The East Wind - Sherlock

The East Wind - A Sherlock Fanfiction

The two men sit at their residence of 221B Baker Street acting normally. Well, as normal as Sherlock Holmes and John Watson could be. They are an odd pair, you see. Different, curious, confusing, just really odd, the two of them are. They sit around, only sitting, until they get the call from Lestrade. That's when things get interesting and the plot unravels. John's phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out, thinking it may be Mary. But no, no it is not Mary.

Sherlock: John, have you edited the story yet? SH

The slightly gray-haired man looks to the man on the other side of the room, holding his phone up, mildly irritated and with pursed lips, says, "I'm sitting right across from you, Sherlock, you could, you know, speak to me."

Sherlock Holmes doesn't angle his head to look at his companion; he merely watches the world outside the window. "Shut up and text me back," the curly haired one says.

John rolls his eyes with a sigh. He types on his phone: I WILL, SHERLOCK! -J and sends it. He feels like quite the idiot, but you never knew what to expect when you are with Sherlock Holmes.

There is a beep, fast typing and the whooshing sound of a sending message. John's phone buzzes once again. He glares at the wall for a moment, the irritation crawling up his neck. He reads:

John, this file contains emotional content, content of which I am not very fond of. I need you to revise it. SH

John drops his phone in his lap. He's about to give in. He laughs sarcastically under his breath with a "Fine," included. There was also a mutter. A quiet mutter of, "Only for you," Odd, indeed. John picks the phone up again: Sherlock, I will read and revise the story. -J

Within a moment: Thank you. SH

But John does not move. He continues to sit in his red armchair and rub his sock-covered feet together. Why would he move now? He's got all day.

Bloop.

John, are you revising the story? SH

He ignores it.

I found it on a silly old, unintelligent website. SH

John is done with the foolish games. "Sherlock," he almost yells, standing up from the chair. The famous detective turns around, giving him a confused expression. Sherlock is appalled; it's quite rare for John to yell. John lowers his voice. "Sherlock," he repeats calmly, "I have things to do, a baby to prepare for. I do have a life that doesn't involve you, you know? But, yes, I did. The story is revised and on my blog." He adds quietly, "I did it yesterday,"

Sherlock, confused by the outburst, stumbles and stutters with his words, "I'm-um-y-yes...I-I know, John. I know you're stressed with the-uh-baby and the new certain situation that has come up in recent events."

John sniffs his nose, pulls his pants up a little and starts, "Yes, well," he clears his throat, "Good. Erm, yeah, what are we going to do about Moriarty?"

Sherlock looks away awkwardly, recollecting himself. "Uh, right, Moriarty," He clasps his hands behind his back and the pacing begins, "All I'm waiting for him to do is make a compilation of crimes and when he makes a mistake, which he almost always does, that is when we will, obviously, have a distinct advantage. Then we'll lock him away, job done." Sherlock turns away, though, unsure of his words. Sherlock Holmes doesn't like being unsure.

"I'm not entirely sure we should just wait," John argues. "Moriarty isn't known for making mistakes."

Sherlock gives him a sidelong glance, "Maybe not to people like you. You see, but do not observe, John." The man places his thin fingers to his chest, "To me, Moriarty will no doubt fail. Just give him some time." Sherlock ends with an edge tone to his voice. Almost irritated, almost nervous, definitely almost angry, his voice is.