"You're fascin—" John bit his tongue, "I mean... the way you work is fascinating. Mind blowing. Spectacularly brilliant. Stunning. Just splendid." John said enthusiastically when he finished digesting Sherlock's narrative of the evening prior. The two man were still sitting around the kitchen counter, and John had found the story so riveting he hadn't even bothered to put the dishes away.
"John, please don't feel obliged to tell me it was remarkable every time I do something amazing. You'll have gone through every variants available in the English language before the sun has even set."
A resolute smile ghosted John's thin lips. "I'll learn French, then."
There was an exquisite silence. Yes, that is the adjective Sherlock thought as befitting, if such word could be employed to describe a concept. However, the quietude was nowhere to be found in his Mind Palace. The bright corridors bustled in feverishness as he ran to secure this precious moment in a treasure chest and preserve it until the day of his death. Echoes of John's statement could be heard reverberating against the walls. I'll learn French, then.
"Anyhow, I'm writing it down." John announced, forcing Sherlock to exit his daydream. Getting to his feet, the doctor scampered energetically to the living room and took hold to his laptop.
Sherlock angled his head at an imperceptibly greater inclination, a subtle sign that manifested his dubiousness. "What for?"
"I'm starting a blog for you," John replied with lack of attention. His fingers were already hopping on the keyboard. Stretching his neck and completely leaving behind discreetness, Sherlock peeked at John's password. Not that he it provided him undiscovered data. No, John's password, he had it figured out in no more than a minute. All Sherlock wanted wanted was to prove his accuracy.
"Absolutely not! I don't want to be famous!" Sherlock scrunched his nose with disgust as he pronounced the last word. His reply came delayed, the smugness triggered by the precision of his prediction bathing him in a few seconds of lightheadedness."Besides, I—"
"No, no, no, don't tell me you already have one of your own, that I am aware. But you do realise articles containing detailed analysis, however thrilling that might sound to you, of the two hundred and forty different types of tobacco ashes aren't the typical inclination of most Homo sapiens, right?"
"My blog is very compelling and most certainly not dull," Sherlock argued, stubbornness having always been a persistent part of his personality. "But I should've reckoned you asinine people wouldn't fathom."
John's eardrums skipped over Sherlock's protestations and indignations and began to type swiftly. The detective remained observing the honey blond man who had just insulted his blog, but all the same was willing to learn a new language only to engulf him with abundant varieties of compliments. How bizarre.
It was a late Wednesday evening, 2011 October 21st, after our first case together, in which I happened to be almost assassinated, that I finally came to realize Sherlock Holmes was the most clever, intelligent, skillful man ever existing on this planet.
That evening we went to his flat at Montague Street, despite numerous of my protests, to meet Ms.Fernsby, as she had suggested on a note she had left for Sherlock. It goes without saying that one would see this as falling right into the malefactor's trap, but it seems, as I am about to reveal this blog entry, that Holmes had worked out a game entirely of his own.
Ms.Fernsby came earlier, and the only sound that alerted her arrival was the cracking of the parquet. In no time she stood next to me, and to my terror, a cold piece of metal, the muzzle of a gun, came in contact with my temple.
For the rest of this story, I shall cite the direct words Holmes, as my narration would most likely be of the most inexact and nebulous kind, considering that it all happened in a blur of panic and fright. Him, in the contrary, was able to stay coolheaded, and though I still fail to understand how he can keep himself so distant the world around him, it saved my life.
"So. How did the police just appear out of nowhere?" I had asked him the next day, after a good night of rest. "I don't believe in divination or coincidence, but I believe in Sherlock Holmes."
His lips had then quirked up into one of the mysterious smiles he had the secret of, and I had thought his intentions were to keep the enigma of what truly happened a mystery. Was it the fact that we had both risked our life for each other, or that he is a man of dramatic nature who positively adores explaining the miracles he made possible which caused him to confide his ingenious doings of the night before, I myself am still pondering.
"The couch you were sitting on, it was right next to the window," Sherlock began, "And at that angle, the neighbors had a clear view of her and the gun. All I had to do was to get their attention, so they would look our way. Do you recall that ridiculous argument about staying calm, John? As dull-witted and inept it may sound, that was a critical part of the plan. I knew that would anger you, I knew you'd yell at me. It gave me a reason to shout back at you, and as the volume escalated, my plan worked. Again, my sincerest apologies for the ungracious words I may have took the liberty to pronounce, but it was for the greater goods. The neighbors heard us. They leaned over their balcony to see what was causing the racket at such late hours; 22:41, it was. Instead of seeing a normal fight as they might have expected, they saw the gun against your temple. We were loud enough so it covered their screams, and sure enough, they called the police. That's when trouble knocked at the door. Well, not to be taken literally. For all I know, real trouble, Eleanor Fernsby, didn't knock. She broke into my flat, which still I take personal offense from and it immensely infuriates me. " His mouth crumpled into sulky pout, contrasting with his previously self-satisfied beam. "Although I took the precaution to seal the window and indulge her in what I hoped were convincing lies on how we would get her brother ou of jail, she heard the sirens approached. What I just cannot, and will not try to fathom as it might lower by much my prestigious intelligence, is how exactly, however idiotic the average human brain can get, the idea of installing such deafening sirens popped into someone's mind. Whatever," he sighed dramatically. "Eleanor Fernsby attempted a miserably executed escape, which of course I had regarded as a one of the possible outcomes of our problematic situation. What I did not expect was for you to interfere when she aimed at me. I was prepared for that. She fell into the predictable. I was about to open the door like she demanded, only to tackle her so we'd both fall down the stairs, and if my estimation were right, that would incapacitate her for just enough of time for Scotland Yard, regardless of their leisurely pace, to arrive. But no. You, John Watson, decided to risk your life. Admittedly, you knew what you were doing. I wasn't aware self defense was part of the med school program. The wrist-twisting, that was... good."
My flatmate, for whom compliments were nowhere near his lips on daily basis, looked up to see if he'd say the right thing.
I have to say that I was flattered: you don't normally receive compliments for breaking people's bones.
"But then she was good, too." Sherlock continued gravely, "and tried to used a piece of my shattered beaker, may it Rest In Peace, to stab something of much greater value: your heart."
He paused again to enhance the dramatic effect, and I was about to let slip a remark saying that he should have been an actor instead, when he convinced me otherwise with his not-on-purposely hilarious speech.
"Fortunately, you had kicked the gun away, so I took it, just in time to put two bullets in this sod's shoulder. I'm a decent shot, bearing in mind all those years of practice I've inflicted upon my wall."
Their chuckles could be heard during the entire time John spent writing his conclusion, choosing to skip through the part involving bloodshed, and by the time he pressed the publish button, soreness had colonized his abdomen.
Sherlock stood up and smirked to himself. Their day went on normally, the detective returning to his experiments for which the object was to test out the number of different types of Tobacco ashes, and the doctor returning to his clinic for another day at work.
YOU ARE READING
Chemical Disaster {JOHNLOCK}
Fanfiction"Detective Holmes, does your job ever cause you troubles that might lead to consuming drugs?" "I never have troubles with my job." Sherlock said, holding John's penetrating gaze without flinching. "Neither family issues, nor anything related...
