Chemical Disaster {JOHNLOCK}

The Riding Crop

A knock at the door pulled Sherlock out of his Mind Palace.

"John, is it you?"

The knocking continued, forcing Sherlock to stand up and descend the stairs. "Don't you have your keys? I did give you a pair of keys this morning," he grumbled, annoyed by this interruption. He opened the door of his flat at Montague Street in which he decided to stay for the day to ponder over the case, but instead of John Watson, Molly Hooper was the one who stood at the doorway.

"Molly!? What are you doing here?"

"Hello, Sherlock," Molly replied sheepishly, trying not to show how vexed she was by his greeting that sounded anything but welcoming. "I thought I'd stop by to give you you're riding crop. You left it at the morgue."

    "My riding crop. Yes." Sherlock said flatly, stretching out his palm.

"I was wondering if you'd like to have—"

    "Dinner? No. I'm busy."

    "Okay," her smile faltered, "Well then I should probably go."

     Molly gave the riding crop back to its owner and turned around to walk away, only to collide with someone. She apologized hastily, but the man's attention was on the riding crop Sherlock was holding.

    "John!" Sherlock exclaimed, a broad smile lightening up his face.

    John's lips curled up slightly, but his smile failed to reach his brown eyes that had looked so warm and affectionate this morning. "Did I interrupt something?"

    "Oh, no. Molly was just passing by to return my riding crop," he turned toward her, "Do you mind if borrow the lab again tomorrow?"

   She shook her head, indicating it was fine.

   "Perfect! John, let's go inside and get ready for tonight," Sherlock said, not giving Molly a second glance.

   As they climbed up the stairs, John stopped in his tracks. "I thought you didn't have a girlfriend."

    "I don't have one. Not my area of expertise."

    "Really?"

    "John. Feelings are a waste of time, remember?"

    "I know. But is sex a waste of time too?"

    "I'm afraid I don't know."

    "You don't?" John repeated skeptically, glancing back and forth between Sherlock and the riding crop suggestively.

    "Quite so."

    John let out a halfhearted chuckle. "You know, it takes a lot to believe you. I recall that a few minutes ago, a woman who, by the way, seemed completely head over heals for you, did just pass by to return your riding crop."

    "Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper." Sherlock sighed at John's baffled expression. "On the lab coat Molly was wearing, there was a fresh blood stain. She works at the morgue at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, so the blood was probably from one of the corpse she was examining, which means she came right after work, otherwise it would've had time to dry. Furthermore, as you said it yourself, she's head over heals for me, so it simply wouldn't make sense for her to stop by her house to pick up the riding crop yet not change her attire, especially since she was inviting me for dinner. This tells us that the riding crop was at the morgue, and in fact, that is where I left it. While I'm not an expert in sexual matters, I don't think a lab is the ultimate place to have sex, not to mention the audience of dead bodies."

Above all that bitterness, John couldn't help laughing. For the first time, Sherlock noticed how beautiful his laughter sounded, a harmony of unreserved chuckles reverberating in his ears, almost like the resonance of life itself.

"You know, Sherlock, it's fine if you're having sex with her," John lied, ignoring the strange things going on in his stomach,"You don't need to invent funny explanations for me."

  "I'm not making this up, John! The riding crop was for the corpse."

   "The corpses. Ah. Yes. The corpses. How stupid of me. And what kind of examinations of a dead body requires a riding crop?" John asked, staring up at Sherlock defiantly.

    "A experiment to determine how long after death the human body stops bruising, for instance," Sherlock replied steadily, holding John's gaze without flinching. "Now, if you don't mind, I still have a few things to figure out before tonight."

   Realizing they were still halfway through the stairs, centimeters away from each other, John pushed past Sherlock and finished climbing them. Deciding it was late enough for dinner, he headed to the kitchen. When he opened the fridge, he saw the specimens he had refused to store in his flat. They took all the space, leaving none for any edible goods. John checked for his wallet as he put his coat on, preparing to go out and buy some takeout, when a deep voice said from behind: "Would you like to have dinner outside? I have to admit my fridge doesn't contain the most appetizing meals."