The Baker street regulars

Sentiments

I heard a continuous whirring noise in my pocket which turned out to be my phone. I looked at my call logs to find that I had received about seven missed calls from Lestrade. They were accompanied by a text message.

*Call me. Now.*

This aroused my curiosity as I seldom received any urgent summons. I suspected that it had something to do with Sherlock. I called him back.

"Hello?"

"Where's Sherlock?" was the immediate response.

"Out," I said.

"Yes, but where?"

"I have no idea whatsoever."

I heard an irritated sound from the other end. I couldn't blame the poor chap. He probably had enough on his nerves already.

"You can leave a message though...." I said hopefully, "Although I'm not an answering machine..."

"Well if you do manage to find him, tell him I've got a pressing case. I think it's right up his street, so he might want to know."

"Right."

I hung up and sat in my armchair deep in thought. There were about four people I could call to find out Sherlock's location (if he actually wanted to be found. Either that or I had to be extremely lucky that day to determine his whereabouts) and one of them had just called me to check where he was. I decided to try my luck with one of the other three. Luckily I hit gold on my first trial.

Molly informed me that he was at the lab with her.

"You alright?" I said, concerned. I noticed a slight strain in her voice.

"In a manner of speaking, yes."

I hung up shortly and headed over to the lab.

An odd sight greeted me once I was there. Sherlock was standing over a brain with a rather evil look on his face. Molly was standing a little to the side, her face expressionless.

"Am I interrupting something?" I said.

"Oh no. Your arrival is rather convenient," said Sherlock, "Now I don't have to search for a witness."

"Is this a good sign or a bad one?" I said, looking at Molly. Molly was about to reply when Sherlock cut across.

"You are probably curious about what you are going to see."

"Yes, that's true. But Lestrade called. He said he wants you on a case."

"Probably the Allinston murder. It was in the paper. Dull, boring, not worth my time. What's going on here is infinitely more interesting."

"Better than a murder?" I questioned.

"Yup."

"Fine. Tell me what's going on."

"We were just discussing the rather adverse effects of sentiment on commitment to your work," said Sherlock.

"Or rather he was talking and I was forced to listen," cut across Molly.

"Well... whatever. You see, John there are these petty little obstacles to single minded focus. Women in particular are susceptible to this," said Sherlock.

"Seriously? How can you even call Molly insincere?" I said.

"And that John, is what we are going to prove today with the help of Specimen A1."

"Stephen!" said Molly, cutting across Sherlock.

"Specimen A1," repeated Sherlock firmly.

"This is stupid! You're doing all this because I named one of the brains? Why, would it hurt you if I called him Stephen?"

"I don't care if that brain belonged to your great uncle Marty. He is now my Specimen A1 and you will do as you are told."

Molly visibly chewed back a retort. "Right now," continued Sherlock. "Shall we demonstrate the effect of various concentrations of acid on the human brain."

"Your a maniac!" spat out Molly and walked out.

"Seriously? Are you going to randomly pour acid on a human brain just to carry your point?" I said.
"Of course not! The brain's valuable," said Sherlock.

"And you're letting it slide?" I asked incredulously.

"There is more than one way to carry a point."

"Meaning?"

"I'm going to borrow Mrs. Hudson's showpiece. The hideous one she's nicknamed 'Jonathan'."

"Isn't that a heirloom?"

"Which makes it all the more effective."

I accompanied Sherlock back to our flat. He took a swift detour into Mrs. Hudson's sitting room and then returned to our sitting room with the ceramic dog tucked under his coat. I tried in vain to occupy myself with the newspaper but it was no use as all I could see was an insane version of Mrs. Hudson bursting into the sitting room brandishing a knife in our direction.

Just as had uncrossed my fingers a very distraught Mrs. Hudson entered the sitting room. "Have any of you seen Jonathan?"

"Who?" said Sherlock, who was cradling his violin.

"Oh, you know Jonathan, Sherlock!" exclaimed Mrs. Hudson.

I coughed discreetly and turned my head slightly in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock gave an irritated sound but thankfully Mrs. Hudson took the hint. "Where's Jonathan, Sherlock?"

"He's, uh, gone," said Sherlock with a cough.

"Gone? What to you mean, gone?"

I coughed again and turned my head towards the mantelpiece where Sherlock's skull resided and tapped my head with my fingers. Sherlock groaned. "You might as well tell her where it is!"

He crossed the sitting room in a couple of strides and took out the tiny dog from it's hiding place inside the skull. "Here," he said chucking it in Mrs. Hudson's direction. Both Mrs. Hudson and I gave a cry. Mrs. Hudson caught it and cradled it as if it were a child. "You're worse than my mother in law!" she exclaimed. "She never did like little Jonathan."

"Mrs. Hudson, I smell something burning," I said. Sure enough a strong odour of overcooked broccoli drifted up towards us. Mrs. Hudson gave an exclamation and hurried downstairs. Sherlock took his phone out of his pocket.

"This is what emotions do, Molly," he said in the tone of a philosopher who was trying to explain that two plus two did not equal three to a particularly obstinate disciple. "Mrs. Hudson forgot our dinner in her anxiety for that little lump of clay 'Jonathan'. Now all three of us have to eat overly boiled broccoli... Hello? Hello?"

Apparently Molly had hung up on him sometime during the demonstration. "This is a pain John. I have to take the trouble of staging another scenario now," he said with a sigh.

"But what about dinner?" I demanded.

"What about it?"

"I'm not eating overcooked broccoli."

"Neither am I. Speedy's is still open. We could eat there."

"Not 'we'."

"Beg pardon?"

"Mrs. Hudson!" I said, raising my voice. "Sherlock wants the broccoli a little more cooked than usual."

 Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "You realize I'll just pitch it out."

"It seems a waste to let it go waste," I said sarcastically.

Sherlock scratched his chin with the bow of his violin. "On second thought, put it in the fridge. I'll need it when my dear brother visits next time."

"Death by broccoli?"

"Subtle but not without flair," he said and began to play 'God save the queen' whilst undoubtedly thinking about Mycroft.