A Study in Pink [Reader Insert]

The Game is On!

       "A fourth?" John echoed.

     Neither you nor Sherlock answered him. You were still looking out the window, but Sherlock was facing the door. "Where?" he said.

     "Brixton," another voice answered out of breath. You turned around. Detective Inspector, recently divorced, dyed hair to try to seem younger. Self-conscious about weight, trying to lose it. Your train of thought began to drift and you wondered if he wouldn't look better with gray hair. "Lauriston gardens."

     "What's new?" You asked. "You wouldn't have come to get me- er, Sherlock, if there wasn't something different about this one."

     Sherlock laughed about the way you'd replaced his name with yours. You knew that he'd just deduced that you also helped out the police force back in Chelmsford. Meanwhile, the Detective Inspector paused to look at you, wondering if he knew.

     "Well, you know how they never leave notes?" Even though he was answering your question, his response was aimed at Sherlock. "This one did. Will you come?"

     "Who's on forensics?" Sherlock inquired, narrowing his eyes.

     "...Anderson."

     Sherlock sighed, looking back out the window and shaking his head. "He won't work with me."

     "Well, he won't be your assistant!"

     Holmes huffed. "I need an assistant, Lestrade." Sherlock turned to you. "Okay fine, you'll be my assistant."

     "What?" You scoffed. "No!"

     "Just think about it."

     "Will you come?" Lestrade repeated, more desperately this time.

     Sherlock looked down at his shoes. "Not in a police car. I'll be right behind."

     Lestrade turned to walk out, but paused. "Thanks." He left. John still hadn't fully comprehended what was happening, poor (and rather idiotic) thing.

     As soon as the door to the flat shut, Sherlock broke into a smile. He jumped happily. "Brilliant! Yes! Oh, it's Christmas." His voice on the word Christmas turned into a sort of low growl, still keeping the joy and excitement of the rest of Sherlock's sentence. "Mrs. Hudson," he said, doing one full spin of happiness which astounded you, "I'll be late- might need some food."

     "I'm your landlady, dear- not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson told him, slightly irritated.

     "Something cold will do," Sherlock called as he grabbed his coat and started walking out. He seemed to ignore your aunt's objection, which made you annoyed with him, but if Sherlock noticed, he didn't say anything. "John, have a cuppa, make yourself at home!" he called as he ran downstairs. The door swung shut behind him.

     Mrs. Hudson sighed. "I'll make you that cuppa, dear. You rest your leg," she said with a sympathetic look toward John.

     His expression hardened, but you coughed loudly and gave him a warning look when he looked your way.

     John exhaled loudly. "Sometimes this bloody leg..."

     "I understand, dear, I've got a hip," your aunt commented.

     John, frustrated, said with a tight voice "A cup of tea would be lovely, thank you."

     "Just this once. I'm not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson chided.

     "Yes, you've said that," you called back at her. "And John'll be wanting some biscuits too, by the way!"

     "Not a housekeeper!"

     You shook your head with a smile and sat down on the armrest of the chair opposite John. He picked up a newspaper, still worked up about his leg and using the paper as a distraction to keep himself from being bothered by you. The way you could always tell what he was thinking unnerved him, but you were clever, just like Sherlock, and there wasn't anything that could be done, especially since you had known John for so long.

     John suddenly frowned at something in the paper.

     "What? What is it?" you asked, sitting up with sudden interest.

     "You're a doctor," a satisfying, low voice said at the door, before John could respond. Sherlock. "In fact, you're an Army doctor."

     "Oh, I thought you'd worked that out already," you muttered under your breath. Sherlock heard you.

     "Any good?" Sherlock asked John.

     "Yeah. Very good."

     "Seen a lot of injuries, I assume. Violent deaths."

     "Well... yes," John murmured. It bothered you that he was being made to bring up memories that he'd tried to bury before.

     "Bit of trouble, too, I bet."

    "'Course. Yes. We both have seen... enough for a lifetime. Far too much."

     Sherlock regarded John with a moment of silence. "Want to see some more?"

     "Now hold on-" you interrupted, but were interrupted yourself.

    "Yes. Gosh, yes," John replied with startling certainty.

     Sherlock smiled the faintest smile, and turned around without another word. "I did, if I remember correctly, make an you an offer to be my assistant, (L/N)," Sherlock said.

     "I'm coming, too, but only for John, and I am not your assistant," you snapped, moving past him through the door and down the stairs to grab your coat.

    You didn't wait for them, instead immediately calling a taxi. Soon enough, Sherlock and John followed behind, and you managed to catch the last thing that was said as they came out.

     "The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!"