     When the cab finally came to a stop, Sherlock immediately took off, leaving John to pay the cabbie. He then followed upstairs and found Sherlock sniffing the white envelope they had seen via the cameras.

    "I know this scent," he mumbled to himself, deep in thoughts.

    "Is there anything written in it?"

    "No."

    "Why would anyone go through the trouble of breaking into a flat just to put an empty envelope in it?"

    "To lure me out of hiding, my dear Watson. Now, let's look around the house, see if there's anything new."

    "Don't you think it's a bit dangerous to stay? They've shown us twice that they have the ability to break in, and I don't believe you're the only one who has cameras in here." John said, walking in the disheveled room originally built to be a kitchen. Unfortunately, the architect's efforts didn't seem to please Sherlock, and he had completely redecorated the room. It now looked more like a laboratory that had been the home of numerous failed experiments, all of those involving some kind of explosion. John stopped in his tracks when he saw a syringe lying on the counter. "Sherlock. What is this?" John's tone was dangerously glacial.

   Sherlock turned around. Confusion deepened his frown when he saw what John was holding. He found, as he had anticipated, a note emanating the same sent as the envelope attached to the syringe.

    Hello sweet detective,

    My brother left me way too much of these. Thought I'd give it to someone who'd make good use of it. Of course, nothing is free. Meet me tomorrow in this exact same room at 22:30 and we'll see what shall be done of your hypocrisy.

   PS. Seven percent solution, your favorite. Have fun.