Chemical Disaster {JOHNLOCK}

The Game Is On

 
   The next morning, when John woke up, Sherlock was sitting on a chair next to the couch where he had been sleeping, typing furiously on his laptop.

   "Morning." John said, his voice still sounding asleep. Sherlock paid him no attention, so he stood up to make coffee, but ended up returning to the living room to ask Sherlock his preferences for morning beverages.

   "Coffee or tea?"

   "Huh?" Sherlock mumbled, having just realized someone was talking to him.

   "Would you like some coffee, or some tea?"

   "Coffee." Sherlock answered vaguely, not lifting his gaze from his laptop.

   "What are you doing?"

   "Research."

   John went to the kitchen. A few minutes later, they sat together, sipping their drinks, the scent of coffee floating in the air around them.

"The man is still in jail, and apparently the sister still holds it against me," Sherlock murmured to himself, breaking the peaceful silence that had settled in the room.

    John frowned and set his cup down on the table. "Is she as dangerous as he is?"

Sherlock looked up, an unexpected smile playing at the corner of his lips. "I can assure you she's not. I saw her seldom, but once was enough. Every single thing she said sounded awfully secretive, like it had some implicit meaning, yet what got my attention was the way she ordered her brother around. Furthermore, I had the chance to eavesdrop on a few bits of their conversations. I'll spare you the details as we're about to run out of time—mainly because you insisted that I should sleep— but after her brother was sentenced and I had more time to consider their exchange, it came to a point where I started to suspect that she had orchestrated her brother's crimes. Still, I had nothing to prove her guilty and I myself wasn't so certain of my speculations. Then, something intriguing happened: just as I began my investigation, she disappeared. One day she was there, sobbing uncontrollably at her brother's fate, which, if you'd like to know my opinion, is clearly deserved with all the horrors he had done; and the next, she vanished, erasing all trace of her existence." Sherlock stopped to take in a breath. "So if I'm correct, and honestly John, I think we both know that I'm in the habit of being right, with the exception of the time your sister curled your hair," Sherlock locked eyes with John, "She isn't as dangerous as he is, she is much more dangerous."

  Seeing how pale John's face had become, Sherlock tried to reassure him by telling him they still had an entire day to solve the case before their rendezvous at Montague Street, but that didn't seem to appease him at all.

   "Sherlock! This is insane! Tell me we're not actually going there. That would mean falling right into her trap!"

   "But this is going to be so fun!"

   "Fun? I don't think we have the same definition of fun."

   "Yours is wrong then, clearly."

    John rolled his eyes. "I don't see what's so entertaining about being ignored all day by a supremely intelligent detective who demands everyone to shut up when he's thinking, or risking my life following him on some highly dangerous mission only to help him take his phone out of his jacket."

   "I don't ask you to take my phone out of my jacket, because I don't wear jackets. Those are trench coats." Sherlock said smugly.

   "Sherlock. Seriously. This is completely crazy."

    "Come on, John, it's our first case together, it has to be memorable."

"And how exactly are we supposed to remember it if we both end up with a bullet in our brain?"

"If we die, we don't remember it. I thought that was obvious enough. Haven't you done biology in school?"

"For God's sake, Sherlock, of course I know the brain stops functioning after you die. That was a rhetorical question. Haven't you done literary devices in school?"

"Oh, we probably did. I just never paid any attention in English class." Sherlock said, extending his arm to put his empty cup back on its ivory saucer. "Can you bring me my phone? It's on the nightstand next to your bed."

  John sighed. Still, he went to get Sherlock's phone, annoyed yet at the same time amused by his behavior. He then went to get ready for work, pacing back and forth anxiously as he buttoned his shirt.

   "Oh, John, don't be so despondent. The game is on!" Sherlock's voice boomed from behind, sounding euphoric.

   John turned around to see that Sherlock's head had suddenly appeared at the doorway, sticking out of the doorframe behind which his body was hidden. He wondered how long the detective had been there, his cheeks turning a crimson tint at the thought of Sherlock seeing him undressed.

   "No."

   "Sorry, what?" John asked, his eyes widening slightly when Sherlock took a few steps towards him.

   "If that's what you're worried about, I didn't see you naked."

"I... I don't... understand," John stuttered, stupefied.

"You're blushing, John," Sherlock pointed out factually.

"And you're lying." John retorted before he could stop himself.

Now Sherlock was the one who bore astonishment on his face.

"I'm a psychologist, Sherlock," John murmured. "I can tell when my patients are lying."

     John thought he saw a flash of distress and apprehension in Sherlock's eyes, but it was gone in no time, replaced by his usual piercing gaze.

    "John, I'm—"

    "It's my fault. I should've locked the door," said John, finding Sherlock's scrutinizing stare awfully unsettling. A thought repeatedly invaded his mind: Sherlock, who kept millions of information in his Mind Palace, must have known his work schedule. Far from being stupid, he should have been able to determine that John was changing his clothes, getting ready for work.

    "Just don't store whatever you saw in you Mind Palace, alright?"

   "Damn my photographic memory."

    John was sure he saw a smirk forming at the corner of Sherlock's mouth, but then again, maybe his eyes were playing tricks on him.